Читать книгу Mount Desolation - Carlton Dawe - Страница 5

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How long Stanford stood watching the grim mountain he could not say, but he saw the clouds of fire turn from red to pink, and pink to grey, and night spread its dark wings over the giant’s sullen brow. Then his thoughts came back to earth, as thoughts will, and he bethought him of his horse in the neighbouring clump of trees, and his fifteen mile ride back to Mount Desolation—for lovers in the bush have often to ride much greater distances to see the girl of their heart. Just then, however, he felt a heavy hand laid upon his shoulder, and with something like an oath he swung suddenly round; but on seeing who the offender was his savage look turned to one of cordial greeting.

“Ah, Joe, where did you spring from?”

“I have been watching you for some time,” replied the new-comer, with a merry twinkle in his big brown eyes.

“Indeed!” There was a tone of constraint, of sudden coldness, in the word which did not escape the man.

“Not for any spying purposes, matey, but because I wanted to see you. I didn’t like to come up when you were with the young lady.”

“I understand. Well, what’s the news?”

“He’s been there again.” The man Joe nodded towards Koorabyn as he spoke. “I saw him go, black horse and all. Blest if I don’t think that animal has as much of the devil in him as his master.”

“You mean Wingrove?”

“Yes.”

“Curse him!” The eyes of the speaker flashed ominously—almost as ominously as the sullen glare that went down behind Mount Desolation.

“I say curse him, too, if curses are any good; though I’m afraid they don’t count much. But, matey,”, he continued, “it’s always better to mount the wall than try and butt it down. Can’t you—can’t you do it smart-like?”

“How, smart-like—what do you mean?”

Joe turned his big eyes full upon him, and replied in his brief way—for Mr. Devine was one never given to much talk—“Wingrove’s got the old man in his power; Wingrove’s got the dollars; Wingrove ’ll win.”

“I’ll kill him first.”

Joe passed his hand across his throat.

“Ay,” said Stanford fiercely, reading the action, “and swing for it too.”

“Folly, matey. The price would be too great for the job. Take my advice and run off with the girl. I’ll guarantee to get everything ready if she’ll only go with you as far as Wooroota. Once you are man and wife you may defy a thousand Wingroves.”

“She would not consent.”

“Ask her. When a woman loves a man she’ll do anything for him.”

Stanford looked hard at his companion. Could he know, or was he merely philosophising? Truly, Joe was not often taken thus, though man is a born philosopher. He knew more of horses than women, and more of the Bush than either; yet, for all the humour of his brown eyes, and his affected carelessness, there was much more in big Joe Devine than he was credited with.

“I have asked her.”

“And she refused?”

“She did.”

Joe gave a long incredulous whistle. “Good lord!”

Could it be possible? She loved, she was willing to give her hand, yet was afraid. Where then was the love, or of what nature was it? Mr. Joseph Devine confessed himself at fault. Brought up to range the bush, as free as the air, as the sun itself, he had never, like the great statesman, narrowed his mind, but had considered all things both possible and probable in such a mighty world. The vastness of his native wilds had seemed to permeate his brain, confusing him, no doubt, and yet enlarging his idea of things at the same time. Having been his own master since he was big enough to earn a dinner, he had not, till lately, recognised that law which says that a man shall not live only for himself. Indeed, he had never heard of it. With his swag upon his shoulder he would trudge the length of the land with a cheerful and contented spirit so that he felt that he was independent of the whole world; put him on a horse under the same conditions and there never was monarch so happy as he. Therefore it seemed to him an incredible thing that any girl who loved a man should treat that man’s honourable proposals with such scant courtesy, for he knew that if he loved a woman he would fly to her in the face of the whole world. And so he told himself that the love was all on one side; that women were always the same, and that the devil himself never knew how to take them.

