CHAPTER XLVI
A GIFT REFUSED
The yacht was the "Petrel," luxurious hobby of Sir Myles Kemp, diverted from her homeward course by the merest whim of her owner to run up northward for a day while Sir Myles should inspect the rubber plantation and estate of his old fellow-officer, Captain Williams, who was not even present at the place.
The inspection was never made. The utter amazement occasioned by the chance discovery of the exiles of Three-Hill Island, plus their story of its fateful occupation, completely overshadowed all else in the minds of the "Petrel's" commander and crew, whose one idea was to assist the castaways home with the greatest speed of which steel and steam were capable. The picture the pair presented as they came aboard—Elaine amazingly tattered, a supple, tanned, incredibly sweet and womanly little figure—Grenville, a bearded, active master of the wild, clad in the skin of a cheeta for a coat, and bearing a richly colored tiger-skin, rolled up to contain a hundredweight of treasure—was one that Sir Myles was destined never to forget. He was likewise always destined to misunderstand the emotions with which, as they steamed away at last, Elaine looked back, with tears in her eyes, at the unpeopled Isle of Shalimar, so green in its purple setting, presenting its headland to the sea with that lone tree reared above its summit.
Grenville, too, had seen her eyes—and he more nearly comprehended.
By great good-fortune much of Lady Kemp's wardrobe had been left aboard the yacht. She and Elaine must have been of a size, to judge from the manner in which her yachting apparel and her dainty boudoir adjusted themselves to the form of the girl whom Sir Myles began forthwith to treat as he might a daughter.
The "Petrel" was put about and headed for Colombo—the nearest port at which an Orient steamer would be likely to be encountered. It was not until after dinner had been served and his guests had been made as thoroughly comfortable as warm-hearted hospitality, admiration for the two of them, and exceptional thoughtfulness could compass that Sir Myles related the accepted fate of the "Inca," from the wreck of which they escaped.
The news had gone forth that she foundered, and not a soul was saved. A few insignificant pieces of wreckage had been found afloat, far from the unknown ledge of rock the earthquake had lifted in the sea, but no one till now had heard so much as a theory as to what had been her fate.
That some such intelligence must have been sent to the worried and waiting relatives and friends beyond the seas, both Grenville and Elaine had long before comprehended, despite the preoccupation engrossing their minds all these many age-long weeks. But now, when at length they were homeward bound, the facts presented an aspect which there had been no occasion to prepare against while struggling for existence on the island.
There was one thought only in their minds. It was Fenton, and what he might have done when that news had expended its shock. And what would be the outcome of the story, now that the home-coming journey was resumed—now that he, Sidney Grenville, could at last complete and discharge his original commission?
He faced the business hardly more calmly than did Elaine. No argument possible to him now, respecting the warning Fenton had received, availed to allay and satisfy his haunting sense of honor. The man had matured on Shalimar, and his soul had been refined.
But what strange days those were that now succeeded! How they robbed him of his happiness, as they brought him nearer home! His spirits sank and would not rise, the nearer Colombo was approached. He told himself then, once he could wire, acquaint Gerald Fenton with the fact they were safe, and would soon be with him, he would come to some peace of mind.
But, when at length the wire was sent, he experienced no such relief. Relief, indeed, had failed to come when for three days and nights the Orient boat had been plowing across the Indian Ocean, rushing headlong from the tropic heat to the distant ports beyond.
He thought, perhaps, if he informed Elaine, the business would be settled. He attempted that day to introduce the subject, but in vain. Elaine was so sparklingly happy! He postponed the ordeal for the night.
The moon had returned to the skies again, bringing to the wanderers ineffable memories of other nights, when peace lay tranquilly fragrant on the world of their Shalimar. He detected its subtle influence on the ever-vivacious little woman who had shared his perils and his joys.
Elaine was softly thrilling to the spell of it all as she halted beside him, finally, on a strip of the deck abandoned to their uses. She felt that the atmosphere was overcharged, and wondered what might be impending. To still the pounding of her heart she leaned on the taffrail, ecstatically in touch with Grenville's arm. She spoke of the wonder of the night.
"Yes," drawled Grenville, in his old dry way, "great facilities here for manufacturing nights—— I wired Gerald from Colombo."
For a moment Elaine was puzzled by this wholly irrelevant remark. Then her heart began to rock uneasily.
"You—wired we were coming home?"
"Wired I was fetching you home, after unavoidable delay."
