Mary of Marion Isle

Chapter XXIII The Fatal Albatross

For once in her life Lady Atterton met with a piece of bad luck and, what afflicted her still more, was put into a ridiculous position. As Andrew had guessed, she escaped from the shipwreck, for be it known that no one had come to harm when the ship was lost. Within a few hours of the foundering of the Neptune, a sister ship of the same line which had received her S.O.S. message found the boats and picked up everybody, except Andrew and Jacks, who, for very good reasons, were believed to be drowned.

On her return to London, Clara, dressed in most becoming widow's weeds, received many condolences on the loss of a high official position and also on that of her husband. The only person who did not condole was Mrs. Josky with whom she had a tumultuous interview.

That good lady, seconded by Laurie, "made bold" to tell her outright that she had not done what she might to rescue Andrew, or to search for him after he was supposed to be drowned. In vain did Clara assume the cold and haughty peeress for their benefit. Mrs. Josky in her indignation alleged in vulgar, Whitechapel language that she did not "care a damn for peeresses," adding that all women were the same under their clothes, with this difference, that some had a heart and some had a dried walnut where that organ ought to be. Clara, still imperturbably calm, rang the bell and requested the footman to show these persons out. So they went, but at the door Laurie, who had brought her baby with her, fired a parting shot in an interval of her mother's invectives. It was to this effect:

"If his lordship's dead, there's this comfort for him, that he's well rid of you, who never cared a brass halfpenny about him like mother and I did."

They departed, leaving Clara, who objected to the primary emotions in action, somewhat perturbed. The worst of it was that they seemed to have generated a certain antagonistic atmosphere in that lordly mansion. Perhaps they conversed then, or afterwards, with the footman and the butler, who had also been shipwrecked on the Neptune. At any rate Clara observed a coldness in the demeanour of these and other menials which the passage of time did not efface, or even lessen. The truth was that everyone in West House loved Andrew, whereas their sentiments for Clara were of a different order.

By degrees Clara shed her widow's weeds and once more bloomed into the brilliant Society lady, as her rank, wealth, and cleverness gave her a right to do. But now, as before, her ambitions being unquenched, she found that she needed a man to help her in her climbing. So, having persuaded the Court of Probate to "presume" Andrew's death, she set to work to find another husband. In due course a perfectly suitable person presented himself, a dried–up and childless widower whose rank was superior to that of Andrew, who was also a member of the Government and one who thought that her great fortune would be very helpful in his career.

Now came the bad luck. This engagement in high life was announced, with suitable prominence and polite allusions to the lady's former tragic bereavement, in The Times, Morning Post, and other papers upon a certain morning. In those that appeared in the afternoon was printed the sensational cable from Australia which told of the finding of the tin plate amongst the bones of an albatross upon an antipodean beach. Naturally Clara, chancing to read the paragraph in an early edition of the Westminster Gazette, was much disturbed.

"Really," she said to herself, "this is just like Andrew. If he meant to turn up, in common decency he might have done so before—or at least on any other day."

Then she sat down to think a while and as a result determined, like a wise woman, to do nothing without consulting her lawyer. So having caused a telephone message to be sent to that eminent solicitor to tell him to expect her, she dressed and started.

But here again bad luck pursued her, for when she reached her door, in front of which quite a little crowd had gathered, since many had read the news or seen the headings on the placards, whom should she meet rushing up but Mrs. Josky and Laurie, each of them waving a halfpenny paper.

"What did I tell you, my lady," screamed Mrs. Josky. "He's living after all!"

"And you going to be married again," vociferated Laurie, always an uncontrolled person. "Well, I'd have waited a while, I would."

"Even if I hadn't stopped to look for him," added Mrs. Josky.

Then Clara drove off, leaving the pair explaining everything to an interested and ever–increasing crowd.

The end of it was that, with the assistance of her lawyer, Clara wrote a most discreet letter to the noble Viscount to which she had promised herself en secondes noces, saying that under the circumstances, painful as they were unexpected, everything must rest in abeyance until the facts were ascertained. She added that, as he would understand, her "poor woman's heart" was "torn in two."