Mr. Joe was a natural philosopher—that is to say, he was no bookworm—and his philosophy told him that the most pleasure to be got out of life was through the gratification of each particular fancy; and though this may seem a selfish, a sybaritic thing to the virtuous, to all who lead a self-sacrificing life (and so many do, you know!) to him it seemed the most natural thing in the world, the first great law of nature. The man who did not make the best of life was an imbecile; the woman who had not courage enough to take the hand of him she loved and say, “I am yours,” was unworthy of the name of woman. Yet Mr. Joe, ignorant though he was of it, had a more self-sacrificing nature than is to be found in nine-tenths of his species; and when the time came for the sacrifice he thought it as natural as the less momentous events of his existence.

Yet this refusal caused him a bitter pang, and he entirely disbelieved in her affection for Stanford. He muttered deeply beneath his breath, and had he not dreaded his companion’s resentment, it is probable that he would have made use of some strong language in his disparagement of the sex. But he knew too well of the mad infatuation of his friend. Indeed, he had never known anything like this madness, and he used to wonder if this insane person were really the Tom Stanford whom he first knew away up on the Darling. Then there was no wilder, merrier lad than he; ready with his fists or his purse; always the first where danger lurked, or where frolic held revel. Didn’t he remember how they chased the bushrangers across the Darling Downs, and took them, too, after a stubborn fight? And once, when the river overflowed, had not Tom plunged in to his rescue and saved him from inevitable death? It was flood-time on the Darling; the mighty river was like a foaming sea. He could not swim; he suffered all the agony of drowning. Struggling like a madman, his giant strength availed him nothing. The fierce water caught him in its circling arms and bore him onward with triumphant roar. And then he knew he was sinking, sinking. The water hissed savagely in his face; all life seemed to leave him; he wondered why he did not die. With an effort he opened his eyes; the water still swirled about him, but by his side, with a face as rigid as iron, was Stanford. For a moment he thought they were both dead, both floating away on the great river together; and then he fainted like a girl.

From that day Devine was Stanford’s, for good or evil, body and soul, and they became fast friends. He had no advantages of education; he was rough, uncouth; but beneath his shaggy exterior Stanford soon found so many excellent qualities that he received his friendship with delight. As for Joe, he fairly idolised his mate, not in a servile way, mind you—though he knew Stanford had received some favours from fortune of which he could not boast—for he was any man’s equal; at least so he had been taught. But as friend for friend, he would have laid down his life for the man who had rescued him from a grave in the Darling. And once, when Stanford was stricken down with fever, the faithful fellow never left his side; and Tom knows well that had not Joe nursed him so tenderly, that illness would have been his last. Poor Tom! poor Joe! Had it been so, it would have been better for ye both.

When Stanford left the river, Joe accompanied him. Together they rode the length and breadth of the Riverina, putting their hands to whatever came in their way. In this manner they crossed the Murray at Albury and wandered on till they reached the Billabong district—Joe’s native place. Here Stanford received an offer from Mr. Franklin of Koorabyn, with what result we know. Here, also, was Devine installed; and though he was proud of his friend’s position he never ceased to regret their aimless wanderings through the Bush. Now, however, they were free again. With his friend’s dismissal had also come his own—for he was known to the powers that be as Stanford’s Shadow—and never a long-sentence prisoner felt more joy in stepping out into the free air than did Joe Devine when he received his wages and was told to go. They would take their horses as before and make the tour of the colony, perhaps cross over into South Australia—who should say where they would not go now that they were free! Free! But were they? We have seen enough to show us that Mr. Thomas Stanford was anything but free; and when Devine thought of a certain young lady with a brown, peachlike complexion, he had serious misgivings as to their future journeyings.

