Mary of Marion Isle

Chapter XXII Return

When Andrew had walked some little distance upon the moor, suddenly it occurred to him that he did not know whither he was going. In the urgency of his present predicament he had found no time to make plans for the future. All that he had realized was the necessity of immediate flight; therefore he, the sinner, had fled, pursued by the policeman, Love, upon whom as yet he could not gain a single yard.

Now the question arose—whither away? To which there seemed to be only one possible answer—the place whence he had come, namely, the hut.

So to the hut he made his path, arriving there extremely tired rather late on the following morning, since when the moon grew low he had lost his road among those terrible hills and marshes, and had moreover fallen into a bog that was concealed by a crust of snow. On the edge of this bog, wet through, chilled to the bone and without shelter from the bitter wind, he had been obliged to sit till dawn, after which, getting his bearings in the light, he slowly floundered onwards to the hut.

It proved to be a desolate abode enough, for by this time he had removed the most of its contents to the caves, and, worse still, all the matches. Moreover, in his agitation he had forgotten to bring any with him, so there he was fireless and with nothing to eat save some dry biscuits. He had his gun, indeed, and might have shot a seal or a goat, but if he did, he could not devour raw flesh, and the same applied for fish. Therefore all that day he lived upon biscuits, and not many of these, for his stomach turned against them. That night he developed a feverish chill. The chill came probably from his immersion and the fever from his state of mind; at any rate, there they were, and he had no medicine with him and could do nothing except try, without success, to keep himself warm.

Towards morning he felt very bad indeed, and it occurred to him that unless he got better soon, probably he would die in this lonely place. Well, perhaps that was the best way out of his difficulties, only then poor Mary would once more be left utterly alone on the island, which distressed him terribly. All his thought went out to her. He wondered what she was doing and how she had borne his desertion. Was she angry with him, or was she lost in grief? Perhaps he ought to have stayed. Had he been a stronger man he should have stayed and overcome temptation, as a hero in a book would have done, but his nature was too weak and human and therefore they must both pay the penalty.

Thus he thought and thought till with the light the fever took him again, but more violently, till at length his mind left him. The last thing he could remember before he sank into unconsciousness or delirium was an intense desire to see Mary again, if it were only once before he died.

Andrew's senses returned and the first thing that occurred to him was that he must be dead and in heaven. For this reason: there, close to him, was Mary on her knees watching him, while coiled up on his bed was the cat Josky, and where Mary was, there was heaven for him. Only it seemed improbable that this very dilapidated hut would also have removed itself to the celestial regions where of all the many mansions it would certainly have been the most disreputable. Perhaps, then, he was in the other place! No, that was impossible, since Mary was there, Mary who was certainly good, and Josky also, an upright cat in its way. It came to this, then—he was still on earth and with him was Mary, or a vision of her.

He moved his head. Instantly she saw and bent forward to examine his face, for it was dark in that hut, although he perceived that now the fire burned outside the door just as it used to do when he lived here alone. Her long hair fell all over him and he felt her breath upon his brow. Then their eyes met, and he saw the doubt and gloom fade out of hers to be replaced by the light of a great joy. She slipped away from him, silently as a fish through water, and he began to think that he had dreamed. But no, for in a minute she was back and holding to his lips milk in a large shell. He drank it thankfully, and with the draught strength seemed to return to him, after which he dozed a while.

When he woke again there still was Mary, and this time she gave him baked fish to eat, which now that his fever had left him he did with appetite, although as he was yet very weak. He wished to speak, but she would not allow him to do so, laying her cool fingers on his lips in token that he must be silent. Then again he fell into a natural sleep which must have lasted all the night, as he knew by the position of the sun when he awoke. But still there was Mary with more food ready for him to eat.

After this, his recovery from the pneumonia, or whatever it may have been, was rapid, but it was not until he was comparatively strong and had risen from his bed that she would let him talk of what was nearest to his mind.

"How did you find me? Tell me the story," he said at last.

Then she told him this tale.

"That bad night," she said, "Mary thought she heard some one move outside her cave, since she not sleep well, but believe it only one of the birds, or perhaps the ghost of Old Tom come to watch over her, so do nothing. Just before daybreak she hear Josky crying and go to look. Then she see Josky tied up and by him Andrew's letter on the stone, which she read, but not quite understand, though she guess something. Now she feel very ill, as though something break in her here," and she touched her breast, "and wonder what to do. She think she go to look for Andrew, then she read letter again and see that Andrew not want her, and that she must not trouble him. So she do her work and think, and think, and think, but Josky she keep tied up because she knew that if she let him loose, he run away after Andrew.

