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I'll come to you. But you must say. Love ... ah! you don't know what it
means!"

He left her with a pressure of the hand, and she caught a glimpse of him
as he groped his way towards the stairs. But she did not stir, nor try to stop
him.

IX

Caragh sat with his back to the saloon skylight, watching the cloud-
shadows racing over the soft green Irish coast.

Between him and it was a heaving space of dark blue water, crested here
and there with gleaming white.

The gale of the night was blowing itself out, but the wind still sang
against the spars that swung to and fro through a wider arc of the sky than
most of the guests on board found compatible with an appearance at
breakfast.

Woolly flocks of white cloud came up from the Atlantic, raced through
the clear blue overhead, and huddled down together behind the land.

It was a day boisterous with the joy of life, but Caragh's face showed no
appreciation of its quality. His chair slid forward and back with the rolling
deck, but his eyes were fixed gloomily upon the green hills, and he paid no
heed to his own movement.

His sombre absorption gave him the appearance of being affected by the
floundering seas; but he never suffered from sea-sickness and was grateful
to the gale for having cleared the deck of the ship's jovial company.

He wished to be by himself, and yet it was himself that he was most

anxious to evade; it was from self-sickness that he was suffering.
 He had spoken the truth in telling Laura Marton that the faith in Lettice
Nevern's eyes was his one hope of deliverance. He believed, if he could
respond to that, even with the honest dishonesty which alone was possible
—if he could, as he told her, "make a good girl's dreams come true"—that
he might in time build up for himself an artificial constancy, and so regain
his self-esteem.

That hope seemed not too high, face to face with the woman who was
doing her best to shatter it. It sustained him while he was fighting her
fascination—successfully, as he told himself; while he was dragging his
weakness in a wounded sort of triumph, out of her reach; while he was
hurrying his things on board the day after.

But there, unluckily, his victory ended. Seated apathetically in a deck-

chair on the Candia, watching the long coast slip by from Thanet to the
Lizard, the leaden turmoil of the Channel, and then the clouded purples of
the Kerry Hills, he learnt how superficial was his advantage, how deeply he
was in bondage.

He had, indeed, got out from England, but he had brought so little of
himself away that it seemed an impertinence to offer it to any woman in
marriage. His heart—or at least what in such affairs is called the heart—and
all those cravings of the body which go with the heart were, and would
remain, in Laura Marten's keeping.

She was right in every boast of her dominion over him. She was the
woman for whom he had not waited, of whom long ago he had despaired.
The woman who could have satisfied him body and soul, absorbing his
desires, inspiring his dreams.

No partiality in the past had persuaded him to imagine that of any

woman he had admired. They were just what they were—dainty, lovely,
brilliant, bewitching; but nothing more to him than to any one who had a
taste for them.

But here at last was the woman made for him, mad for him: warm with
that fugitive spirit of sense which was in her only and for him alone.
 He knew that, though he knew not how he knew it, as certainly, as
responsively as a lock knows the wards of its key.

It was as a key that she had entered him; and within him, at her moving,
the levers of a secret life had stirred—a strange new complexity of being
which no mortal influence had disturbed before.

She had revealed to him all that life had not yielded him, all that now it
could never yield, a correlation undreamed of between man and woman.

And she had come curiously too late. That was his bitterness. He would
have sacrificed for her every other allegiance of the past, save this one
which brought him no pleasure. From Lettice Nevern he could only come to
her as a man debased for ever in his own esteem. Nothing could excuse
such a betrayal, nothing could redeem him after it was done.

Happiness with the woman he must marry was out of the question; but
happiness without her was now for him equally uncompassable. He had a
choice only between two sorts of despair. Under such conditions it seemed
improbable that he would prove a very cheerful companion, but such
predictions were with Caragh especially difficult. His humour was always
available for his own misfortunes, and in this case his fortune was too
deplorable not to be concealed.

Since it entirely absorbed his unconscious thoughts his attention always

seemed preoccupied; an abstraction which lent however, an agreeable effect
of detachment from ordinary worries.

He was, perhaps for that reason, the serenest member of the ship's
company, and the one most obligingly at the service of other men's affairs.

But on this windy morning he was allowed to reflect on his own

adversities, till a shout from forward called his eyes towards the shore.

The Candia had just cleared a long headland and opened the narrow bay
beyond, where, canted slightly to starboard, lay a big three-master, the rags
of her royals and a staysail slapping the wind, the long blue rollers breaking
against her in spouts of foam.
 She was evidently on the rocks, and yet an impracticable distance from
the forbidding shore, which swept in a purple skirting of cliff about her.
Dark figures could be seen moving on the bridge and in the rigging, and the
flutter of a woman's skirts could be made out against the shrouds.