The girl in the meantime, full of various emotions, and with the prescience of coming evil heavy upon her, walked rapidly towards the house without daring to turn round and wave a last adieu to her disconsolate lover, for striding up and down the verandah she caught glimpses of her father’s form. Koorabyn was a line house of its kind, though built of wood and only one storey high. Yet the wood was fashioned into gables and quaint designs, and over all, the roses, grapes, and Virginia creeper grew, making it a veritable fairy bower. The rooms were all large and airy and the furniture of becoming dignity, Mr. Franklin being one who had lived in style in England (as his neighbours said) and had transplanted into the wilds of Australia a little of his English taste. Of course, everyone knew that his wife was an Australian, and the daughter of old Wells, the Government contractor—the man who at one time could dictate terms to his employers (we wonder why?) and who had amassed a huge fortune and then turned bankrupt. It is true he saved enough out of his bankruptcy to live comfortably “ever after”—it is a way big bankrupts have! —but after her first dowry of £20,000 no more of her father’s money found its way into his daughter’s pockets, or rather, into those of her husband, for that gentleman was considerate enough to relieve her of all embarrassment concerning the disposal of so much wealth. We have said that Mr. Franklin had been accustomed to “style” in England, and there was no doubt about it. Anyone could see that by his swagger, for people who have never lived in style never swagger! They don’t know how. There are many who consider such a thing vulgar. Well, that is a mere matter of opinion. All fairly-educated young Englishmen who go to Australia know its value. Ask them. You see, they do not swagger in Australia, they can’t—it is not in their nature. An Australian swaggering is like an elephant dancing —he is ungainly. But an Englishman swaggers naturally, as though he had done nothing but swagger from the day of his birth. At home he may be nothing but a City clerk, or, perhaps, the languid son of a West End tradesman. If so, he swaggers more than ever when he sets foot on a shore which can boast of nothing better than a host of vulgar knights. Pah! People at home turn up their noses at a knighthood!

Now it is a peculiarity of human nature that it will yearn for that which it does not possess, and for a trifle light as air it will throw aside the most solid advantages. But the trifle must glitter if it would attract a woman; must fascinate if it would sway a man. Now, in Australia, the best English manufactured swagger is always at a premium, because, you see, it is a thing which no colonial manufacturer can turn out, and, as it is much sought after by a certain fair section of the colonists, its price, like that of diamonds or any other jewel affected by ladies, is always high. It is true the colonial men do not set the same value on it, but as it is a thing they do not understand, their non-appreciation of it is only natural—they are so uncouth! The colonial girl who breathes the exalted air of the Australian upper circles looks down upon them with a lofty disdain, so lofty, indeed, that one wonders if she ever had a brother.

Miss Wells was such a girl as this. She thoroughly despised her own countrymen, and could not see that though they were a bit rough and blunt on the surface, it was but the breeze that flutters the face of the ocean; beneath, they were firm, self-reliant, capable of great deeds and great love. But of what use are such qualities when hidden? They want bringing forth, and good women only can do it. She didn’t doubt that her countrymen were honourable enough, and capable, with opportunity, of a good deal; but there was no denying that they had not the stamp of Vere de Vere; indeed, they had hardly shaken the mud of the diggings from their boots!

Now, in the exclusive set to which she belonged, and of which she was so bright an ornament, the English visitor of note, and of no note, was invariably received, and, providing he had plenty of style, was usually considered a valuable acquisition, and his chances of catching an heiress were exceedingly rosy; though, were he void of swagger, his chances faded off to zero. As well marry a colonial at once! It was thus the fastidious Miss Wells met Mr. Charles Franklin, a lieutenant in the Dragoon Guards, then on “leave,” and her fate was sealed. There was no denying Mr. Franklin’s style; it was exquisite—simply ravishing. At least it ravished her of her heart and fortune, and when he led her to the altar he congratulated himself on the success of his undertaking, for everyone knew her father was rolling in money, and that she was the only child. He had only spent three months in the d—d country, so he wrote to a friend, but he had hooked a good thing, and he supposed he would have to settle down there as the affair (what “affair,” we wonder? So many swaggerers leave little affairs unsettled in the Old Country!) would take some time to blow over. He hated the d—d colonials, but added that their money was evidently negotiable, and he must be content to remain an exile till the old man (meaning her father), who was beastly rich, went under.

