ake back your words; but--because of
something else.... I understand it all. She has great power. She always
had. She is very beautiful. I remember when--but I will not call it
back before you, though, God knows, I go over it all every day and every
night, until it seems that only the memory of her is real, and that she
herself is a ghost. I ought not to have crossed her path again, even
unknown to her. But I have done it, and now I cannot go out of that path
without kneeling before her once again, as I did long ago. Having seen
her, breathed the same air, I must speak or die; perhaps it will be
both. That is a power she has: she can bend one to her will, although
she often, involuntarily, wills things that are death to others. One
MUST care for her, you understand; it is natural, even when it is
torture to do so."

He put his hand on his side and moved as if in pain. I reached over and
felt his pulse, then took his hand and pressed it, saying: "I will be
your friend now, Madras, in so far as I can."

He looked up at me gratefully, and replied: "I know that--I know that.
It is more than I deserve."

Then he began to speak of his past. He told me of Hungerford's kindness
to him on the 'Dancing Kate', of his luckless days at Port Darwin, of
his search for his wife, his writing to her, and her refusal to see
him. He did not rail against her. He apologised for her, and reproached
himself. "She is most singular," he continued, "and different from
most women. She never said she loved me, and she never did, I know. Her
father urged her to marry me; he thought I was a good man."

Here he laughed a little bitterly. "But it was a bad day for her. She
never loved any one, I think, and she cannot understand what love
is, though many have cared for her. She is silent where herself is
concerned. I think there was some trouble--not love, I am sure of
that--which vexed her, and made her a little severe at times; something
connected with her life, or her father's life, in Samoa. One can only
guess, but white men take what are called native wives there very
often--and who can tell? Her father--but that is her secret!... While I
was right before the world, she was a good wife to me in her way. When I
went wrong, she treated me as if I were dead, and took her old name. But
if I could speak to her quietly once more, perhaps she would listen.
It would be no good at all to write. Perhaps she would never begin the
world with me again, but