"Do you wish me to write any letter?"
"No. Leave everything to me."
"You do not want me any more to-night?"
"No. That is all. But, Ellison, you are not going to leave me like this?"
"In what way would you have me leave you? If I dared I would tell you everything, but I am too great a coward even for that. Good-night!"
Murkard only answered with a sigh. Ellison went out, closing the door after him. Once in the fresh air he looked up at the stars, then at the sea, then at the lamp-lit windows of his own house. Esther was seated at the table, sewing. He knew upon what work she was engaged, and a spasm of terror swept over him at the knowledge that even that little life, not yet born into the world, might some day be tempted to despise him. Instinctively he turned upon his heel, and for the second time since his arrival at the station strode away into the heart of the island, in an endeavour to dispel his own gloomy thoughts. On and on he walked, regardless of pace or destination. His whole being was consumed with horror at what he was doing. What did it mean? What would it mean? What had induced him to do it? Was it blind Fate, or what reason could be assigned to it? No! It was none of these things—it was to save his wife! Bitterly he upbraided himself for the first folly that had occasioned it, but it was too late now, too late, too late! If he went to his wife and confessed all, confessed that he had lied to her, that he was not the man he pretended to be, that he was only a common swindler and cheat, she would forgive him, because she was a good woman and loved him, but she would never trust him or believe in him again. In that case their ruin would be complete! If he persisted in the present course, and Murkard's plan proved successful, they would be saved for a little time, but the inevitable result would be worse than the first destruction. On neither side was there such a thing as safety. On one side was his wife's life, on the other her trust in him; there was no middle course. He was between the devil and the deep sea with a vengeance. God help him for a miserable man!
By the time he arrived at this conclusion he was on the headland above the station. A thrill of superstitious terror swept over him as he realised that the spot on which he was standing was the site of the Hermit's hut. In the glorious moonlight he could plainly discern the ruins of the blackened hearth, the boundary walls, and under the tall palm, nearer the cliff edge, the grave of the mysterious Unknown himself. What had led him in that direction on the one night of all others he would most have desired to avoid it? It seemed to him that the dead man's ghost was moving about the place taunting him with his sin, and pointing to a similar abandoned end in the inglorious future. Down on the shore below him he could hear the roll of the surf, but up here all was ghostly still. At last, unable to control himself any longer, he took to his heels and fled down the hill towards the station, craving to be with his kind once more. To his surprise he could see the light still burning in the sitting room. Late though it was, his wife had not yet gone to bed. Could she be sitting up for him?
As he entered the room she rose to meet him.
"My poor boy," she said, "how tired you look!"
"I have been worried nearly past endurance," he replied, "and went for a walk to try and think my difficulties out. I would not have gone had I thought you would sit up for me."