His lordship answered by special messenger that he quite agreed with her, since bigamy, even if accidental, was an awkward business.

About her poor woman's heart he said nothing at all, contenting himself with the dubious finale of "Yours in mingled hope and fear."

"The wretch!" ejaculated Clara. "Within three months he will be married to that odious Lady Atkins." And he was!

On further reflection Clara saw that in order to obliterate this ridiculous interlude in her career from the public mind, it was necessary that she should do something interesting which would awaken sympathy for herself. To explain her woes on any and every occasion and to demonstrate the raptures of her hope were not enough. No, she herself must head the relief expedition to search for Andrew, and be careful that the fact was well advertised in the Press. She did not in the least wish to undertake any such adventure, having had quite enough of the sea, especially in the neighbourhood of those horrible islands. Andrew was a past episode in her life. Long ago she had written him off her account. As a husband he had disappointed her, and it was probable that if he reappeared, he would continue to do so. The truth was that she felt as much annoyed with that albatross as, had she but known it, Andrew did himself, and devoutly wished that the tin plate had never been found.

Of course the chances were that after all this fuss no Andrew would be discovered. For the message seemed to have been sent off some years ago, and it was most unlikely that he could have lived so long upon a desert island in an extremely inclement climate. At least no one else would have done so, but of Andrew she was not so sure, since he was a man who had a way of achieving the unexpected, of doing those things which he ought not to do, and of leaving those things which he ought to do, undone.

Who else, for instance, would have managed to get himself bottled up below in that inaccessible part of the ship which he insisted upon inhabiting and thus giving everybody the impression that he was finally and romantically drowned? Who else, being thus bottled up, would have managed to emerge and to reach an uninhabited island? Who else would have bethought him of tying a tin plate to the neck of an albatross?—a most unexampled expedient. If he could do these things, it was quite possible that he would manage to exist in circumstances under which anybody else would have died, and to reappear after he had been officially declared deceased. Also—this was a new and dreadful thought—if that should be so, what would he be like after four years alone on an iceberg? He was peculiar enough before, now he would be positively mad. Still, as a philosopher Clara recognized that in life the rough must be taken with the smooth, and that therefore she must go to look for him, leaving the issue to Providence. Perhaps she would find his bones and be able to bring them home for burial, a ceremony that must attract much attention.

So she communicated with the Admiralty and found "my Lords" most kind. Indeed, they promised to place a small cruiser which was attached to the Cape station at her disposal, with orders to give her a passage and to search any and every uninhabited island within a thousand miles radius of the spot where the Neptune had gone down. Also she communicated with the Government, and from it obtained a half–promise that when the man who had been appointed to the Governorship of Oceania upon the supposed death of her husband, resigned, as it was expected that he would do very shortly, the post should again be offered to Andrew.

There was foresight in this move of hers, since she had made up her mind that if he should chance to be rescued and to prove too impossible, she could always allege ill–health and allow him to go to Oceania alone. Then, with indignation in her breast and a wistful look of hope deferred carefully stamped upon her attractive countenance, Clara, suitably attended by servants, took the mail steamer to the Cape, and there in due course embarked upon the cruiser which she found abominably uncomfortable, especially as there was no one on the ship who was in touch with her world, or who interested her at all.

Once more on Marion Isle the long winter was merging into spring. As usual it had been a happy winter for the three inhabitants of that desolate place, except that during it the fear, which he always felt, seemed to grip Andrew's heart more closely than it had ever done before, and from him had spread to that of Mary. Still, of this they said little to each other and now were engaged upon their usual task of making ready their land for sowing.

One morning early, Mary, leaving little Janet in Andrew's charge, went out to see to her fish–nets, and in due course returned with the fish but looking very disturbed.

"What is the matter, dear?" asked Andrew, who saw at once that something was wrong. "Has the new net been carried away?"

"I don't quite know, Andrew," she answered gravely. (By now she had lost the habit of speaking in the third person.) "Last night I dreamed that Old Tom came to me and told me that something very bad was about to happen, he would not say what. He did say, however, that I must 'keep a stiff upper lip'—he always used those funny words about meeting trouble—since if I did so everything might come right at last, as he had always told me it would."