They began their married life by purchasing the station of Koorabyn, never a very profitable concern, though this fact was skilfully hidden from them, and the ex-dragoon turned squatter, thinking that would prove the nearest approach to a nobleman’s life in England. For a little while he was rather amused with the novelty of the life, but once its newness wore off he thought that penal servitude was preferable, and yearned to clutch his father-in-law’s fabulous moneybags. Of course there was Melbourne. There one could occasionally get a glimpse of civilisation, a bad one to be sure, yet still a glimpse; and to Melbourne he accordingly journeyed oftener than became one who had his subsistence to gain from the soil. It was then his wife discovered that a man of good manners is not necessarily a good man. Indeed, it is mostly the other way about, though we all make a virtue of our fancy. In his case all that had most attracted her ignorant imagination proved to be but the thinnest of veneer, which three months of married life had worn off in sundry places. If great Nature must change, why not all things? He was no worse than the rest of his kind—vain, impudent, selfish. There are thousands such. Had she been an English girl she would have taken him at a different valuation. As it was she ran his stock up to a ridiculous price. It was sure to fall; it is the nature of such things. Nevertheless, it would be putting it mildly to say that she was disappointed. She strove, as only a woman can, to believe in her ideal, to still keep him on his pedestal above all other men, though she knew his face was brass and his feet of clay. But now his every action dispelled the fond illusion, and the voice which had once so charmed her rang strangely, almost irritatingly, in her ears. This is one of the saddest things which can befall a husband or wife. Woe be unto that household in which the spirit of irritation enters. It looks a little thing at first, but, upas-like, it will spread, warping as it marches.

It may be doubted if the most charming-mannered men make the best of husbands, for to be charming one must expend a considerable amount of art (man not being naturally charming), and when one is always acting, one instinctively becomes an actor—artificial—the opposite of the real. If you had been presumptuous enough to ask Mrs. Franklin if she were happy, she would have told you decidedly, yes—that is, if she had condescended to answer you—and she might have smiled, too, though, had you noticed the comers of her mouth, you might have seen them curl into a little quiver. She, however, was not destined for the role of martyr. At the birth of her first child (whom we have already seen grown to lovely womanhood) she suffered more than should fall to the lot of woman, and at the birth of her second (which was still-born) she died.

It is only just to say that Mr. Franklin was exceedingly cut up at this calamity, and about three weeks after the sad event he took his little daughter with him to Melbourne, leaving the station in charge of a worthless and profligate overseer. In the capital he put the child to school, and then sought “surcease of sorrow” with a few bachelor acquaintances—much to the disgust of the old Government contractor (who had not yet turned bankrupt). He sent for him one day, gave him a “piece of his mind,” and then shut the door upon him. Thus was it that Mr. Franklin began his downward course, and in the Billabong district it was known that Koorabyn was barely self-supporting, while it was suspected, and even whispered, that its owner was in arrears.

This, then, was the gentleman whom Alice beheld perambulating the verandah with a perverse look upon his face. The roses, honeysuckle, and lilac might bloom and perfume, turning the house into another Titania’s bower, for aught he cared. When one has to deal with unpleasant things one sees small glory in the sun, and none at all in the stars; and when you see that haunted-looking woman with the pale, terrified face staring moodily into the insidious river, you may wager your salvation that she is not contemplating the sighing, restless water with a rapt, poetic soul, though who knows but that she may form the subject of a poem too—another “Bridge of Sighs.”

When Alice stepped on to the verandah her father ceased his rapid stride and turned to her a ruffled countenance. There were yet, it is true, some traces of that beauty which had captivated her mother, though dissipation and disappointment had hardened the mouth and turned the beautiful blue English eyes—those eyes which had seemed to Mrs. Franklin like bits of the bluest heaven—into the strangest study of red and yellow. They looked weak too —a not uncommon failing with blue eyes at a certain age—and had their owner been a play-actor he would have found no difficulty in moving himself to tears, if he could not have moved his audience.

