Then, as if he had shouted his shameless secret to the mocking world, he, too, went hastily to bed.
For a week after that eventful night Ellison saw little of Esther. She hardly ventured near him, and when necessity compelled that she should seek him, it was only to complete her business with all possible dispatch and hurry away again. No more did she enter into conversation with him about his work. No more did she chaff him about his scrupulous care and trouble. Their estrangement seemed complete. Murkard noticed it, and being wise in his generation, thought much but said little.
One evening after dinner, towards the end of the week, Ellison had strolled down to the beach to smoke his after-dinner pipe when he heard his name called. He recognised the voice immediately and, turning, went across to where Esther was standing by the tiny jetty. Her face was very pale, and she spoke with hesitation.
"Are you very busy for a few minutes, Mr. Ellison?"
"Not at all. My day's work is over. Can I be of any service to you?"
"Would it be too much to ask you to row me across the straits to the township?"
"I will do so with pleasure. Are you ready now?"
"Quite ready."
Without another word he ran a boat into the water, and with a few strokes of the oar brought it alongside the steps for her to embark. She stepped daintily in and, seating herself in the stern-sheets, assumed possession of the tiller. The expression on his face was one of annoyed embarrassment. She saw it, and her colour came and went across her face like clouds across an April sky.
"I'm afraid I am trespassing on your good-nature," she remarked at length, feeling she must say something. "I ought to have asked one of the boys to take me over."