With the introduction of a visitor from the outside world dullness fled
from the cottage, and in a very short time George Merrick was on the
happiest terms with all of them; the Captain remarking with surprise
conversational powers on the part of his wife he had long since thought
defunct.
All this the Captain heard, but he was a sense short. He could not
see the honest admiration with which Merrick eyed the daughter while
he talked to the mother, nor the subtle joy of the latter in the
knowledge of it.
A sharper man might have remarked the deference in the visitor’s tones
when he addressed the daughter, but he did not, nor when Merrick and
his daughter were from the room did it occur to him that they might be
together.
It was three weeks after Merrick’s arrival before his eyes were opened.
The visitor had gone on an errand to the neighbouring town, and his
host was sitting at the open window, smoking and listening to the
clicking of his wife’s needles as she knitted a mammoth sock.
“Jem,” said his wife, suddenly suspending her work, “I think George
Merrick wants a little talk with you this afternoon.”
“He may have it,” said the Captain affably.
“You--you don’t seem to understand,” said his wife, her voice shaking a
little; “you men are all alike, I think. He wants Edith.”
“_What?_” shouted the Captain.
“He spoke to me this morning,” continued his wife, “and, of course, I
referred him to you.”
“Has he spoken to her?” inquired the Captain.
“He spoke to her last night,” was the reply, “and she accepted him. I
saw all along that they were taken with each other.”
“And you never stopped it,” said the Captain. “You let it go on.”
“Of course,” said his wife, in surprised tones. “Why not?”
“Your memory is failing,” said her husband. “Think--go back three
years; go back to the night the child came.”
“Jem,” said his wife, in a frightened whisper. “What do you mean?”
“Have you told him what you told me, or have you told him the truth?”
pursued the other sternly.
His wife, breathing rapidly, made no reply.
“I have never referred to it before,” said the Captain, more gently. “I
never would have referred to it but for this. To save my poor girl’s
pride--and my own--I pretended to believe the lie you told me, for I
am a blind man, my dear, and harmless. When a man loses his sight he
should die, for he is a moving, _dangerous_ man no longer. He is a
derelict, and can only hurt that which runs against him.”
“It is all past and over,” murmured his wife brokenly.
“So I had thought,” replied the husband. “I never thought to have told
my daughter’s shame to another man.”
“You will not,” cried his wife wildly. “I will never forgive you if you
do. Hasn’t my darling suffered enough? We did wrong in sending such a
child to that great, wicked city. And she loves him. If you tell him
that, it will kill her.”
“I am a proud man,” said the Captain sternly, as he rose, “and no man
shall enter my family under false pretences. I will tell him. If he
likes to overlook it, well and good. Nobody will be happier than I
shall.”
“Overlook it!” repeated his wife. “To save your pride, you were content
to keep your eyes shut--why do you wish to open his? Do you think he
will thank you for the information?”
“Where is he?” asked the Captain.
“He is out with Edith,” said his wife, crossing over and falling on her
knees beside him. “Jem, don’t tell him; for pity’s sake let things be.
Edith refused him at first, she has pride, too. She would not listen
to him. But I told him before her that she loved him and after that
he would not be denied. She is a good girl--you know she is a good
girl--and if you ruin her life like this, you will break my heart.”
Before the Captain could reply or disengage his hands from hers,
voices were heard in the hall, and Merrick entered the room and looked
significantly at his hostess.
“Captain,” he said in a strong voice, “I suppose Mrs. Ferguson has told
you that I have asked your daughter to be my wife. I----”
“Sit down,” said the Captain quietly. “Jenny, Merrick and I will settle
this.”
His wife rose helplessly to her feet. “Not now, Jem,” she cried
piteously, “not now; think first.”
The Captain shook his head, and his wife, avoiding the gaze of the
astonished Merrick, left the room and went upstairs to her daughter.
Ten minutes later, through blinding tears, she saw Merrick quit the
house and walk like a drunken man along the sands.
“He has gone,” she whispered, “gone without a word.”
Edith rose, pale and dry eyed and crossed over to the window; then
flushing darkly she bent over her mother and kissed her.
“I should not love him if he had stayed,” she said.
For the rest of that day she kept her room, only going downstairs
when she heard her mother’s bedroom door close. Her father sat by the
window, his unsmoked pipe by the sill and his hands clasped before him.
“Good night, father,” she said, quietly, as she crossed over to him and
placed her arms about his neck. “And thank you, for--everything.”
“We’ll--we’ll be the same as before, my girl,” said the Captain, as he
drew her soft cheek on to his shoulder. “It was best for you, best for
him.”
“You have been wonderfully good to me,” said the girl, in a low voice.
“I thank you and love you for it.”
She disengaged herself from his arms and rose, pausing at the door to
bid him good night again, and passed upstairs.
* * * * *
An hour later, when the house was still and dark, she crept down again.
It was a warm summer’s night, but she shivered slightly and caught her
breath when the door rattled, under the touch of her shaky fingers, as
she opened it. Then she closed it behind her, and with a slight sob at
the pity of it all, walked towards the sea. For a minute she paused
irresolute, and a man who had walked down for a last look at the
house which contained her, stepped from its shadow and stood miserably
watching. Then, as he heard the grating of the boat’s keel on the
beach, he sprang forward eagerly, crying her name.
He was just too late; the boat floated and the girl, with a stroke of
the oars, sent it from the shore. Without further parley he threw off
his coat and shoes, and wading in, struck out in pursuit.
“Go back,” cried the girl from between her teeth. “Go back.”
There was no reply, but a slight splashing in the wake of the boat
spoke for itself. She bent to the oars, the noise getting fainter and
fainter as she widened the distance between them.
With her face white and set, she kept on her way until, despite
herself, her heart failed her, and she stopped rowing to listen. At
first there was a dead silence, then she fancied she could still hear
him striving to reach her.
“Go back!” she cried piteously, “go back!”
“I can’t,” he shouted, calmly, “it’s too far.”
The girl sat motionless, peering through the gloom. Across the water
came the sound of quick, distressed breathing, and weak, rapid strokes.
With a great cry, she turned the boat’s head round and pulled in the
direction of the swimmer.
“Where are you?” she cried, wildly; “call out.”
At the faintness of the response she increased her efforts until she
came alongside something which struggled manfully in the dark water,
and strove to keep its white face above it. Just in time she leaned
over, and, grasping it by the shoulder, drew it to the stern of the
boat and held it fiercely and strongly to her breast.
“If you want to die, dear,” gasped the man, as he lay a little later in
the bottom of the boat, holding her hands, “pull out the plug and we’ll
go down together, but living or dead, you shall not go from me again.”