"Thank you, Mr. Ellison," she said, as she stepped out. "I have enjoyed myself very much. I hope you will have a pleasant sail back!"
"I am going to wait for you."
"Indeed you are not. I could not think of such a thing. I shall be sure to find someone who will put me across."
"I am going to wait for you. It will be very pleasant sitting here; and, remember, we have just made friends. You must not quarrel with me so soon again."
"Very well, since you wish it. I will try not to be any longer than I can help."
She tripped up the wooden steps and disappeared along the jetty. He made the boat fast, and seating himself in the place she had just vacated, lit his pipe.
For nearly an hour he sat and smoked. The heavens were bright with stars above him; the sleeping waters rose and fell round the piers with gentle gurgling noises. A number of pearling luggers rode at anchor on either hand of him, and the township lights twinkled merrily ashore. His heart was happier than it had been for some time past, and yet again and again Murkard's words of warning rose upon his recollection. Did the girl love him? And more important still, if she did, did he love her as she deserved to be loved? He asked himself these two questions repeatedly, and each time he could not answer either of them to his satisfaction.
Was his affection for her a sincere one, founded on a genuine admiration? He had been piqued by her behaviour; his vanity (poor remnant of a feeling) had been hurt by it. Since then he had brought himself to believe he loved her. Was he prepared to sacrifice everything for her? Again the torturing doubt. It would be passing sweet to love her; but could he do so with a clear conscience? He knew his failing—could he lie to himself? The night affected him; the moon, just rising blood-red above the hill-top, spoke to him of love. Not the love of a lifetime, not the love that will give and take, bear and forbear, thinking no ill, and enduring for all eternity; but of love-talk, of a woman's face against his, of gratified vanity perhaps, at all events of a love of possession. No, he knew in his inmost heart, his conscience told him, that he did not care for her as, in the event of his making her his wife, he felt she would have a right to expect.
Besides, there was another, and even more important, point to be considered. Was he worthy of a good woman's love? he, until lately an adventurer—a——No, no! If he were a man of honour he would go away; he would go out into the world again, and, in forgetting her, enable her to forget him. And yet the temptation to stay—to hear from her own lips that she loved him—was upon him, calling him in tenderest accents to remain. He sat and thought it out as dispassionately as he was able, and his final resolve was to go. In this case, at least, he would not think of himself, he would think only of what was best for her. Yes, he would go! Suddenly away down the jetty he heard the patter of shoe heels. His heart throbbed painfully. She was coming back. They came closer and closer. She appeared on the sky-line, and, descending the steps, took his hand to jump into the boat.
"I'm afraid you must have grown very tired of waiting for me."