Генри Хаггард - Mary of Marion Isle

"I don't know, Andrew. Perhaps it did not. But some one is going to die, and there are only us three and of the three—oh! I pray God to let me die."

Then she set about her tasks and said not another word of the matter.

The day was calm and fine, and the weather being suitable to their purpose, they put damp seaweed on to the fire to make smoke in which they hung fresh fish to cure lightly. In the afternoon they both went into the cave to store some of the fish which they had kippered, leaving Janet by the fire, where she was playing contently with the cat, Josky, of which she was very fond. Presently they heard the child calling to them.

"Oh! Dad, Mum. Oh! Mum, Dad, come look, something big upon the sea."

They ran out of the cave, and there, a mile or more from them, anchored just where the Race ran into the open ocean, they perceived a British man–of–war, for she flew the Ensign. Even as they watched amazed, a boat left her side and rowed swiftly for the mouth of their little bay.

The pair looked at each other with horror in their eyes.

"This is the work of the albatross," gasped Andrew.

Mary nodded and, in her agitation, answered in the old childish language:

"Yes, that bird pay us back because we tie things to its neck. What do now? Run away?"

"No, dear, for it is useless. They would hunt the island till they found us. The smoke has betrayed us. Let us stop here and go on with what we are doing."

So they did, mechanically, Andrew cleaning more fish and throwing the insides to the watching penguins, while Mary fixed them to a string in the smoke.

"There is a woman in that boat," said Mary presently in a cold voice, for her eyes were those of a hawk and she had seen her. "She too wears a coat of skin."

The boat, skilfully steered, came to the shore, but Andrew and Mary went on working with their backs to it.

"Mary," said Andrew, "I want you to understand something. If by any chance that woman should be—my wife—I am not going to leave you for her, because you are more to me than everything else in the world. And unless they take us by force, I am not going to leave this island."

She gave him a look of her beautiful eyes and said:

"Thank you." Then she was silent.

Now they heard voices behind them and were forced to turn round. There they stood against a background of the smoke, Andrew to the right, Mary to the left, and between them the lovely child. Perhaps a stranger–looking trio could not be imagined. They were all clad in skins, for Andrew's clothes, except a suit which he sometimes put on for Sundays, or what they believed to be Sundays, were worn out. On their feet, too, were skin mocassins which they made themselves. Andrew's curling hair was long and hung down upon his shoulders; as it protected his neck from the cold winds he left it thus. Now, too, he had a really fine beard which also curled. Finally, his sealskin robe was stained with the work upon which he was engaged and his hands were red with fish's blood. For the rest he was a splendid–looking man, tall, handsome and much broader and bigger than he used to be.

Mary also was clothed in skins down which flowed her glorious hair, a young matron of startling beauty who moved with the grace of a deer; and the child, as has been said, was lovely, with dark eyes like to those of her father, and her mother's milk–white skin.

Three people were coming towards them—the others had stopped with the boat—a young officer whose eyes were nearly starting out of his head, a person in civilian dress who appeared to be a manservant, and the lady. Even at a little distance Andrew knew her at once; it was Clara, richly clothed in furs and, so far as he could see, not in the slightest degree changed from what she was when he had last seen her on board the Neptune . The advancing party halted at a distance of about five paces, whereon the young officer, suddenly recovering himself and becoming aware of a great opportunity, lifted a hand camera which he was carrying and snapped the three with the fire and the cave mouth for a background.

The click of the camera and perhaps the thought of the resulting picture in the English papers, seemed to sting Clara into action.

"Are you Andrew?" she asked. "There seems to be a resemblance―" and she paused.

"I was so christened," he replied, and also paused.

"And who is that woman?" she asked again.

"Her name is Mary."

"Mary! Mary what?"

"I do not know, nor does she. Like myself she is a castaway. She came to this island with a man who is dead."

"Oh!" exclaimed Clara, "that explains a great deal. And what is the name of the little girl?"

"Janet. If you are Clara, it is one that you will remember."

She winced at this, then replied:

" If I am Clara? Have you any doubt upon the point?"

"Not much," he answered, "but you know that we all change; time tells upon us."

"Certainly it or something else has told upon you, Andrew. But—could we have a word apart? What we have to say to each other would scarcely interest this—young woman, even if she happens to understand English. I am sorry I cannot offer to shake hands with you," she added, "or to greet you in any way, since you seem to be all over blood."

"Yes, Clara, I have been cleaning fish. It is part of my daily round. You who eat the fish, may not be aware that they must first be cleaned."

"Then perhaps your cook can continue the operation for a little while. If necessary, the manservant will help her, although it is not his business."

Then they walked aside round the point of the rock, Mary watching them with wondering eyes. Janet tried to run after her father, but Mary caught her and drew her back.

"Now, Andrew," said Clara, when they were out of sight, "tell me the meaning of all this. What is that woman to you?"

"She is the mother of my child."

"I guessed as much and—let us clear the air at once. I am not straitlaced and I do not blame you in the least, especially as she seems to be a rather beautiful savage. But you will understand that this episode must end, which can be done without difficulty. The woman must go somewhere else, and as there was another man upon the island, it will be easy to account for the child who can be provided for in a suitable manner."

"I too want to clear the air, Clara," he replied. "What you call an episode is not going to come to an end, if I can help it. I love that lady who, amongst other things, saved my life, and we mean to spend the rest of our days together. Your claim upon me ended when you left me upon the sinking ship."

"I did not leave you, Andrew, until I was assured that you were lost, but perhaps I had better tell you exactly what happened," and she did, putting her own colouring upon that story and all the following events. She even mentioned in a fearless fashion what she knew must soon certainly reach his ears, that she was about to marry again when the news that he had escaped reached her.

"Thank you for telling me that," said Andrew, "for it makes matters easier. We can now discuss things on a business basis. But perhaps first you would like to hear briefly what happened to me."

Then he told his tale.

"It would all be very interesting in a novel," she said when he had finished, "but we have to do with the facts of real life, have we not, and wise people avoid scandals. You must remember, although in your present costume and after your recent experiences it may naturally be difficult to you, that you are Lord Atterton, and I may add, the Governor–General designate of Oceania, since the man who succeeded you is resigning and I have the promise of the appointment for you, should you still survive."

"This is the only island of which I shall ever be Governor–General," replied Andrew with a little laugh. "Now, Clara, let us strike a bargain. I am dead, and I mean to remain dead."