When I found him he was prostrate. In his eyes there was no anger, no indignation, nor sullenness—all of which he might reasonably have felt; and instantly I was ashamed of the thought which, as I came to him, flashed through my mind, that he might do some violent thing. Not that I had any fear of violence; but I had an active dislike of awkward circumstances. I felt his fluttering pulse, and noted the blue line on his warped lips. I gave him some medicine, and then sat down. There was a silence. What could I say? A dozen thoughts came to my mind, but I rejected them. It was difficult to open up the subject. At last he put his hand upon my arm and spoke:
“You told me one night that you would help me if you could. I ought to have accepted your offer at first; it would have been better.—No, please don’t speak just yet. I think I know what you would say. I knew that you meant all you urged upon me; that you liked me. I was once worthy of men’s liking, perhaps, and I had good comrades; but that is all over. You have not come near me lately, but it wasn’t because you felt any neglect, or wished to take back your words; but—because of something else.... I understand it all. She has great power. She always had. She is very beautiful. I remember when—but I will not call it back before you, though, God knows, I go over it all every day and every night, until it seems that only the memory of her is real, and that she herself is a ghost. I ought not to have crossed her path again, even unknown to her. But I have done it, and now I cannot go out of that path without kneeling before her once again, as I did long ago. Having seen her, breathed the same air, I must speak or die; perhaps it will be both. That is a power she has: she can bend one to her will, although she often, involuntarily, wills things that are death to others. One MUST care for her, you understand; it is natural, even when it is torture to do so.”
He put his hand on his side and moved as if in pain. I reached over and felt his pulse, then took his hand and pressed it, saying: “I will be your friend now, Madras, in so far as I can.”
He looked up at me gratefully, and replied: “I know that—I know that. It is more than I deserve.”
Then he began to speak of his past. He told me of Hungerford’s kindness to him on the ‘Dancing Kate’, of his luckless days at Port Darwin, of his search for his wife, his writing to her, and her refusal to see him. He did not rail against her. He apologised for her, and reproached himself. “She is most singular,” he continued, “and different from most women. She never said she loved me, and she never did, I know. Her father urged her to marry me; he thought I was a good man.”
Here he laughed a little bitterly. “But it was a bad day for her. She never loved any one, I think, and she cannot understand what love is, though many have cared for her. She is silent where herself is concerned. I think there was some trouble—not love, I am sure of that—which vexed her, and made her a little severe at times; something connected with her life, or her father’s life, in Samoa. One can only guess, but white men take what are called native wives there very often—and who can tell? Her father—but that is her secret!... While I was right before the world, she was a good wife to me in her way. When I went wrong, she treated me as if I were dead, and took her old name. But if I could speak to her quietly once more, perhaps she would listen. It would be no good at all to write. Perhaps she would never begin the world with me again, but I should like to hear her say, ‘I forgive you. Good-bye.’ There would be some comfort in a kind farewell from her. You can see that, Dr. Marmion?”
He paused, waiting for me to speak. “Yes, I can see that,” I said; and then I added: “Why did you not speak to her before you both came on board at Colombo?”
“I had no chance. I only saw her in the street, an hour before the ship sailed. I had scarcely time to take my passage.”
Pain here checked his utterance, and when he recovered, he turned again to me, and continued: “To-morrow night there is to be a fancy-dress ball on board. I have been thinking. I could go in a good disguise. I could speak to her, and attract no notice; and if she will not listen to me, why, then, that ends it. I shall know the worst, and to know the worst is good.”
“Yes,” said I; “and what do you wish me to do?”