“Ah!” he cried, as he beheld his daughter, “there you are!” He advanced towards her as he spoke and peered closely into her face. She retreated back amongst the honeysuckle, which at once seized the opportunity of framing her, as it were, with beauty. He saw it, and a quick, eager light beamed from his unpleasant eyes—for his eyes were unpleasant, and it is useless to pretend they were not. We are sorry that the father of our heroine should have even this trifling fault, but truth is great and shall prevail.

“Yes,” he continued, as if speaking to himself, “you are pretty, by Jove! Exactly like your mother—poor mother!” People in misfortune always think, or try to think, well of those whom they have wronged, which shows that deep down the human heart is still distinctly noble! “You ought to have had my eyes though,” he went on, “my eyes as they were, not as they are now. Set in that dark face of yours, you would have been simply irresistible. Talk about Helen or Cleopatra, or that hussy for whom Alexander set a town on fire; why, my dear, they wouldn’t have been in it with you.”

The girl smiled oddly, for it was not often her father held forth in this enthusiastic manner. She, however, knew him well enough to guess some motive for this praise, and had she not known of his indebtedness to Mr. Wingrove she would still have understood, and valued his admiration according to that knowledge.

“Thank you, papa,” she replied, “but I am quite satisfied with my eyes as they are; though I have no doubt that the contrast of the blue and the brown would be most striking.”

“Striking,” exclaimed her father, “it is wonderful! I knew a lady once with such a pair of eyes (she was a colonial too—I wonder where she got them!)—eyes that shone out from her brown face like two great stars. By heaven, I’ve seen some faces and I’ve seen some eyes—for we have both in England, faces that are faces and eyes that are eyes; not your dried-up colonial make-believes—but none of them ever equalled hers.”

“Mamma’s eyes were brown,” said the girl.

“I believe they were, my dear. Yes, brown,” he added quickly, “brown and beautiful—just like yours”

“Then you think any eyes may be beautiful?”

“In your face, yes.” He stooped and kissed her as he spoke.

“So,” thought she, “these must have been the sort of speeches with which he won poor mamma, and he means them just as little.” This unnatural and undutiful thought was owing to her grandfather’s training, for that old gentleman, before he died, had taken her under his protection for a time, and had failed to instil into her that reverence for the parent which every well-regulated child should feel.

“By the way,” said Mr. Franklin suddenly, “if you had come in ten minutes sooner you would have met a very distinguished visitor.”

“Indeed.” The girl immediately began to freeze. The word came like a breath from the South Pole. Stanford, Wingrove—all that she had heard flashed through her mind in a moment. She did not think it necessary to ask the visitor’s name.

“You are not very curious, my daughter. An unnatural trait in a woman.”

“Am I not?”

“It might have been the Governor.”

“But he is not a very distinguished man.”

“They never are—for if they were they would not be colonial Governors. Colonial Governor!” he repeated disdainfully. “Why, it sounds almost as bad as colonial bishop!”

“We will dispense with both in good time.”

“Throw off the British yoke, eh, my little Republican?” he laughed. “Never, my dear, never while there are knighthoods to be given away.”

“Ah,” she cried with a glow of patriotism, “wait till we get rid of all the old colonists; wait till Australian men govern Australia, then we shall see.”

“The old colonists are the prop and mainstay of the country; your young colonial is only fit—And yet,” he added changing his tone with significant haste, “I daresay some of the coming colonials”—he never by any chance called them Australians, that being too dignified and national a word—“are very good men in their way. There is, after all, little in common between the man whose sympathies are all with the Old Country and the native whose sympathies are all with this. You see, the former cannot shake off his old prejudices and the latter cannot understand them. One of the two must go to the wall, and youth will tell.”

“And has it taken you twenty years to discover that, papa?”

