The Beach of Atonement

by Arthur W. Upfield

  The grandfather clock in the corner, which Hester had brought with other furniture from England, ticked away the peaceful seconds. The wood fire in the wide cooking-range hummed softly, and, to avoid disturbing the reader and listeners, Hester moved and worked quietly as possible. The work done, she seated herself in the easy-chair beside the fire and prepared to enjoy an hour’s rest, the first she had taken that day.

  What a volcano is human life! By most of us life is spent in long monotonous periods broken by eruptions of grief, or success, or supreme happiness. Sitting there watching the small quartered logs she herself had cut burning in the range grate, Hester Long looked back on her volcano. It had erupted when her father died, again when she was married, for the third time when her husband was drowned. Now it was in the throes of another eruption. For two years the volcano had been quiescent. For two years her life had been a period of work, of sublime hope, of passionate yet subdued devotion to her children.

  And then came the man calling himself Hector Cain, just the kind of man placed in the kind of circumstance who would arouse in her her real womanly instinct to love and protect. Alas! If only the issue had been clear cut! Yet what a tangle Fate was making of it, with two women in love with that one man, and that man desperately in love with a dishonoured wife! From a period of quiet she had come to an eruption of a hopeless love, sincere and deep sympathy for the friend she had come to look upon as a sister, and constant gnawing anxiety for the physical and mental welfare of a murderer.

  The thought never entered her mind that Edith Mallory was in effect her rival. A feeling of commiseration and desire to serve her friend overwhelmed even her own fully recognized hopeless love. Had Dudley not so emphatically stated that he loved his wife, Hester Long would most certainly have done her utmost to have brought them together.

  At half-past eight she sent the boys to bed and, after giving them five minutes, went to their room to conduct their prayers and tuck them into their neat little cots. And somehow that evening, when she kissed them goodnight, she felt fervently thankful and happy that she had two such children to work and plan for.

  Going back to the kitchen, she found Edith preparing coffee, and again experienced that happy thankfulness that she had found such friendship just when friendship was so utterly needed. Hester had never ceased during the last two-year period of quietude to admire the beauty of the girl’s face no less than her open, transparent, beautiful nature. Whilst she herself was capable of anger, of harshness, capable of lying when she thought it necessary, Edith Mallory was wholly incapable of lying, subterfuge or deceit.

  “Did you find the morning’s cream in the safe, dear she asked cheerfully, despite Edith’s evident moodiness.

  “I haven’t looked yet.” There was a hint of defiance in the low sweet voice.

  “I’ll get it,” the elder woman decided, and said no more until the coffee was poured into the china cups and the cream added. Then: “Have you seen Mr. Cain lately ?”

  Edith and Hester gazed at each other with sudden and significant directness.

  “I saw him yesterday.”

  “Ah!”

  “Why do you say ‘Ah!’ as though you knew it and just wanted to be told?”

  “I didn’t ask you wholly for that reason,” Hester Long replied gently. “I understood he was leaving the district, and, as he promised to call and say good-bye before he went, I have been wondering if he broke that promise also.”

  “Leaving the district? Did he say he was going to?” Hester nodded, noting with pity the girl’s quickly-paled face and the nervous clenching of the hands.

  “Yes. I persuaded him to go away. He said he would.”

  “When—when was that?”

  “Last Monday.”

  Edith looked at her friend, her loved friend, with a hint of hostility in her large wide eyes.

  “Why should you make him promise to go, Hester?”

  “Because you failed.”

  A silence followed pregnant with emotion. The two women regarded each other steadily, each knowing that for days past each had realized the inevitability of this crossing of swords, knowing now that the swords of their wills were at last crossed.

  “He told you I asked him to go?”

  “Yes. In that you did a brave thing, Edith.”

  “No, I didn’t!” Edith burst out with sudden vehemence. “Far from being brave, I am a coward. I asked him to go away and hunt happiness just because to me it was unbearable to think of him there alone. I am always thinking of him, day and night. I picture him slaving at his trapping in a fruitless effort to forget. I see him seated on the Seagulls’ Throne, gazing out over the sea, or playing his mouth-organ with his poor eyes leadened by misery ; and, while I think of him like that, my heart hurts me and my poor mind reels. .It was to ease my agony that I entreated him to go, for the pain would be less if I knew he was happy.

