A GIFT REFUSED
The yacht was the "Petrel," luxurious hobby of Sir Myles Kemp, diverted
from her homeward course by the merest whim of her owner to run up
northward for a day while Sir Myles should inspect the rubber
plantation and estate of his old fellow-officer, Captain Williams, who
was not even present at the place.
The inspection was never made. The utter amazement occasioned by the
chance discovery of the exiles of Three-Hill Island, plus their story
of its fateful occupation, completely overshadowed all else in the
minds of the "Petrel's" commander and crew, whose one idea was to
assist the castaways home with the greatest speed of which steel and
steam were capable. The picture the pair presented as they came
aboard--Elaine amazingly tattered, a supple, tanned, incredibly sweet
and womanly little figure--Grenville, a bearded, active master of the
wild, clad in the skin of a cheeta for a coat, and bearing a richly
colored tiger-skin, rolled up to contain a hundredweight of
treasure--was one that Sir Myles was destined never to forget. He was
likewise always destined to misunderstand the emotions with which, as
they steamed away at last, Elaine looked back, with tears in her eyes,
at the unpeopled Isle of Shalimar, so green in its purple setting,
presenting its headland to the sea with that lone tree reared above its
summit.
Grenville, too, had seen her eyes--and he more nearly comprehended.
By great good-fortune much of Lady Kemp's wardrobe had been left aboard
the yacht. She and Elaine must have been of a size, to judge from the
manner in which her yachting apparel and her dainty boudoir adjusted
themselves to the form of the girl whom Sir Myles began forthwith to
treat as he might a daughter.
The "Petrel" was put about and headed for Colombo--the nearest port at
which an Orient steamer would be likely to be encountered. It was not
until after dinner had been served and his guests had been made as
thoroughly comfortable as warm-hearted hospitality, admiration for the
two of them, and exceptional thoughtfulness could compass that Sir
Myles related the accepted fate of the "Inca," from the wreck of which
they escaped.
The news had gone forth that she foundered, and not a soul was saved.
A few insignificant pieces of wreckage had been found afloat, far from
the unknown ledge of rock the earthquake had lifted in the sea, but no
one till now had heard so much as a theory as to what had been her fate.
That some such intelligence must have been sent to the worried and
waiting relatives and friends beyond the seas, both Grenville and
Elaine had long before comprehended, despite the preoccupation
engrossing their minds all these many age-long weeks. But now, when at
length they were homeward bound, the facts presented an aspect which
there had been no occasion to prepare against while struggling for
existence on the island.
There was one thought only in their minds. It was Fenton, and what he
might have done when that news had expended its shock. And what would
be the outcome of the story, now that the home-coming journey was
resumed--now that he, Sidney Grenville, could at last complete and
discharge his original commission?
He faced the business hardly more calmly than did Elaine. No argument
possible to him now, respecting the warning Fenton had received,
availed to allay and satisfy his haunting sense of honor. The man had
matured on Shalimar, and his soul had been refined.
But what strange days those were that now succeeded! How they robbed
him of his happiness, as they brought him nearer home! His spirits
sank and would not rise, the nearer Colombo was approached. He told
himself then, once he could wire, acquaint Gerald Fenton with the fact
they were safe, and would soon be with him, he would come to some peace
of mind.
But, when at length the wire was sent, he experienced no such relief.
Relief, indeed, had failed to come when for three days and nights the
Orient boat had been plowing across the Indian Ocean, rushing headlong
from the tropic heat to the distant ports beyond.
He thought, perhaps, if he informed Elaine, the business would be
settled. He attempted that day to introduce the subject, but in vain.
Elaine was so sparklingly happy! He postponed the ordeal for the night.
The moon had returned to the skies again, bringing to the wanderers
ineffable memories of other nights, when peace lay tranquilly fragrant
on the world of their Shalimar. He detected its subtle influence on
the ever-vivacious little woman who had shared his perils and his joys.
Elaine was softly thrilling to the spell of it all as she halted beside
him, finally, on a strip of the deck abandoned to their uses. She felt
that the atmosphere was overcharged, and wondered what might be
impending. To still the pounding of her heart she leaned on the
taffrail, ecstatically in touch with Grenville's arm. She spoke of the
wonder of the night.
"Yes," drawled Grenville, in his old dry way, "great facilities here
for manufacturing nights---- I wired Gerald from Colombo."
For a moment Elaine was puzzled by this wholly irrelevant remark. Then
her heart began to rock uneasily.
"You--wired we were coming home?"
"Wired I was fetching you home, after unavoidable delay."