"That night Mary begin to feel that Andrew in trouble and want her, and next day she seem to hear him call her in a new voice, 'Mary! Where are you, Mary? Come to me, Mary.' Then she get some things, matches, oats for porridge, dried fish, but 'member that she not know where Andrew go. So she think and think, and while she think, Josky cry again. Then she take a string and tie it to Josky and get two goats what give milk with their kids, and drive them before her for a little way, till they follow her of themselves. She go up the cliff to where she meet Andrew when first he come back from the hut, and there she set Josky on the ground. Josky began to run and to pull with his nose towards the setting sun, and where Josky go, she follow, and the goats they come after her.

"So, at last," she ended in a matter–of–fact way, "Mary find Andrew in the hut, because Josky know where he go."

"You clever woman!" gasped Andrew, when he had heard this amazing tale.

"No, Mary not clever, Josky clever. Mary only use Josky, because she know he go straight home, while perhaps she walk for days and days. Josky hate Mary and love Andrew and want to go after Andrew—like Mary. Also sometimes Mary see Andrew's footsteps and so know that Josky right."

"Well," said Andrew, trying to swallow down a lump which seemed suddenly to arise in his throat, "and what then?"

"Not much. Mary find Andrew very sick indeed. Red like lobster fish after it boiled, and shaking his arms and talking much of lady called Rose, and—other woman, forget her name; no fire in hut, no food except biscuit hard as stone, nothing. If Mary not come, Andrew going to die just like Old Tom. Andrew should thank Josky very much."

"Andrew does," he murmured, and thrust Josky down off the bed which it was monopolizing.

"Mary find wood and other stuff and make big fire; also she give Andrew milk to drink, and do what she can. Then when he get quiet and fall asleep, she run back to caves, fetch things and drive goats here, because if not milked, they burst—those two of them whose kids die."

"Run back to caves!" gasped Andrew.

"Yes, she do it in six hours both ways. Those goats never go so fast before. They get here their mouths open and can't say baa; also give very little milk that night. Mary find Andrew just waking up, so no harm done. After that she stop here and nurse him, two weeks and three days, but not know if he live or die, and when she can, go catch fish for food. At end he live, that all. Now Mary must go milk goats."

And she went before he could say a word, though afterwards she added that she had even thought of carrying him back to the cave, but gave up the idea because she knew that it was beyond her strength, and that she would let him fall.

Andrew's reflections upon all this history can, in the hackneyed phrase, be better imagined than described. He pictured to himself all that she had told him; her hesitation to inflict her presence on him, her mysterious sense that he was in trouble; the use which she made of the instinct of the half–wild animal that loved him, which no one would have done who had not watched the ways of beasts and birds. Her arrival at the hut just in time with the goats, whose milk saved his life; her patient nursing of him through his dangerous sickness and delirium; her swift journey back to the caves to fetch necessaries, running like a trained athlete through wild weather and over that terrible ground; her return with the exhausted goats; her ceaseless vigil, notwithstanding the weariness which must have afflicted even her splendid physique; her desperate scheme of carrying him back to the caves, abandoned only for fear of the consequences to him, should her strength fail her; her thought for everything, and the rest. Whence came the almost divine power which had enabled this girl to conceive and do these things, and to speak of them afterwards as a mere matter of course? An answer arose in his heart which caused his pale face to blush. The power came from Love and the love was for him, unworthy. Then and there he swore within himself that come what might he would devote the rest of his life to Mary living, or to her memory if she died. That was his plain duty, even if it involved his earthly ruin and retribution in states unknown. But of all this, as yet, he said nothing to her.

When, by comparison, Andrew was quite strong again, of a sudden Mary, who had been somewhat silent for several days, spoke to him thus:

"Andrew quite well now, so Mary go back to cave. What Andrew wish to do? Stay here or come back live cave? Mary must go," she added by way of explanation, "see after oats and everything."

Andrew looked about him despairingly, his heart fluttering in his breast. Then he looked at Mary's great steady eyes.

"I don't know what to answer," he said. "If I leave you harm might come to you."

"That not matter," interrupted Mary.

"Or harm might come to me living here alone," he went on.

"Yes, you not very strong yet; silly also, take no thought for morrow like child, and not able look after yourself. That matter much," and again she waited.

