“Ah, not bad, is it? But there goes six bells; I must think about turning in. Come and join me in a glass of brandy-and-water.”
“No, no; not to-night—not to-night. The fact is I feel—I feel queer.”
“You're not quite set on your feet yet, my boy,” said the major critically. “Take care of yourself.” And he walked away, wondering if it was possible that he had been deceived in his estimate of the nature of Mr. Markham.
But Mr. Markham continued sitting alone in the silence of the deserted deck. His thoughts were truly otherwhere. He lay back upon his seat and kept his eyes fixed upon the sky—the sky of stars towards which he had looked in agony for those four nights when nothing ever broke in upon the dread loneliness of the barren sea but those starlights. The terrible recollection of every moment he had passed returned to him.
Then he thought how he had heard of men becoming, through sufferings such as his, oblivious of everything of their past life—men who were thus enabled to begin life anew without being racked by any dread memories, the agony that they had endured being acknowledged by Heaven as expiation of their past deeds. That was justice, he felt, and if this justice had been done to these men, why had it been withheld from him?
“Could God Himself have added to what I endured?” he said, in passionate bitterness. “God! did I not suffer until my agony had overshot its mark by destroying in me the power of feeling agony—my agony consumed itself; I was dead—dead; and yet I am denied the power of beginning my new life under the conditions which are my due. What more can God want of man than his life? have I not paid that debt daily for four days?” He rose from his chair and stood upright upon the deck with clenched hands and lips. “It is past,” he said, after a long pause. “From this hour I throw the past beneath my feet. It is my right to forget all, and—I have forgotten all—all.”
Mr. Harwood had truly reason to feel surprised when, on the following day, Oswin Markham came up to him, and said quietly:
“I believe you are right, Harwood: after all, it would be foolish for me to part from the ship at St. Helena. I have decided to take your advice and run on to the Cape.”
Harwood looked at him for a few moments before he answered slowly:
“Ah, you have decided.”