She recognized the difference between the way that she and he had
expressed the principal fact. She felt herself, as it were, already
surrendered to a man grown singularly foreign to her nature. It seemed
to her incredible that Sidney and she should ever again be parted, or
work out their several destinies in any manner save
together--especially after all he had said and even done.
"Was that--all you said?" she asked him, faintly.
"No. I said I'd be best man--or something of the sort."
Elaine felt something leaden go down to the point of her heart.
"You wanted him to know that you had no idea---- You wanted Gerald to
understand----" She could not finish her sentence. Her face was hotly
flaming, but at least she could turn it away.
Grenville's voice was hard and strange.
"It was barely his right to know that we were coming. I could do no
less, as you'll certainly agree."
His speeches were constrained, unnatural, as Elaine had instantly felt.
Her own were scarcely less embarrassed--after all these months when
their entire world had comprised themselves alone. It seemed a
monstrous error that anything but free, unfettered companionship and
candor should exist between them now.
"I know," she said. "Of course." She added, after a moment, "It seems
so peculiar, that's all--to--resume as we were before."
He was looking at his fist, for no good reason in the world.
"It is what you have hoped for every day."
"To get away from the Dyaks--why, of course."
Another silence supervened. After three unsuccessful efforts at
speech, Elaine at last found the voice and the courage for a question:
"Do you wish to be--best man?"
Grenville spread out his fingers, for further inspection.
"I probably shouldn't have suggested it otherwise."
She turned upon him impulsively. "Sidney, are you absolutely honest?"
"Oh, I wouldn't trouble old Diogenes to get out of his grave and look
me up," he answered, in his customary spirit, "but I've got a faint
idea what honor means."
How well she knew his various manners of evasion! Her heart was
pounding furiously. She leaned with all her weight against the rail,
as if for fear he must hear its clamorous confessions.
She had never been so excited in her life--or more courageous.
Likewise she felt she possessed certain God-given rights that were
poised at the brink of disaster. For a love like hers comes never
lightly and is not to be lightly dismissed. Her utterance was
difficult, but mastered.
"One night--in the smoke--on the island--when we might have died of
thirst--and you came with water---- You remember what you said?"
"Concerning what?"
"Concerning--love."
He was gripping a stanchion fiercely; his fingers were white with the
strain.
"Vaguely---- I think I was exhausted."
"Oh! you're not--you're not honest at all!" she suddenly exploded.
"That day of the wreck--on the steamer--you know what you said to me
then! And any man who has acted so nobly, so thoughtfully----"
He turned and gripped the small, soft hand by his coat-sleeve on the
rail.
"Don't do it, little woman--don't do it!" he said, in a low voice,
charged with passion. "You told me some stinging truths that day, and
now--they're truer than ever!"
"I didn't!" she said, no longer master of her feelings. "I didn't tell
the truth! I said I hated--said I loathed---- And you _said_ I'd
throw his ring in the sea--and you said you'd make me--like
you--some--and you know that I couldn't help liking you now--when
you've treated me so horribly all the time! And after everything we've
done together----"
"Elaine!" he interrupted, hoarsely, "when did you throw away his ring?"
"After the tiger--the night I gave you the cap, and you acted so
hatefully and mean! It bounced and went into the water."
He was white, and tremendously shaken, while gleams of incandescence
burned deeply in his eyes. How he stayed the lawless impulse to take
her to his arms he never knew. He dropped her hand and turned away,
with a savage note of pain upon his lips.
"Good Heavens!" he said, "why don't you help me a little? I had no
right then! I have no right now! ... I'm going to take you home to
Fenton, if it's the very last act of my life!"
She, too, was white and trembling.
"I know what you mean--you _never_ loved! You don't know the meaning
of the word!"
"All right," he said. "We'll let it go at that."
"Oh, you're perfectly horrid!" she suddenly cried, the hot tears
springing to her eyes. "I refuse to be taken back to Gerald! I refuse
to have anything more to do with any selfish man in the world!"
She retreated a little towards the saloon, her two hands going swiftly
to a gleaming band that all but spanned her waist.
"And there's your old girdle, with Gerald's ring, that you made me
throw away!" she added, flinging the tiger's collar towards the sea.
It struck on a stanchion, bounded to the deck, and settled against a
near-by chair. She waited a second, instantly ashamed, and longing to
beg his forgiveness. But he leaned as before against the rail, his
eyes still bent upon the water.
Weakly, with drooping spirits, Elaine retreated through an open door,
still watching, in hopes he would turn and call her back. Then,
stoutly suppressing her choking and pent emotions, she fled to the
dismal comfort of her stateroom, and, falling face downward in her
narrow berth, surrendered to the vast relief of sobbing.