  “There is nothing brave in selfishness, Hester. I didn’t think of the risks he would run, were he to go travelling about of recognition. He knew it, which was why he refused me. Why did he not refuse you?”

  “Because I showed him that by remaining there you would meet your moral ruin.”

  “You showed him—what?”

  “I showed him the precipice at your feet, dear. He guessed you loved him. A less honourable man would have taken advantage of that. You remember the legend of the temptation of St. Anthony, don’t you? When St. Anthony was tempted he was an old man. Hector Cain is neither an old man nor a human iceberg. Just now he is a raging fire, a fire of desire and love for and of his wife.

  “Hester!” The name was wrenched from between parted lips. Edith’s face was scarlet.

  “Listen, dear!” said Hester; and calmly and dispassionately she turned over before the gaze of an inexperienced innocent girl certain torn dirty pages of the Book of Life.

  “I—I don’t love him like that,” Edith cried wildly.

  “How do you—know?” demanded the inexorable Hester. “You would find that you did—you would find that you, as any other woman passionately in love, would be as inflammable spirit to the flame of his lips when once he kissed you. You can’t keep away from him ; you know you can’t. You used to watch for him to go away, and then steal down and tidy his camp, because everything in it was dear to you as it belonged to him. You went to his camp one dark night in the pouring rain just to satisfy yourself that he was safe. You went to the beach one day and offered him money to go away. Then you let him know, in your voice, the love you have for him, and let him see in your eyes that same love. You knew he was a married man, you knew what the law names him, you knew that he could never marry you, even if he wanted. You know now, Edith, the narrow escape you had that day, for which you have to thank Mr. Cain’s wife; for it was her memory and his love of her which turned the scales in your favour.”

  Hester Long slid from her chair and knelt before the now frigid girl. She took her hands in hers and pressed them to her flat bosom, and from her glorious eyes tears fell fast.

  “Edith, darling!” she cried softly. “Can’t you see how impossible it all is? He can never love you, and your love can never find expression in marriage with him. See—try to see the path you are deliberately following. Our woman’s strength is our weakness. I know—I know. I knew it when my husband kissed me on my bridal night, for my strength was shattered by the touch of his lips, and I knew even as I surrendered that I was but a feather, unable to resist the wind of desire blowing a tornado through me. Our real strength, sweetheart, is in acknowledging our weakness.

  “I don’t want him to go, yet I persuaded him to promise,” Hester went on chokingly. “I was thinking only of you. When he goes far away, and no more are you able to see him, time and work together will ease and cure the pain in your heart. Such pain doesn’t last, if the twin doctors are given a chance. Oh, my dear, my dear! If it were possible, I would gladly give ten years of my life to make it so.”

  “He won’t go now, Hester. I met
him coming from Dongara, when he seemed much more cheerful.”

  Through her tears Hester Long saw triumph in the other’s eyes. She saw, too, the indescribable flame of youth in Edith’s face, the courage of youth, and the obstinacy of youth. She realized that Edith Mallory was suddenly glad that not only was Dudley not to run the risk of recognition, but also that the torture of unrequited love was to remain. With dismay she understood that Edith either did not even then understand her danger, or, understanding it, ignored it with the defiance and the calm disregard of youth. Shaken, knowing defeat, Hester Long rose from her knees and regained her chair.

  “Why will he not go?” she asked dully.

  “Because I asked him not to. I told him that he would he recognized if he did go. He said he would rather stay, intended to stay another week, anyway. A man has visited him, and promises to return and stay with him when he has done some business. So you see, Hester, that with Hector having a companion with him, I can’t burn myself at the fire as you seem to think.”

