me, but that we cannot help. We can only limit its effects.”
She listened silently while he pronounced the doom of her newly-born hopes, holding his hand tightly grasped in hers and scarcely seeming to breathe. She did not reply immediately when he ceased speaking, but sat a while, her head resting against his shoulder and her hand still clasped in his. Once she smothered a little sob and furtively wiped her eyes. But she was very quiet, and, at length, in a composed, steady voice, though sadly enough, she rejoined: “Very well, Jim, dear. It must be as you think best, and I won’t tease you with any more appeals. At any rate, we can go on loving each other, and that will be something. The gift of real love doesn’t come to everyone.”
For a long time they sat without further speech, thinking each their own thoughts. To Betty the position was a little puzzling. She understood Osmond’s point of view and respected it, for she knew that the sacrifice was as great to him as to her. And though, woman-like, she felt their mutual devotion to be a full answer to all his objections, yet—again, woman-like—she approved, though reluctantly, of his rigid adherence to a masculine standard of conduct.
But here came another puzzle. What was it that he had done? What could it possibly be that a man like this should have done? He had said plainly—and she knew that it was true—that there had been a warrant for his arrest. He had been, and in a sense still was, a fugitive from justice. Yet his standard of honour was of the most scrupulous delicacy. It had compelled him quite unnecessarily to disclose his identity. It compelled him now to put away what she knew was his dearest wish. Nothing could be more unlike a criminal; who, surely, is above all things self-indulgent. Yet he was an offender against the law. Now, what, in the name of Heaven, is the kind of offence against the law of which a man of this type could be guilty? He had never given a hint upon the subject, and of course she had never sought to find out. She was not in the least inquisitive now. But the incongruity, the discrepancy between his character and his circumstances, perplexed her profoundly.
Finally, she gave up the puzzle and began to talk to him about Captain Hartup and the pleasant old times on board the Speedwell. He responded with evident relief at having passed the dreaded crisis; and so, by degrees, they got back to cheerful talk and frank enjoyment of one another’s society, letting the past, the future, and the might-have-been sink into temporary oblivion.
CHAPTER XI
The Order of Release
IT was a long journey down the winding river and across the great lagoon. How long Osmond never knew; for, as hour after hour passed and the canoe sped on noiselessly through the encompassing darkness, the fatigues of the day began to take effect, not only on him, but on his companion too. Gradually the conversation slackened, the intervals of silence grew longer and longer, merging into periods of restful unconsciousness and punctuated by little smothered yawns on the part of Betty; until, at length, silence fell upon the canoe, unbroken save by the sounds of sleeping men and the rhythmical ‘swish’ of the poles.
At the sound of a distant bugle Osmond opened his eyes and became aware that the day was breaking and that the journey was nearly at an end. Also that his head was very comfortably pillowed on the shoulder of his companion, who now slumbered peacefully at his side. Very softly he raised himself and looked down at the sleeping girl, almost holding his breath lest he should disturb her. How dainty and frail she looked, this brave, hardy little maid! How delicate, almost childlike, she seemed as she lay, breathing softly, in the easy posture of graceful youth! And how lovely she was! He gazed adoringly at the sweet face, so charmingly wreathed with its golden aureole, at the peacefully-closed eyes with their fringes of long, dark lashes, and thought half-bitterly, half-proudly, that she was his own for the asking; and even as he looked, she opened her eyes and greeted him with a smile.
“What are you looking so solemn about, Jim?” she asked, as she sat up and reached for her helmet.
“Was I looking solemn? I expect it was only foolishness. Most fools are solemn animals.”
“Don’t be a guffin, Jim,” she commanded, reprovingly.
“What is a guffin?” he asked.
“It is a thing with a big, Roman nose and most abnormal amount of obstinacy, which makes disparaging comments on my Captain Jim.”
“A horrid sort of beast it must be. Well, I won’t, then. Is that Quittah, where all those canoes are?”
“I suppose it is, but I’ve never been there. Yes, it must be. I can see Fort Firminger—that thing like a Martello tower out in the lagoon opposite the landing-place. Mr. Cockeram says it is an awfully strong fort. You couldn’t knock it down with a croquet mallet.”
Osmond looked about him with the interest of a traveller arriving at a place which he has heard of but never seen. Behind and on both sides, the waste of water extended as far as the eye could see. Before them was a line of low land with occasional clumps of coconut palms that marked the position of beach villages. Ahead was a larger mass of palms, before which was a wide ‘hard’ or landing-place, already thronged with market people, towards which numbers of trading canoes were converging from all parts of the lagoon.
As they drew nearer, an opening in the palms revealed a whitewashed fort above which a flag was just being hoisted; and now, over the sandy shore, the masts of two vessels came into view.
“There is the Widgeon,” said Betty, pointing to the masts of a barquentine, “and there is another vessel, a schooner. I wonder who she is.”
Osmond had observed and was also wondering who she was; for he had a suspicion that he had seen her before. Something in the appearance of the tall, slim masts seemed to recall the mysterious yacht-like craft that he had seen one night at Adaffia revealed for a moment in ‘the glimpses of the moon.’
They were now rapidly approaching the landing-place. The other canoe had already arrived, and its disembarked crew could be seen on the hard surrounded by a crowd of natives.
“That looks like a naval officer waiting on the beach,” said Osmond, looking at a white-clad figure which had separated itself from the crowd and appeared to be awaiting their arrival.
“It is,” replied Betty. “I believe it is Captain Darley. And there is a constabulary officer coming down, too. I expect they have heard the news. You’ll get a great reception when they hear Mr. Stockbridge’s story—and mine. But they will be awfully upset about poor Mr. Westall. You are coming up to the fort with me, of course?”
Osmond had intended to go straight on to Adaffia, but he now saw that this would be impossible. Besides, there was the schooner. “Yes,” he replied, “I will see you to your destination.”
“It isn’t my destination,” said she. “I shall rest here for a day—the German deaconesses will give me a bed, I expect—and then I am coming on with you to Adaffia to put a wreath on Captain Hartup’s grave. You can put up either at the fort or with one of the German traders or missionaries. There are no English people here excepting the two officers at the fort.”
Osmond made no comment on this, for they were now close inshore. The canoe slid into the shallows and in a few moments more was hauled up by a crowd of willing natives until her bows were high and dry on the hard.
The officer who had joined Darley turned out to be the doctor, under whose superintendence Stockbridge’s hammock was carefully landed and the rest of the wounded brought ashore. Then the litter containing the body of the dead officer was lifted out and slowly borne away, while Darley and the native soldiers stood at the salute, and the doctor, having mustered the wounded, led the way towards the little hospital. As the
