Генри Хаггард - Mary of Marion Isle

Such were the thoughts that flashed through Clara's brain, but she only said with a tired sigh:

"Well, I suppose that this sad trouble will settle itself somehow. I hope I have said nothing to pain you, but believe me, I can quite understand your position and indeed am very sorry for you. Such things happen to ignorant girls when they come in contact with men who are not too scrupulous. I grieve that my husband should have wronged you and I wish to make you any amends in my power, but still you must remember that he is my husband, not yours, and that he has wronged me more than he has wronged you."

Then for the first time Mary grew angry.

"What that you say?" she asked. "Andrew do me wrong? Never, never. He run away from me, I—I go find him and bring him back. If any wrong, I do it, and if any sin, I pay. What more, I sorrier for you than you for me, since he mine, mine, not yours; mine for ever and ever. But what that matter to you who have no heart, nothing but bone and flesh with stain on it" (Clara rouged), "and fine things such as I never see on flesh. Now we talk no more together, but you think on what I say always when alive and when dead," and sweeping the child to her breast with a kind of royal gesture, she went from the cave, whence presently Clara followed her with such dignity as she might.

Outside they found the officer who had been talking to Andrew and telling him some of the news of the world in which he seemed to take no more than a polite interest.

"Lady Atterton," said the officer, "it is time that we went back to the ship, as it will be dark in half an hour and these waters are treacherous for a rowing boat. Do—do—this lady and gentleman and the child accompany us?"

"Really I cannot say," she answered with a shrug, "they must tell you themselves."

The officer looked at Andrew who exclaimed:

"No, we stay here."

"Of course," said Clara, "you have much to see to, things to pack up, I dare say; and you could scarcely appear in that costume, could you? To–morrow morning I will come back and bring you some clothes, also what I can collect for Mrs.—I am sorry, I forget the name—and her child. Come, let us go, I am afraid of the sea in an open boat when it is dark."

"Perhaps you would like to stop here for the night," said the officer doubtfully.

"No, no. I have no sleeping things and I detest caves and raw fish. Good night, Andrew, mind that you have everything ready by the morning. Good–night, Mrs.—Mrs. Smith. Good night, little one," and without waiting for any answer she led the way towards the boat.

"Well, they are gone at last," said Andrew as the oars began to splash in the water.

"Yes," answered Mary, "but they will come back. Only if they are wise they will do so early, since to–morrow there will be a great gale. Look at that cloud over the other island, it only comes before a great wind following on a still night in spring."

"What are we going to do?" said Andrew presently in rather a hopeless voice. "As you say, they will be back to–morrow and if we refuse to leave they may declare that we are mad and take us by force. To hide is useless, since they would hunt the island for us."

"In the Bible it is said, Andrew, that its evil is enough for the day," she answered, looking him in the face with brave eyes; "also that the morrow must look after itself. To–night we are going to be happier than we ever were before, and to–morrow will look after itself. That man who was with your wife has left a basket behind; he said that in it were things you might like to eat and drink. Let us see them."

So they opened the basket. It contained two bottles of champagne, also some bread, tinned meats, sardines and packets of tea and sugar. Andrew explained the use of these comestibles to Mary; it relieved his mind to talk of such matters, and he proceeded to make her some tea which she had never tasted, at any rate since she was a tiny child. Mary did not like it much, or perhaps she would not drink anything that seemed to be a gift from Clara, though as a matter of fact it was nothing of the sort; the food and drink had been brought by the manservant on his own account in case they should have to picnic on the island, for he was a well–trained and provident person. At any rate, she just touched it with her lips to please Andrew, then put it aside and drank water. Janet, however, ate a lump of sugar with glee and cried when at last she was refused any more.

Andrew, too, opened one of the bottles of champagne and drank most of it with their meal. He had never cared much for wine, but on this night of trouble he seemed to need its stimulus and was thankful that it was there. After so long an abstinence from any sort of alcoholic drink, the champagne made him talkative. He spoke of the great happiness which they had enjoyed together and which he proposed they should continue to enjoy. He unfolded to Mary a scheme which he had conceived.

"If they take us to England," he said, "or anywhere else, we are free people and they cannot keep us there. We will go away to the backwoods of Canada which are beautiful, for I have heard all about them, and there we will build a house far from anyone in some lovely place, and live our lives. You will like the climate, too, since it is cold in winter as it is here, only brighter and much less stormy."

Then he went on to tell her all he knew about Canada, while she listened attentively and said that it seemed to be a very nice place indeed. After this once more he began to talk of their love and to explain to her his views upon the eternity of all true love in a way that he rarely spoke. Now she hearkened with real and vivid interest, drinking in every word.

"Do you think, Andrew," she asked, "that when those who have loved each other, oh! with all their hearts full, are dead, they will still go on loving each other somewhere in the stars, even if they have been sinners?"

"Yes, I do think so, dear, since love is the mightiest thing in the universe and as I believe the only true thing that has life. It cannot die, or if it dies, then all dies and there is nothing left but darkness."

"I am glad," she said, "for so I believe also."

After this he grew sleepy, for the champagne took effect on him and he had gone through much that day. So they went to bed and soon he was lost in slumber. When she saw that he was fast, Mary unlocked her arms from about him and slipped from the bed, stepping over the child that lay on its pile of skins alongside. Then going to the recess near the entrance of the cave where the second fire burned, she lit a lamp and wrote a letter on some slates which she had made ready. This letter gave her a great deal of trouble and took her several hours, for twice or thrice she put aside those slates which she had written and re–wrote it on fresh ones. At last it was finished, and at the end of it there fell a great tear by way of a full stop. Now she crept up the cave again and finding that Andrew was still sleeping very soundly, placed the slates upon his bed where she knew he must see them when he awoke, and kneeling down, prayed awhile. After this she kissed first him and then the child very gently. Then she unfastened the pearl necklace she always wore and laid it upon Janet's bed. This done she held out her hands in blessing over them both, and fled from the cave weeping bitterly.

It was very dark, for there was no moon and though the night was still, all the stars were clouded over. So dark was it indeed that in spite of knowing every rock of the place, soon Mary was obliged to sit down and wait for the coming of the light. There she sat thinking and sobbing softly, for in this darkness her courage left her, and oh! what lay before her was awful.