"See here, Mary," he said in desperation, "I can't explain things to you, but it is impossible that we should go on living together as we have done, so near and yet so far from each other. It is not good for you, or for me either. That is," he added, dropping his eyes, "if I am right in supposing that you care about me."

"Care about you?" replied Mary. "Not know what 'care–about' means. Is 'care–about' other word for love?"

He nodded.

"Then," she continued quite quietly, "Mary 'care–about' very much. Let her see how much!" She looked around her and went on, "There sea all made up drops of water, and there shore, all made up little grains sand, and there sky all full stars. Well, Andrew count them every one, and then he learn how many 'care–abouts' Mary have for Andrew."

"You dear!" he muttered to himself, "what have I done to earn this?" and perhaps she heard him, for she coloured a little.

"If only you understood," he added aloud.

"Mary great fool," she answered, "but think she understand something. No one tell her, so perhaps God teach her. Something like this. Perhaps Andrew married, if wife not drowned. First part of Bible say man may have many wives as he like, second part seem say he may only have one unless he quite sure other drowned. So if Andrew come back caves and Mary his wife, he think that sin and God angry with him."

"I am thinking more of you than of myself," blurted out Andrew. "If I am still married and we ever went off this island, you would be despised; people would not speak to you."

"Mary understand, but why go off island? Island very nice place, plenty to eat, quite happy here. Oh! she see, perhaps Andrew want to. Andrew what called rich peer."

"No, I don't," he answered, "but all sorts of things might happen. You remember that albatross and the tin plate?"

"Yes, and he not come back yet."

Then there was silence between them for a while, which she broke at length, saying:

"Think Mary better go away now, want reach cave before dark. P'raps if Andrew let her she come see him sometimes, once every moon, or p'raps better not. Mary bring him things and put them on stone," and as she spoke her big eyes filled with tears.

"Stop," said Andrew hoarsely, "I want to tell you something. I love you with as much love as there is water in the sea and sand on the shore and light in the sky," he went on, adopting her similes.

"Then Mary very happy, who only hope for quite a little."

"Loving you so much," he continued, "I who am but a man, cannot go on living with you as we have done. It is weak and wrong of me, but I cannot do it."

"Mary weak and wrong too, both sick together."

"Therefore, Mary, either we must stop apart, which seems unnatural and also wrong, or we must go back to the caves—together."

"Yes, that what we talk about all this time."

"Mary," he went on wildly, "I cannot leave you."

"No leave me, only stop here. I leave, and quick before I cry. Only want say this. If Andrew come and get tired of Mary, or want to go away in ship or something, she never say No. Mary not wish to be trouble, she only Andrew's here, and always easy die."

That was the end, he could bear no more. That day they went back to the caves together, he leaning on her strong arm.

Then began the happy, happy life of these poor sinners, if such they were. There in their caves they lived together, a perfectly mated pair in body and mind and spirit. They rose with the sun and carried through their daily toil, laughing the hours away, and when the sun sank they went back to their cave and slept thankful and rejoicing until he came again.

The summer passed, the winter returned, but for them it had no terrors who were both strong and healthy. Spring drew on once more, and with the spring came Mary's child.

Andrew had been much perturbed about the arrival of this in fact, which must take place in the absence of the ordinary conveniences, although as a doctor, of course, he knew all that should be done. He was an anxious–minded man, especially where those he loved were concerned, and carefully enough he thought out every contingency and made preparation for every danger, so far as the means at his disposal allowed. As it turned out he might have spared himself the trouble. Mary went on doing her work just as usual to the very day of the occurrence, which caused him to think that the date had been miscalculated. So it happened that he departed on some daily round, it was connected with skinning a seal that lay dead at a distance, and returned to find that there was no supper cooked. While he was wondering over the cause of this omission, he heard Mary calling him from the cave. Entering he found her lying on her bed, looking a little pale, but smiling. Presently she threw back the skin rug and showed him a babe, a most beautiful and perfect girl.

"Janet come back," she said. "I always tell you Janet come back!"

In a week she was perfectly well again and wished to get up, even showing temper when he would not allow her to do so. In fact, to her who from childhood had led a primitive and natural life, this business was nothing, as it is nothing to a savage woman. Nor was there any trouble about the child or any necessity of supplementing its natural food. The mother bloomed and grew even more beautiful than before, and the child was strong and healthy as a young seal. Also he observed with a kind of wonder that daily it became more like his lost Janet.

So now there were three at the caves instead of two, and that was all the difference. Mary did her work as before, only with her babe, which by her wish Andrew had christened Janet, slung in a skin upon her back, as an Esquimaux woman does, the sole change being that Andrew must swim out and attend to the nets, which she declared he did very badly.