"Well, there isn't much in dreams," said Andrew cheerfully, "and at any rate this one had a good ending. Is that all?"

"No, Andrew. When I was on the rocks yonder a squall came up and covered me. Then suddenly in the mist and drift I saw the Shape―"

"What shape?"

"That I told you about which three times warned me of danger and saved my life before you came. Since then I have never seen it till this morning."

"Well," said Andrew, "what did it look like?"

"It looked very terrible, Andrew. It looked like Death. It came upon me suddenly and passed away against the wind out on to the Race between the islands, pointing to the Race where it vanished. Andrew, some one is going to die there in that Race."

"Then pray God it may be me," he answered in words that were startled out of him, "though I don't see how I should get into the Race where no man can swim and live for long."

"No," she answered, "pray God it may be Mary."

"Don't say that, don't say that!" he cried and kissed her.

"Why not?" she asked. "We have been very happy, haven't we? And I do not fear death since my heart tells me that in death we really find all we think we lose."

"Look here, Mary," said Andrew. "Rightly or wrongly you believe in this shape which, you say, has three times saved your life. Why then should it come a fourth time to take away your life, or to tell you that it will be taken away?"

"I don't know, Andrew. Perhaps it did not. But some one is going to die, and there are only us three and of the three—oh! I pray God to let me die."

Then she set about her tasks and said not another word of the matter.

The day was calm and fine, and the weather being suitable to their purpose, they put damp seaweed on to the fire to make smoke in which they hung fresh fish to cure lightly. In the afternoon they both went into the cave to store some of the fish which they had kippered, leaving Janet by the fire, where she was playing contently with the cat, Josky, of which she was very fond. Presently they heard the child calling to them.

"Oh! Dad, Mum. Oh! Mum, Dad, come look, something big upon the sea."

They ran out of the cave, and there, a mile or more from them, anchored just where the Race ran into the open ocean, they perceived a British man–of–war, for she flew the Ensign. Even as they watched amazed, a boat left her side and rowed swiftly for the mouth of their little bay.

The pair looked at each other with horror in their eyes.

"This is the work of the albatross," gasped Andrew.

Mary nodded and, in her agitation, answered in the old childish language:

"Yes, that bird pay us back because we tie things to its neck. What do now? Run away?"

"No, dear, for it is useless. They would hunt the island till they found us. The smoke has betrayed us. Let us stop here and go on with what we are doing."

So they did, mechanically, Andrew cleaning more fish and throwing the insides to the watching penguins, while Mary fixed them to a string in the smoke.

"There is a woman in that boat," said Mary presently in a cold voice, for her eyes were those of a hawk and she had seen her. "She too wears a coat of skin."

The boat, skilfully steered, came to the shore, but Andrew and Mary went on working with their backs to it.

"Mary," said Andrew, "I want you to understand something. If by any chance that woman should be—my wife—I am not going to leave you for her, because you are more to me than everything else in the world. And unless they take us by force, I am not going to leave this island."

She gave him a look of her beautiful eyes and said:

"Thank you." Then she was silent.

Now they heard voices behind them and were forced to turn round. There they stood against a background of the smoke, Andrew to the right, Mary to the left, and between them the lovely child. Perhaps a stranger–looking trio could not be imagined. They were all clad in skins, for Andrew's clothes, except a suit which he sometimes put on for Sundays, or what they believed to be Sundays, were worn out. On their feet, too, were skin mocassins which they made themselves. Andrew's curling hair was long and hung down upon his shoulders; as it protected his neck from the cold winds he left it thus. Now, too, he had a really fine beard which also curled. Finally, his sealskin robe was stained with the work upon which he was engaged and his hands were red with fish's blood. For the rest he was a splendid–looking man, tall, handsome and much broader and bigger than he used to be.

Mary also was clothed in skins down which flowed her glorious hair, a young matron of startling beauty who moved with the grace of a deer; and the child, as has been said, was lovely, with dark eyes like to those of her father, and her mother's milk–white skin.