The Candia stood in towards the shore, and her decks were soon
crowded with excited passengers, waiting anxiously the lowering of a boat
and speculating on the way in which a rescue would be attempted.

A line of colour ran up to the barque's peak, and was answered presently
by a signal from the steamer; then the engines slowed and stopped.

The Candia rolled ponderously in the long swell while another signal
was exchanged the splash of the lead becoming suddenly audible in the
silence.

The vessels were now not more than five hundred yards apart, and every
detail could be seen upon the wreck.

Save for the few figures on the bridge and poop, all those on board her
had taken to the rigging, as the sloping decks were swept by the heavier
waves.

Several women could be seen on her, and the glass showed them to be
lashed to the shrouds, and apparently exhausted.

Each fresh evidence of urgency increased the impatience on board the

Candia. Yet no scheme of assistance seemed in progress. The engines were
reversed, the Candia backed in a trifle closer, the roar of the breakers began
to make a continuous moil in the air, but the boats hung undisturbed on
their davits.

The captain was on the bridge and could not be questioned, but presently
Sir Anthony Palmer, who as chairman of the Candia's company was
superintending the cruise, was seen coming aft with a grave face.

He said, in answer to a volley of questions, that no help could be given

till the sea went down and the tide had risen. A ledge of rocks lay between
the two ships, already defined occasionally by a thrash of foam over which
no boat could pass.

The stranger must have been carried across it at high water some hours
earlier, had struck on a second ledge between that and the shore, and was
now equally cut off from succour from the sea or from the land.

Rockets were at once suggested, but Sir Anthony explained that the
distance was too great for a rocket line to cover, and that the tides precluded
the floating in of a buoy. Nothing could be done but wait and pray that the
vessel might not break up during the next twelve hours.

Some one asked if she were likely to, and Sir Anthony admitted that she
had signalled her fears of such an event.

"Couldn't some one swim to her?" said a voice from the taffrail.

Sir Anthony shook his head; to cross the ledge with the break of water
on it at present would be to court almost certain death.

There was a pause; all eyes were turned towards the reef, where the
vessel lay in the gay morning, like some masquerade of death, between the
lovely colours of the sea and shore.

Caragh leant back in his chair with a yawn, and looked up at the sky.

"I'll take a line to her," he said placidly.

The backs of the heads between him and the ship's side became suddenly
a ring of faces, and the first stupidity of surprise was expressed by the
question, "Can you swim?"

Caragh looked at them with no expression of interest, and Sir Anthony

shook his head.

"You couldn't do it, my dear fellow," he protested; "you couldn't do it!"

"Perhaps not," said Maurice; "but I can have a try." Sir Anthony's hands
and head shook in voluble negation.
 "The captain wouldn't permit it for a moment," he asserted.

"Well," said Caragh, "of course the captain can refuse me the use of a
line, but he can't, without being very unpleasant, prevent my going
overboard."

There was an instant's pause, and then the group about the chair burst
into simultaneous suggestion and advice.

Caragh was slapped on the shoulder; his previous performances in the

water were demanded; encouragement and remonstrance were alternately
tendered, and everything obvious on the situation was said.

"I'm not a professional performer," he explained at last, "but I can keep

afloat as long as most men, and if I'm ready to take the risks of a swim, I
don't think it should be any one's business to stop me."

This met a varied response, and with a general acclamation for the
captain the speakers were moving forward when that officer appeared,
looking for Sir Anthony, who at once put the case to him.

The captain, with a glance at Caragh still seated in his chair, dismissed
the matter with a shrug of his shoulders. But he had miscalculated the
passiveness of the man before him.

Caragh got quietly upon his feet, looked across the water at the wreck,
and then turned to the captain.

"If you can't spare me a line to take on board her, I'll have to bring you
back one of hers," he said.

"I forbid you to leave the ship," replied the other briefly.

"Of course you can do that," said Caragh, looking again across the sea,
"but it won't make a pretty story if those poor devils are drowned under our
eyes."

At that moment a sailor brought the signalling slate aft to the captain,
who looked glum and handed it to Sir Anthony.
 "Tide's leaving her," he explained.

"Her back is breaking, is that it?" asked Sir Anthony.

The captain nodded.

"She won't hold together long after that?"

"Probably not," said the captain.

Caragh's offer found none but backers when the gravity of the signal was
made known.

The captain still protested its insanity, but he was persuaded in the end to
withdraw his prohibition and do what was possible to start the venture with
the best chances of success.