So the time went on. Janet was a strong and forward child who soon found her sturdy little feet; indeed, at a year old she could toddle about, gurgling in a jolly fashion, and a few months later could say "Dad and Mum" and other words. Ailments she had absolutely none, since there were no germs to infect her, and she cut her teeth with ease.

So, as has been said, they were absolutely happy, or would have been were it not for the fact that there are always flies in every human pot of ointment, and theirs was no exception, since in it buzzed and struggled two veritable bluebottles. The larger of these, which particularly affected Andrew's side of the pot, was a moral insect. In his way he was a strict sort of man who might do wrong, but whose conscience always called upon him to pay the price full measure, pressed down and running over. Now that conscience told him that his conduct in the matter of Mary was of a questionable order. He knew that if he had acted in any other way, not only would it have been contrary to the earnest desires and most natural impulses of both of them, but that the issue in all probability would have been their deaths, since it was scarcely possible, fretting as they would have done, that they could have continued to live solitary and separated on that narrow island. Accidents would have happened, and one of them would have given up the struggle, and then, broken–hearted, the other would have followed. Still, there was the strict letter of the law, the potent law which had been inculcated in him since childhood, which says that a man may not marry again unless he is absolutely sure that his wife is dead. And of this Andrew was by no means sure. Simply he could not tell, nor indeed did he wish her to be dead. Only if she were alive, what then was his position and that of Mary; also that of their beloved child?

While they remained undiscovered upon that island all these things, it was true, mattered little, since he felt quite sure that the world believed him to be dead, and no doubt by this time had forgotten him altogether. Probably, if she were still alive, Clara, who was not a person of deep affections or one likely to waste time mourning over any husband, had also forgotten him. Indeed, she might have married again if any quite suitable alliance came her way, as he devoutly hoped she had, especially as she would have done so in perfect innocence.

But, and here was the second fly, a very Beelzebub of a fly: suppose that she had not, and suppose that accursed albatross to which in his folly he had tied the tin plate, had fallen into the hands of men in some part of the civilized world. Then the whole earth would buzz with the romance of the business, and as he was a peer and worse still, a big officer of the State at the time of his disappearance, the Government would send a man–of–war to look for him. Or if it did not, some enterprising newspaper in search of advertisement and good copy would organize a relief expedition. Some one or other would surely come. And then—the shame of it all, and what was almost as bad, the ridicule, of which it made him cold even to think. Well, on one thing he was determined, nothing would induce him to abandon Mary. He would tell Clara that he was sorry and that she must take her remedy, looking upon him as one dead.

For her part Mary did not trouble so much about these dangers. It seemed to her right and natural that she and Andrew who loved each other so devotedly, should live together as man and wife. On that point her conscience did not prick her. But she who could read him like a book, knew what was passing in his mind, although of it he said little or nothing, and this in turn affected hers, since what Andrew suffered, she must also suffer. So it came about that notwithstanding their mutual joy in each other, they lived in great dread; the wide wings of that fatal albatross overshadowed them, even while they kissed and thanked God for the child whom they both adored, as they adored each other. For in fact, they never doubted but that this bird would fulfil its ill–omened mission. The chances against it might be a thousand to one, and yet they were sure that the evil lot would fall out of all that were in the sack.

When for the fourth time the pale spring came since the sending off of the albatross—making Andrew's fifth upon the island, although there was no sign of it among the hosts of migratory fowl which came there to nest, it is true that hope grew strong in them, and they took comfort. But still in their hearts they knew that the hope was vain and that though Fate might delay its stroke, surely it would fall. Here it may be well to state what happened to this bird.

It flew away for thousands of miles and, probably irked to death by the tin plate tied about its neck of which it could not be rid, ultimately perished upon a wild part of the shore of Western Australia. There it lay and rotted till, by a strange chance, a man engaged in prospecting for minerals walked along this beach which was rarely trodden, seeking for outcrops among the cliffs. While he was thus engaged his trained eye caught the glitter of something in the midst of a pile of bones and feathers. Thinking that this might indicate the presence of mineral he walked to the spot and there found the plate, much rusted but still quite legible. Ultimately he carried it to Perth and showed it to a newspaper man who, fearful of a hoax, submitted it to the Authorities. Within forty–eight hours the strange news, made more romantic still by the rank of the castaway and the manner of its discovery, was printed in almost every paper of the earth, and for a few hours Andrew was the most talked of among living men.