Three people were coming towards them—the others had stopped with the boat—a young officer whose eyes were nearly starting out of his head, a person in civilian dress who appeared to be a manservant, and the lady. Even at a little distance Andrew knew her at once; it was Clara, richly clothed in furs and, so far as he could see, not in the slightest degree changed from what she was when he had last seen her on board the Neptune. The advancing party halted at a distance of about five paces, whereon the young officer, suddenly recovering himself and becoming aware of a great opportunity, lifted a hand camera which he was carrying and snapped the three with the fire and the cave mouth for a background.

The click of the camera and perhaps the thought of the resulting picture in the English papers, seemed to sting Clara into action.

"Are you Andrew?" she asked. "There seems to be a resemblance―" and she paused.

"I was so christened," he replied, and also paused.

"And who is that woman?" she asked again.

"Her name is Mary."

"Mary! Mary what?"

"I do not know, nor does she. Like myself she is a castaway. She came to this island with a man who is dead."

"Oh!" exclaimed Clara, "that explains a great deal. And what is the name of the little girl?"

"Janet. If you are Clara, it is one that you will remember."

She winced at this, then replied:

"If I am Clara? Have you any doubt upon the point?"

"Not much," he answered, "but you know that we all change; time tells upon us."

"Certainly it or something else has told upon you, Andrew. But—could we have a word apart? What we have to say to each other would scarcely interest this—young woman, even if she happens to understand English. I am sorry I cannot offer to shake hands with you," she added, "or to greet you in any way, since you seem to be all over blood."

"Yes, Clara, I have been cleaning fish. It is part of my daily round. You who eat the fish, may not be aware that they must first be cleaned."

"Then perhaps your cook can continue the operation for a little while. If necessary, the manservant will help her, although it is not his business."

Then they walked aside round the point of the rock, Mary watching them with wondering eyes. Janet tried to run after her father, but Mary caught her and drew her back.

"Now, Andrew," said Clara, when they were out of sight, "tell me the meaning of all this. What is that woman to you?"

"She is the mother of my child."

"I guessed as much and—let us clear the air at once. I am not straitlaced and I do not blame you in the least, especially as she seems to be a rather beautiful savage. But you will understand that this episode must end, which can be done without difficulty. The woman must go somewhere else, and as there was another man upon the island, it will be easy to account for the child who can be provided for in a suitable manner."

"I too want to clear the air, Clara," he replied. "What you call an episode is not going to come to an end, if I can help it. I love that lady who, amongst other things, saved my life, and we mean to spend the rest of our days together. Your claim upon me ended when you left me upon the sinking ship."

"I did not leave you, Andrew, until I was assured that you were lost, but perhaps I had better tell you exactly what happened," and she did, putting her own colouring upon that story and all the following events. She even mentioned in a fearless fashion what she knew must soon certainly reach his ears, that she was about to marry again when the news that he had escaped reached her.

"Thank you for telling me that," said Andrew, "for it makes matters easier. We can now discuss things on a business basis. But perhaps first you would like to hear briefly what happened to me."

Then he told his tale.

"It would all be very interesting in a novel," she said when he had finished, "but we have to do with the facts of real life, have we not, and wise people avoid scandals. You must remember, although in your present costume and after your recent experiences it may naturally be difficult to you, that you are Lord Atterton, and I may add, the Governor–General designate of Oceania, since the man who succeeded you is resigning and I have the promise of the appointment for you, should you still survive."

"This is the only island of which I shall ever be Governor–General," replied Andrew with a little laugh. "Now, Clara, let us strike a bargain. I am dead, and I mean to remain dead."

"Then why on earth did you go tying tin plates to albatrosses?" she inquired with irritation.

"For the sake of the lady yonder, if you want to know. The position was growing difficult."

"So I gather—overwhelmingly difficult. By the way, that child is painfully like you, and some one else," she added with another little wince. "It would have been far better to face the inevitable at once, but you were always foolishly fond of half–measures, Andrew."

"At any rate I have conquered the weakness now, Clara. Go away and lead your own life and leave me to lead mine."