The ship was to be taken a little nearer the southern shore to give the
swimmer what help could be had from the tide, and the lightest line on
board was prepared while Caragh went below to strip, accompanied by a
couple of admirers, who insisted on the necessity of his being oiled before
entering the water.

As he never expected to come out of it alive he had no wish for oil, but
did desire urgently to be left alone for the next few moments.

He had made his offer from no surge of sympathy, no flush of valour. He

was not braver probably than most of those on board, nor cared twopence
more than they for the fate of the derelicts. His proposal was but the climax
of his morning thoughts. He could endure himself no longer. The
wretchedness of his passion would bear no further the thought of the girl he
was on his way to meet. Every instant in the day-time, and night after night
in his dreams, that splendid presence possessed him to which he had for
ever said good-bye. And in the fever of that possession he could not think of
a wife. Yet of what else could he think, as every hour brought her nearer,
and made sharper for him the shame of her exultant face, and the reproach
in her confiding arms. Never for an instant had his tenderness faltered. She
was dearer to him than a sister; dearer by all she had given him, by all she
was prepared to give; dearer above all by what she believed him to have
given her.

And it was his tenderness that made unendurable the treachery of his
faithfulness, the loyalty of the lie which was to make them one.

It was at the worst of such a reflection that death suddenly appeared to

him as the escape, the release for them both; for the pledge which he had
given and for her trust in his word.

Death, a high and honourable end, making a finish to his unprofitable

life, leaving her with faith undimmed!

At that cold moment of his abasement there seemed nothing better.

Given an hour to think it over and he would probably have recoiled from
the sacrifice. There was even some measure of recoil in his mind as he went
down the reeling ladder to his cabin, though there was no change in his
determination. Death had ceased to look attractive; it was simply something
for which, like a fool, he had let himself in. Yet under that was a dull
indifference to what became of him.

He submitted to his oiling; then just as he was about to leave his cabin a
remembrance came to him. He fumbled in his berth for the sovereign-case
on his watch chain, opened it, slipped out a couple of gold pieces, took what
looked like a wafer from beneath them, and put it into his mouth. The two
men with him imagined the small gray disc to be some kind of sustaining
lozenge. It was a tiny portrait of Laura Marton.

As he went shivering on deck Caragh made a wry mouth as his teeth met
on the picture, and he imagined the suggestions its discovery would have
offered to the woman he was to wed.

He had a hazy recollection afterwards of the close and eager crowd

which surrounded him as he fitted the clammy belt of the lifeline about his
body and climbed over the taffrail for a dive. It was a crowd warm with
enthusiasm and admiration; with little to say, but with that in what it said
which might have brought a blush to his whole body. But he heard nothing.
 Then as the vessel lurched to starboard he let his body fall forward and
shot down into the sea.

Before his head rose above the surface the cold water had changed his
indifference to life into a disgust at his own temerity.

The ship heeled over as if about to impale him with her yards. Then he
was lifted on the roller, and saw the wreck before him, looking much further
off than it had from the deck. He laid his course on a cliff to the south
which the captain had given him to steer by, and turned over on his side.
His left arm swung high and white out of the blue water, regular and
unhurried as though he were bathing, and his head dipped under and was
driven clear of the surface with every stroke. With his face thrown back he
could see the dark skirting of spectators along the ship's side swinging into
and out of the sky.

They were admiring in speech and in silence his courage and cool
indifference to the occasion, and the humour of their admiration moved him
as he thought of it almost to a laugh.

That he, with his despairs, his self-contempt, his growing disgust at his
foolhardiness, should appear to them as a heroic figure appealed to his keen
sense of parody. What pretty reading in unconscious irony would the
obituary paragraphs of his valour make for the gods of fate.

Yet valour of a sort he had, for it never once occurred to him to feign an
inability to go further, though the line he carried was beginning to retard
him at every stroke.

The ship he had left was now lost to him in each trough of the waves; he
could hear the break of the rollers over the reef, and saw that the tide had
already drifted him to windward of the wreck. The roar in front increased as
he proceeded, and at last he could see, as he rose, the waves thirty yards
beyond him suddenly flatten, flinging up a veil of spray into the air. For a
moment he hung irresolute; there, if ever a man might see it, was death
visible before him. Then, with a curious sense of obliteration, his mind
cleared. It seemed empty of thought or fear as the open sky above him; not
a shred even of anticipation floated anywhere within it. He trod water as he
gathered a dozen loops of the lifeline in his hand, lest he should be hung up
and dragged under by it when flung over the ledge. Then he went forward.
A moment later, when the wave that had lifted him suddenly sank and
smashed before him into a terrible welter of foam above the reef, his heart
sank; but decision was past him. He knew that he was rising on the wave
that followed, heard a strange crisp noise above him, and felt the crest dart
forward like the head of a snake.