She recognized the difference between the way that she and he had expressed the principal fact. She felt herself, as it were, already surrendered to a man grown singularly foreign to her nature. It seemed to her incredible that Sidney and she should ever again be parted, or work out their several destinies in any manner save together—especially after all he had said and even done.
"Was that—all you said?" she asked him, faintly.
"No. I said I'd be best man—or something of the sort."
Elaine felt something leaden go down to the point of her heart.
"You wanted him to know that you had no idea—— You wanted Gerald to understand——" She could not finish her sentence. Her face was hotly flaming, but at least she could turn it away.
Grenville's voice was hard and strange.
"It was barely his right to know that we were coming. I could do no less, as you'll certainly agree."
His speeches were constrained, unnatural, as Elaine had instantly felt. Her own were scarcely less embarrassed—after all these months when their entire world had comprised themselves alone. It seemed a monstrous error that anything but free, unfettered companionship and candor should exist between them now.
"I know," she said. "Of course." She added, after a moment, "It seems so peculiar, that's all—to—resume as we were before."
He was looking at his fist, for no good reason in the world.
"It is what you have hoped for every day."
"To get away from the Dyaks—why, of course."
Another silence supervened. After three unsuccessful efforts at speech, Elaine at last found the voice and the courage for a question:
"Do you wish to be—best man?"
Grenville spread out his fingers, for further inspection.
"I probably shouldn't have suggested it otherwise."
She turned upon him impulsively. "Sidney, are you absolutely honest?"
"Oh, I wouldn't trouble old Diogenes to get out of his grave and look me up," he answered, in his customary spirit, "but I've got a faint idea what honor means."
How well she knew his various manners of evasion! Her heart was pounding furiously. She leaned with all her weight against the rail, as if for fear he must hear its clamorous confessions.
She had never been so excited in her life—or more courageous. Likewise she felt she possessed certain God-given rights that were poised at the brink of disaster. For a love like hers comes never lightly and is not to be lightly dismissed. Her utterance was difficult, but mastered.
"One night—in the smoke—on the island—when we might have died of thirst—and you came with water—— You remember what you said?"
"Concerning what?"
"Concerning—love."
He was gripping a stanchion fiercely; his fingers were white with the strain.
"Vaguely—— I think I was exhausted."
"Oh! you're not—you're not honest at all!" she suddenly exploded. "That day of the wreck—on the steamer—you know what you said to me then! And any man who has acted so nobly, so thoughtfully——"
He turned and gripped the small, soft hand by his coat-sleeve on the rail.
"Don't do it, little woman—don't do it!" he said, in a low voice, charged with passion. "You told me some stinging truths that day, and now—they're truer than ever!"
"I didn't!" she said, no longer master of her feelings. "I didn't tell the truth! I said I hated—said I loathed—— And you said I'd throw his ring in the sea—and you said you'd make me—like you—some—and you know that I couldn't help liking you now—when you've treated me so horribly all the time! And after everything we've done together——"
"Elaine!" he interrupted, hoarsely, "when did you throw away his ring?"
"After the tiger—the night I gave you the cap, and you acted so hatefully and mean! It bounced and went into the water."
He was white, and tremendously shaken, while gleams of incandescence burned deeply in his eyes. How he stayed the lawless impulse to take her to his arms he never knew. He dropped her hand and turned away, with a savage note of pain upon his lips.
"Good Heavens!" he said, "why don't you help me a little? I had no right then! I have no right now! ... I'm going to take you home to Fenton, if it's the very last act of my life!"
She, too, was white and trembling.
"I know what you mean—you never loved! You don't know the meaning of the word!"
"All right," he said. "We'll let it go at that."
"Oh, you're perfectly horrid!" she suddenly cried, the hot tears springing to her eyes. "I refuse to be taken back to Gerald! I refuse to have anything more to do with any selfish man in the world!"
She retreated a little towards the saloon, her two hands going swiftly to a gleaming band that all but spanned her waist.
"And there's your old girdle, with Gerald's ring, that you made me throw away!" she added, flinging the tiger's collar towards the sea.
It struck on a stanchion, bounded to the deck, and settled against a near-by chair. She waited a second, instantly ashamed, and longing to beg his forgiveness. But he leaned as before against the rail, his eyes still bent upon the water.
Weakly, with drooping spirits, Elaine retreated through an open door, still watching, in hopes he would turn and call her back. Then, stoutly suppressing her choking and pent emotions, she fled to the dismal comfort of her stateroom, and, falling face downward in her narrow berth, surrendered to the vast relief of sobbing.