  After that, for a while, neither spoke. Hester wondered if this friend of Dudley’s was he who had inquired for him of her on the main road. Doubtless it was. The dark cloud of misgiving was swept away from her mind. She realized that Edith spoke the truth when she said that the arrival of Dudley’s friend would be a guard between her and the fire of passion.

  She determined that when the friend did come back she would see if she could not persuade him to induce Dudley to leave the beach; for, until the fire was removed, it would still be a danger, in spite of any safeguard.

  Quite suddenly their late positions were reversed. Edith rose and fell on her knees before Hester Long, hugged Hester’s knees, buried her face in Hester’s lap, and broke into a storm of weeping. And, as the voice of a gull above the pitch of the tempest, Edith Mallory wailed between her sobs:

  “Oh, Hester! I love him so. What matters if I am burned? What matters anything, anything at all? I wish I were dead, and no longer could feel this pain and misery, and—and want. My body screams for the touch of him. I want his kisses—I want his love. Oh ! I cannot go on, Hester—I cannot—I cannot! God! let me die, please let me die, let me—let me die!”

  CHAPTER XXII

  MADNESS OR REPENTANCE?

  IT was Sunday, and that day was the eighth of Finlay’s detention in the Mingenew gaol. Weather permitting, Hester Long had decided to spend the afternoon on the beach with her boys, and, possibly, with Arnold Dudley; but Jim, the younger, had contracted a cold and, therefore, she had to stay at home.

  What day of the week it was, and what day of the month, Arnold Dudley would have failed to name, even if it were of importance to him, which it was not. One of the first effects of solitude is forgetfulness of time periods. Alexander Selkirk, when relating his experiences to Daniel Defoe, emphasized that point, and Robinson Crusoe meticulously cut notches on a stick as an aid. The only safe way is to keep a diary. Putting a pencil mark daily through the dates on a calendar is safe enough, provided not a day is missed ; for, should a day be missed, it will be found that memory is a tricky jade, and at once a doubt will arise as to whether yesterday was marked off or not.

  Dudley did not keep his diary regularly. There were periods of several days when not a word was written, and periods when several day pages were filled at one sitting. Every time he wrote, what he did write was prefixed by “Dear Hester”. Under Hester Long’s written date, l0th April, he wrote on 11th May:

  Your detective came and revealed himself as my very good friend, and one-time partner. I shall not put his name in writing, as I must take care not to betray my friends. Let him be known as George. He has told me all about Ellen, the way she was tricked and ruined by Tracy. It was this way.

  [Here he gave a succinct account of Edmund Tracy’s crime against Mrs. Dudley.] My poor Ellen was damned by the vilest scoundrel of the century, and I am glad, tremendously glad, that I shot him. All day I have whistled and sung and laughed, just because I am so happy at having removed such a beast. This morning I actually baked biscuits to throw to my gulls because I had no crusts, and they knew I was happy, for they laughed, too, and three of them settled on me—one on each shoulder and one on my hat.

  And then, too, George saw Ellen only a few days ago. She was pale and dejected and sad. She thinks of me, and George says he is almost certain she still loves me in spite of everything.

  How happy am I to-night! Just realize it, dear Hester, dear beautiful pal! Tracy robbed me of my wife’s body, but he was unable to rob me of Ellen’s love. It doesn’t matter that he didn’t want her love. What matters is that he never got it. I feel more of a whole man than I have done since I found Tracy out. One part of me, the most important part of me, feels complete once more. Why! I have not had those terrible dreams of Ellen drawing away from me since George arrived here. My sleep has been extraordinarily restful, and because of that the evil whisperings, deep in my mind, have ceased. And now I hear, as though a real voice repeated it : “Ellen still loves me! Ellen still loves me!”

  George has been gone a few days now. I don’t know how many, but no more than three. He will be coming back here in three or four days from now, and we might go away to the far north. I shall hate leaving my Beach. Nevertheless, to leave will be wise. Your friend is very lovely, and I am just a man. You will understand, Hester, won’t you?