"It is impossible, Andrew. There are too many witnesses, the whole shipload of them, for these people have tongues in their heads, to say nothing of the camera which that donkey of a naval officer carries about with him. Look here, by all means let us make a bargain. The child is not years, but the other man's, as to the exact date of whose decease no inquiries need be made. You befriended the helpless people whom you found starving on an island, that is all. But subsequently the husband died. Well, we all go to England and the pretty savage vanishes—where to I shall not trouble myself to inquire, for, as I have said, I am not straitlaced. West House is large enough for both of us and if you care to keep on your rooms in Justice Street as well, that is no affair of mine," she added with emphasis.

"I think that Mary would soon die in Justice Street, and the child also. The change would be too drastic. Also the idea of leading a double life does not appeal to me."

"Am I to understand that it is your intention to stay in this God–forsaken place, Andrew?"

"Certainly. I like it better than London."

"You mean that you like your savage woman better than you do me? At any rate it is not complimentary of you to say so so plainly."

"I never said anything of the sort, but as politeness is in question it is not complimentary of you to call that lady a savage woman. Look here, Clara, since our child's death we have practically lived apart and I propose that we should continue to do so, especially now when I have another child. My fate does not seem to have disturbed you until the matter got into the papers; indeed, you tell me that you were on the point of marrying again. This you can still do if you wish, since, as you know well, you can take your remedy against me."

For a while they looked at each other and, after her fashion, Clara coolly summed up the situation in her mind. Evidently Andrew was much altered. Hitherto she had always been able to get her own way with him, but now this seemed more difficult. Something, or some one, had brought about a change in him. However, she did not despair; perhaps in a day or two he would see matters differently.

"You are mad, Andrew," she said, "but I make allowances for you, because such a life as you have been leading during all these years does not tend to sanity. To–morrow, or soon, you may take another point of view, so let us drop this very unpleasant conversation for the present. It can always be resumed. Meanwhile, don't you think you had better wash your hands, that is if you do wash in this place? As I am here I shall take a little walk and study your interesting surroundings," and without waiting for an answer she went back to the caves.

Andrew, overcome with misery, stopped where he was, lost in thought and wondering what would be the end of it all. Then he looked at his stained hands, hardened with toil, and reflected that he would take Clara's advice and wash before he confronted that naval officer and the others. So he went to a certain sheltered spot on the shore of the bay and more to consume time than for any other reason, stripped himself, after all a simple process, and swam in the pool, after which he set to work to clean the spots off his sealskin robe, rubbing them with sand and seaweed.

Meanwhile Clara had reached the caves, where she found Mary still going about her tasks in a dazed way, the little girl Janet clinging to her robe, while the manservant studied the penguins and the young naval officer studied Mary with the most evident admiration. Clara went to Mary and said:

"Can you speak English?"

"Yes," answered Mary. "Where is Andrew? I must go to him."

"I think that he is washing and will be here presently. Can you give me some water to drink? I am thirsty."

"I have milk in the cave," said Mary, and went for it, followed by Clara, who was curious to see the place that was inhabited by this beautiful person clad in sealskins and a discoloured pearl necklace. Also she wished to study Mary, who, she noted at once, was no common woman; indeed, had she been so she knew well that Andrew would never have cared for her. Her whole bearing, to say nothing of that pearl necklace, told another tale.

Inside the cave Mary gave her goat's milk in a fine shell, while Clara, seated on a stone near the fire, looked about her curiously.

"May I talk with you a little?" she said presently in her most winning voice, "It seems best that we should understand each other."

Mary, standing before her, bowed her head.

"You are fond of my husband," Clara went on.

Again Mary bowed her head and answered:

"Yes. Does not this show it?" and she touched Janet.

Clara shrugged her shoulders, and went on, "I do not wish to be hard, but you know you are living with him in sin, do you not?"

"No," answered Mary, "my heart does not tell me that. My heart tells me that it is right to live with him. You left him to drown upon the ship, but I saved him when he was dying and God gave him to me."

"Let us leave God out of it and all the rest, too. Do you know that you are ruining him?"

"Ruining. What is that?"