The next instant he was rolled up in the foam and flung onward like a
whirling wheel. He lost his senses for a second from sheer giddiness, and
found himself fighting for breath and the surface in almost quiet water, with
the black sides of the wreck not fifty yards ahead.

The line was coiled about his body, but his limbs were free, and he
seemed quite unhurt, and strangely unsurprised to be so, though but a
moment back he had been prepared for destruction.

He was soon on the lee side of the wreck, and after some little difficulty
was hauled on board, being too weak to lift himself from the water.

He fell when set down upon the deck, and only then discovered that two
of the bones in his left foot were broken, and that blood was draining from a
gash nine inches long in his thigh. He also became aware that, unlike the
Candia, the wreck carried a mixed cargo of humanity, and was amused even
in his unhappy plight to notice that its immense relief and gratitude quite
overruled any considerations of sex.

There was no surgeon on board, the saloons were awash; but the women
tore up their petticoats to bind his wound, and, rolled in blankets from the
deck-house, he was made fast to the driest part of the poop.

There, drenched with spray and in a good deal of pain, he lay till
evening, declining to use the means of safety he had provided till all but the
captain and second mate had left the ship. The rigging up of a traveller had
proved a difficult matter with the wreck heeling over as the tide left her, and
the wind rising again after the ebb made all other means of communication
impossible.
 The captain was only got on board the Candia as darkness was falling,
and Caragh had some salve for his hurts in the knowledge that the wreck
slid off the reef and sank at high water before the next dawn.

He drew near Ballindra with sentiments a good deal modified by his

adventure.

Life had proved itself to be worth more to him than he had supposed,
and sheer weakness from loss of blood as he lay bandaged on the sunny
deck made the quiet certainty of a woman's love seem good in itself.

Sir Anthony had telegraphed a very picturesque account of the rescue,

and owing to the Candia having to put back to land her new passengers
Lettice had read the story before Caragh arrived.

There is, perhaps, no happier moment possible to a woman than that in

which she hears the world applauding the man she loves and is about to
marry.

To Lettice, so new to love and to a near interest in any of the world's

noises, the moment was almost overwhelming. It was a pain of happiness, a
tense fear that such glad fortune could not endure. Caragh had sent her a
wire, more kind than true, to say that he was mending splendidly, but she
tortured herself with every sort of deplorable anticipation, till she came to
expect little from the Candia's arrival but her lover's body.

But she woke one morning to see the big liner, gay with flags, lying
before her windows at the mouth of the river.

She dressed at a pace that left her maid staring, and took the steepest of
short cuts to the slip. There, at that hour of the morning, not a soul was to be
seen, so she hauled in the lightest of the moored boats and sculled herself
down the river against the tide.

On the way the maiden modesty, which had so far been as breathless as
every other part of her, found a word to say.
 For a moment the sculls stopped, and then dipped slowly to hold her
against the tide.

Then the boat went ahead again, but more deliberately. While she was
dressing Lettice had forgotten every one in the world but herself and
Maurice. Now, with the big ship before her, she remembered the others.

As she ran down to the slip she had thought of nothing but to get to him
as soon as possible. Now there seemed a dozen things besides, all very
important for a young lady.

But her doubts and fears were set at rest by a shout from the ship, and
she looked over her shoulder to see Caragh standing by the flag pole
waving his hat.

He was at the head of the gangway as she came up it, on a pair of

improvised crutches, looking very white, but with nothing left her to wish
for in the welcome of his eyes.

Sir Anthony, who was at his elbow, as radiant as herself, protested

fussily at his imprudence, and walked them both over to the chart-house,
which had been arranged for Caragh's use, where he left them to order
breakfast.

Lettice, fastened to her seat by the windows round her, and dumb with
happiness, could only gaze into Caragh's face. He looked back at her with a
smile, which broke at last in laughter.

"You've heard all about it?" he asked.

"Oh, I should think I had!" she breathed.

"Comic, wasn't it?"

"Comic!" she repudiated indignantly; "how can you?"

"I can't," he replied ruefully; "it's comic only for me, and no one else will
ever see it. Ah, but if you knew!"
 "I do know," she exclaimed imposingly, "and every one else knows that
you were a hero."

"On Monday?" he queried.

"Yes," she said proudly, "on Monday."

"Heroes were cheap on Monday," he explained with a whimsical sigh,

"but I've been a hero when heroes were very, very dear."

