Part 8 (2/2)

Austin smiled a little when Gascoyne stopped abruptly. ”I'm afraid that must be admitted, sir. I can, however, a.s.sure you that Jefferson is an abstemious man--Americans are, as a rule, you see--and, though there are occasions when his conversation might not commend itself to you, he has had an excellent education. Since we are to be perfectly candid, has it ever occurred to you that it was scarcely likely a dissolute sailor would meet with Miss Gascoyne's approbation?”

Gascoyne flushed a trifle. ”It did not--though, of course, it should have. Still, he told her that he was mate of the _Sachem_, which was a painful shock to me. I, of course, remember the revolting story.”

He stopped a moment, and his voice was a trifle strained when he went on again. ”I left England, Mr. Austin, within three days of getting my daughter's letter, and have ever since been in a state of distressing uncertainty. Mr. Jefferson is in Africa--I cannot even write him. I do not know where my duty lies.”

Had the man's intense anxiety been less evident, Austin would have been almost amused. The Reverend Gascoyne appeared to believe that his affairs were of paramount importance to everybody, as, perhaps, they were in the little rural parish he came from; but there was something in his somewhat egotistical simplicity that appealed to the younger man.

”One has to face unpleasant facts now and then, sir,” he said. ”There are times when homicide is warranted at sea, and man's primitive pa.s.sions are very apt to show themselves naked in the face of imminent peril. It is in one respect unfortunate that you have probably never seen anything of the kind, but one could not expect too much from a man whose comrade's head had just been shorn open by a drink-frenzied mutineer. Can you imagine the little handful of officers, driven aft away from the boats while the s.h.i.+p settled under them, standing still to be cut down with adze and axe? You must remember, too, that they were seafarers and Americans who had few of the advantages you and your friends enjoy in England.”

He could not help the last piece of irony, but Gascoyne, who did not seem to notice it, groaned.

”To think of a man who appears to hold my daughter's confidence being concerned in such an affair at all is horribly unpleasant to me.”

”I have no doubt it was almost as distressing to Jefferson at the time.

Still, as you have probably never gone in fear of your life for weeks together, you may not be capable of understanding what he felt, and we had perhaps better get on a little further.”

Gascoyne seemed to pull himself together. ”Mr. Jefferson has, I understand, no means beyond a certain legacy. It is not, after all, a large one.”

”If he is alive in six months I feel almost sure he will have twice as much, which would mean an income of close upon 600 a year from sound English stock, and that, one would fancy, would not be considered abject poverty in a good many English rural parishes.”

Gascoyne sighed. ”That is true--it is certainly true. You said--if he were alive?”

”As he is now on his way to one of the most deadly belts of swamp and jungle in Western Africa, I think I was warranted. Knowing him as I do, it is, I fancy, certain that if he does not come back with 16,000 in six months he will be dead.”

”Ah,” said Gascoyne, with what was suspiciously like a sigh of relief.

”One understands that it is a particularly unhealthy climate. Still, when one considers that all is arranged for the best----”

Austin, who could not help it, smiled sardonically, though he felt he had an almost hopeless task. It appeared impossible that Gascoyne should ever understand the character of a man like Jefferson. But he meant to do what he could.

”It is naturally easier to believe that when circ.u.mstances coincide with our wishes, sir,” he said. ”Now, I do not exactly charge you with wis.h.i.+ng Jefferson dead, though your face shows that you would not be sorry. I am, of course, another careless seafarer, a friend of his, and I can understand that what you have seen of me has not prepossessed you in my favour. Still, if I can, I am going to show you Jefferson as he is. To begin with, he believes, as you do, that Miss Gascoyne is far above him--and in this he is altogether wrong. Miss Gascoyne is doubtless a good woman, but Jefferson is that harder thing to be, a good man. His point of view is not yours, it is, perhaps, a wider one; but he has, what concerns you most directly now, a vague, reverential respect for all that is best in womanhood, which, I think, is sufficient to place Miss Gascoyne under a heavy responsibility.”

He stopped a moment, looking steadily at Gascoyne, who appeared blankly astonished.

”Because it was evident to him that a woman of Miss Gascoyne's conventional upbringing must suffer if brought into contact with the unpleasant realities of the outside world, he has staked his life willingly--not recklessly--on the winning of enough to place her beyond the reach of adversity. He realised that it was, at least, even chances he never came back from Africa; but it seemed to him better that she should be proud of him dead than have to pity him and herself living. I know this, because he told me he would never drag the woman who loved him down. He fell in love with her without reflection, instinctively--or, perhaps, because it was arranged so--I do not understand these things. As surely--conventionalities don't always count--she fell in love with him, and then he had to grapple with the position. Your daughter could not live, as some women do, unshocked and cheerfully among rude and primitive peoples whose morality is not your morality, in the wilder regions of the earth. It was also evident that she could not live sumptuously in England on the interest of 8,000. You see what he made of it. If he died, Miss Gascoyne would be free. If he lived, she could avoid all that would be unpleasant. Isn't that sufficient? Could there be anything base or mean in a nature capable of devotion of that description?”

Gascoyne sat silent almost a minute. Then he said very quietly: ”I have to thank you, Mr. Austin--the more so because I admit I was a little prejudiced against you. Perhaps men living as I do acquire too narrow a view. I am glad you told me. And now where is my daughter and Mrs.

Hatherly?”

”Wait another minute! Jefferson is, as you will recognise, a man of exceptional courage, but he is also a man of excellent education, and, so far as that goes, of attractive presence; such a one, in fact, as I think a girl of Miss Gascoyne's station is by no means certain to come across again in England. Now, if I have said anything to offend you, it has not been with that object, and you will excuse it. Your daughter and Mrs. Hatherly are on board this s.h.i.+p. It seemed better that you should hear me out before I told you.”

”Ah,” said Gascoyne. ”Well, I think you were right, and again I am much obliged to you. Will you take me to Mrs. Hatherly?”

Austin did so, and coming back flung himself down on the settee in Macallister's room.

”Give me a drink--a long one. I don't know that I ever talked so much at once in my life, and I only hope I didn't make a consummate a.s.s of myself,” he said.

”It's no that difficult,” said Macallister, reflectively, as he took out a syphon and a bottle of wine. ”Ye made excuses for yourself and Jefferson?”

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