"This. Although he may never have told you so, he is a great man. His name is Lord Atterton. He is very wealthy, that is to say he commands large fortunes. Also he is, or would be, the Governor, I mean the head officer under the Crown, of an important part of the British Empire. He was going out to take up that office when he was wrecked, and it is now waiting for him again. Well, in England we are what is called moral people, that is to say there must be no open talk about any man living with a woman to whom he has not been married in church. If there is such talk, then he is ruined. I mean that no one would speak to him, and that he can hold no public office. He is finished. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, I think that I understand. You mean that if Andrew and I and Janet go on living together, then people will spit at him, and he will be what you call ruined."

"Yes, I mean that. You must make him separate from you, though perhaps," Clara added, watching her, "you might sometimes see him afterwards."

"Separate—that is leave me, is it not? Well, Andrew, he will never do that. You see, there is this strange thing, that he love this poor wild Mary. Yes, I who lose everything have this that he love me to–day, to–morrow, always," here her breast heaved and her eyes flashed, "that he love me for ever and ever, much while I live and more when I dead, that he love me as he never love anything else, or any other woman, not even one called Rose, except perhaps a little Janet who is gone and a little Janet here who is part of me."

"I dare say all this may or may not be true," began Clara, with a chilly smile, but waving her hand imperiously, Mary stopped her.

"There is only one bigger thing than Andrew's love for Mary, and that is Mary's love for Andrew. She love him so well that never, never will she ruin him, she who can wait wherever she go, till he come to find her, which will not be very long."

Now Clara looked at Mary and Mary looked at Clara, who of a sudden understood.

This woman means to kill herself, she reflected. Shall I stop it? No, what affair is it of mine? She must form her own judgment on such a matter. I am not responsible, and if she does vanish it will simplify things. Also I dare say she is merely acting.

Such were the thoughts that flashed through Clara's brain, but she only said with a tired sigh:

"Well, I suppose that this sad trouble will settle itself somehow. I hope I have said nothing to pain you, but believe me, I can quite understand your position and indeed am very sorry for you. Such things happen to ignorant girls when they come in contact with men who are not too scrupulous. I grieve that my husband should have wronged you and I wish to make you any amends in my power, but still you must remember that he is my husband, not yours, and that he has wronged me more than he has wronged you."

Then for the first time Mary grew angry.

"What that you say?" she asked. "Andrew do me wrong? Never, never. He run away from me, I—I go find him and bring him back. If any wrong, I do it, and if any sin, I pay. What more, I sorrier for you than you for me, since he mine, mine, not yours; mine for ever and ever. But what that matter to you who have no heart, nothing but bone and flesh with stain on it" (Clara rouged), "and fine things such as I never see on flesh. Now we talk no more together, but you think on what I say always when alive and when dead," and sweeping the child to her breast with a kind of royal gesture, she went from the cave, whence presently Clara followed her with such dignity as she might.

Outside they found the officer who had been talking to Andrew and telling him some of the news of the world in which he seemed to take no more than a polite interest.

"Lady Atterton," said the officer, "it is time that we went back to the ship, as it will be dark in half an hour and these waters are treacherous for a rowing boat. Do—do—this lady and gentleman and the child accompany us?"

"Really I cannot say," she answered with a shrug, "they must tell you themselves."

The officer looked at Andrew who exclaimed:

"No, we stay here."

"Of course," said Clara, "you have much to see to, things to pack up, I dare say; and you could scarcely appear in that costume, could you? To–morrow morning I will come back and bring you some clothes, also what I can collect for Mrs.—I am sorry, I forget the name—and her child. Come, let us go, I am afraid of the sea in an open boat when it is dark."

"Perhaps you would like to stop here for the night," said the officer doubtfully.

"No, no. I have no sleeping things and I detest caves and raw fish. Good night, Andrew, mind that you have everything ready by the morning. Good–night, Mrs.—Mrs. Smith. Good night, little one," and without waiting for any answer she led the way towards the boat.

"Well, they are gone at last," said Andrew as the oars began to splash in the water.

"Yes," answered Mary, "but they will come back. Only if they are wise they will do so early, since to–morrow there will be a great gale. Look at that cloud over the other island, it only comes before a great wind following on a still night in spring."