She looked at him with the wistful misgiving which was always stirred
by his half-serious banter. "I know a hero," she said, "who is very, very dear
to-day."

He met the love in her eyes with such a tender appreciation that,
disregarding the windows, she had half risen to kiss him, when the head
steward entering, wrinkled with smiles and suffusing the joyousness of the
occasion, set a breakfast tray between them.

He greeted Lettice with the custom of an old retainer, and commented on

Caragh's health as though personally responsible for its condition.

"We're all that proud of him, miss, I can tell you," he said as he withdrew
with the covers.

But his flattery was spoilt for Lettice by the appearance of a meal which
declared the newness of the morning with such emphasis.

"Was it awful, coming at such an hour?" she begged of Caragh.

"Shocking," he said unmoved; "five minutes earlier and you'd have

found me in my bath."

"Oh!" she groaned; "I wish I'd waited for you on shore."

"In that case," he said, "I should probably have never landed."

"Never landed!"
 "No," he went on; "I should have taken your absence for a sign that you
couldn't goad yourself to meet me; that you were cowering at home,
dreading my arrival, and with your heart lost to a much lovelier young
man."

"Oh, Maurice!"

"Yes," he continued; "I have never been able to believe that any woman's
flighty little soul could be worthy of my own virgin and unchangeable
affection."

"Maurice," she pleaded, "don't say things like that to-day; I want you to
be quite serious and quite yourself."

"Heaven forbid!" he protested as he took her hand.

The chief engineer had devised a sling to lower Caragh into the boat; the
purser had illuminated an inscription to him, signed by every one on board;
there seemed to be innumerable hands to shake and good wishes to respond
to before the boat was clear of the ship's side.

And then he had to wave his hat again and again to the cheers and shouts
of farewell, Lettice sitting beside him burning like a rose.

But her hour came when she had him laid at last upon a sofa by his
favourite window, and was kneeling on the floor beside him. Her mouth had
been thirsting all day to kiss him, and when he leaned his head back and
smiled at her she set her lips on his as though to drink from them.

"Oh, my darling," she murmured, lifting her face to look once more into
his eyes, "you can't think what these last few days have been. It didn't seem
possible that you could live and come back to me after doing all those
splendid things. It was too much happiness for any one. And I was horrid
and faithless, and felt sure you'd die. I ought to have known that God would
take care of us, because you'd been so brave and loved me so."

Despite himself there was a tinge of pain and shame that showed on
Caragh's face, and Lettice lifted her arm that had rested, ever so lightly,
across his body.

"Did I hurt you, dear?" she questioned anxiously.

"Oh, it's only just at first," was his ambiguous answer. But he drew her
face towards him and kissed it again.

Butler & Tanner, The Selwood Printing Works, Frome, and London.

********

WARD, LOCK & CO.'S

NEW SUCCESSFUL NOVELS.

A SOLDIER'S LOVE. By A. WILSON-BARRETT,

Author of 'The Golden Lotus,' etc.

THE WAYFARERS. By J. C. SNAITH,

Author of 'Mistress Dorothy Marvis,' 'Fierceheart the Soldier,'
'Lady Barbarity,' etc.

THE GREAT AWAKENING. By E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM,

Author of 'A Millionaire of Yesterday,' 'The Survivor,'
'Mysterious Mr. Sabin,' etc.
A WOMAN OF WILES. By ALICK MUNRO.

THE SHADOW OF THE CZAR. By JOHN CARLING.

The hero of 'The Shadow of the Czar' is Paul Cressingham, Captain in the
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Who that girl turns out to be; how she came in the forest and what her
subsequent extraordinary adventures were the reader must discover for
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A LIFE AT STAKE. By PERCY ANDREAE,

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Novels by Guy Boothby

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Each volume attractively Illustrated by Stanley L. Wood and others.

Crown 8vo, Cloth Gilt, Trimmed Edges, 5s.

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MY STRANGEST CASE
FAREWELL, NIKOLA!
SHEILAH McLEOD
MY INDIAN QUEEN
LONG LIVE THE KING!
A SAILOR'S BRIDE
A PRINCE OF SWINDLERS
A MAKER OF NATIONS
THE RED RAT'S DAUGHTER
LOVE MADE MANIFEST
PHAROS, THE EGYPTIAN
ACROSS THE WORLD FOR A WIFE
THE LUST OF HATE
BUSHIGRAMS
THE FASCINATION OF THE KING
DR. NIKOLA
THE BEAUTIFUL WHITE DEVIL
A BID FOR FORTUNE or, Dr. Nikola's Vendetta
IN STRANGE COMPANY: A Story of Chili and the Southern Seas
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