  George Finlay had been gone ten days, yet such was the extraordinary effect of his visit to Dudley that his ailed measured that time as, three days. From a state of utter depression Dudley had swung into a condition of high-pitched elation. Both conditions were emphasized by the fact of his solitude, for he was still without the city man’s armour of outside interests, and if the former condition of depression was dangerous, the latter was almost equally so. For there was bound to be reaction.

  The Sunday Hester Long had intended taking her boys to the beach turned out to be the third brilliant cloudless day, warm and still. The gentle wind came from off the land and quieted the restless sea. It seemed as if the ocean were tired by the ceaseless tossing, and smilingly relaxed into the restful lethargy. The northern sun caressed the coast waves, so free from white surf, and dried the rocks no awash, and warmed the sand of the beach so that the thousands of orange-coloured land-crabs came out and basked in its radiance and went about their mysterious affairs less alert for the coming of the strange inquisitive man.

  Whilst Dudley walked northward from the Pontoon along the low sand-cliffs bordering the beach, the scents of the bush in the sheltered dells inland were wafted about him, warm and sweet and cloying. The foot-high thick-growing scrubs covering the sand-dunes close by the sea gave forth no scents. The little green bushes were hard and brittle, and the leaves of them were hard and polished by the wind-blown sand, and reflected the sunlight in millions of tiny points.

  For a little way the gulls followed him, but, finding he had no crust to offer them, they flew southward in two and threes and gathered on the Seagulls’ Throne, where they seemed to sleep. Above the sky was empty. Not a trace was to be seen of the eagles, who patrolled the sky but a few miles inland. They shunned the coast because it was covered so densely by bush; and, being shy and wary birds, they preferred the comparatively bushless headlands and hilltops whereon no enemy could evade their look-out.

  Dudley carried a .32 calibre Winchester repeating rifle. The object of his expedition that day was to obtain a kangaroo, since he had been without fresh meat for many days and had suddenly found himself meat-hungry. Meat-hunger! It is a fierce, ravening appetite, demanding that which has appeased it daily for years. Place a dainty society lady, on a desert, or uninhabited island, feed her on biscuits and tinned food for a month, and then offer her two pounds of raw steak. She will not wait for the meat to be cooked, or cook it herself—even if she knows how. She will bite and tear at the bloody flesh as though she were nearly dead with starvation. So thin—so thin, indeed—is the veneer of civilization.

  Meat-hunger having assailed Arnol
d Dudley, he set out to appease it. To him, a rabbit-trapper and skinner, rabbit was out of the question. Fish was no substitute. To travel to the butcher at Dongara for meat when there were kangaroos in the district was equally unthinkable to a man like Dudley.

  He was making for a narrow valley running back from the beach for several miles among the sand-mountains. Its junction with the beach was marked by two towering hills of sand, so wind-blown that they bore not a single bush. Months before he had discovered the valley, and, having followed it inland for a little way, had seen several ’roos and the fresh spoors of many.

  The two hills of sand reminded him strangely of the huge mullock-dumps of the mines at Broken Hill before a German scientist discovered that the mullock held gold and silver and some commercially valuable acids. They towered above the neighbouring beach-dunes, conically shaped, and about a hundred yards apart. The space between them also was a stretch of pure white sand, which added its sun-reflected brilliance to that of the hills to dazzle the eyes of man.

  At Arnold Dudley’s first visit what had interested him most about those hills and the sandy connecting-link was that on all that expanse of sand there was not a single track of animal or bird. Now, however, when he arrived there he paused, the trapper in him thrilling at sight of the apparently aimless lines of tracks criss-crossing and twisting around the sand-mountains. They were the tracks made by foxes.

  At the sight of them his eyes lit. Kangaroo-hunting was for the nonce forgotten, for a greater thrill than bagging a ’roo after a long stalk is the sight of lovely fox fur waiting to be taken from a carcass early in the morning. Dudley hurried in from the beach to pause at the first set of tracks clearly imprinted on sand that had lain undisturbed by wind for three days and nights. As a setter-dog following a scent, he followed the interlacing lines of tracks for almost an hour, by which time he decided that at least three grown and seven half-grown foxed had made them.