“It takes most men a lifetime to rid themselves of a superstition. I must confess that I had formed a not very flattering estimate of colonial ability; yet, since I have become intimate with my neighbour Wingrove, my impressions have undergone a considerable change.”

So, it was coming, but she was prepared. Her lips went closer together and she began to tremble just a little.

“Mr. Wingrove is hardly the sort of man I should have thought capable of working so great a change. I thought you so thoroughly detested all things colonial that no earthly power could change you.”

“Wingrove is a very intelligent man, my dear, and —for a colonial—a deuced decent fellow. Not English, of course; one does not expect that. But he’s not half bad, and, besides, he has a future. He will most certainly be the next Premier.”

“No doubt he is worthy of the office.”

“Well, I don’t think much of the office myself,” said her father patronisingly; “it’s not like the English office, you know; but if he toadies enough he’s almost sure of a knighthood. We don’t think much of knights at home, but here in a would-be republican country it’s different. However, knighthood, or no knighthood, Wingrove is a very able man.”

“I am glad you think so, papa.”

“Don’t you?”

“I do not, and what is more, I do not like the man.”

“That’s a misfortune, my dear, a very great misfortune, for he is a profound admirer of yours.”

“How can you, papa?”

“Why, my dear, what do you mean? Wingrove is an honourable man, and I consider he has honoured you greatly.”

“How honoured me?” asked the girl with a quivering voice.

“My dear,” said her father suddenly, taking her hand and smoothing it in an affectionate manner, “have you never thought of the time that is to come when I shall no longer be able to work for you? Have you never thought that at any day, any hour I may be taken from you?” The girl hung her head trembling, but answered not. “I see you have not,” he went on, “it is so like a child. But to me my first duty has ever been the protection of those I love. I have long known of Wingrove’s affection, adoration—for so I must call it—and to-day he has honoured us by offering you marriage.” There was an unusual quiver in her father’s voice as he spoke these words, and he had to turn away from her imploring eyes.

“Honour us! Marry me! What do you mean?”

He was silent a moment, though he still held her hand, and she felt a shiver run through his fingers. It was but a momentary struggle, however. He turned his eyes to her and they looked harder and more unpleasant than ever.

“Yes,” he said coldly, “he has offered you marriage, and I am very sensible of the honour he would confer upon us. It is but right and proper that you should marry now, and as he is rich and powerful, and will most certainly have a future, I really don’t see that you could do better. He may, upon occasion, be a trifle rough, but he doesn’t drop his h’s; and, my dear,” he added, as if what he was about to say were reason enough in itself, “no girl should remain single after twenty.”

The girl withdrew her hand from his with a gesture of pain. “I am sorry, papa, but I do not care for Mr. Wingrove.”

“My dear,” he said with a smile, charmed completely with her innocence, “no one wants you to. It is not a matter of caring; it is a matter of diplomacy.”

“But I would not marry a man I did not love.”

“Arcadian argument, my dear. Marriage is simply a matter of interest. Love matches, and such-like stuff, are only found in books, and then they leave off with the sound of the wedding bells because the author dare not go on with the sequel. Come now, you are a sensible girl. What shall I say to Mr. Wingrove when he calls?”

“Tell him that I would not marry him if he were the only man in the world.”

“You are a little fool. You don’t know what you are saying.”

“Perhaps not.”

“No impertinence, Miss. Listen to me. Mr. Wingrove has been good enough to make this offer, and you must accept it.”

“Must, papa?”

“Yes, must!” He seized her arm as he spoke and scowled fiercely into her face. “It is imperative—a matter of life and death. There, there, don’t ask me to explain. You will be as happy as the day is long; you will have no whim, no fancy which that man will not be able to gratify. He loves you very dearly—nay, I might say madly, passionately. I am sure he will make a good husband of whom we shall both be proud.”

“Father,” she said—it was not often she called him by that most dignified of names, and when she did he knew there was something of importance coming—“how can you so degrade yourself by singing the praises of that dreadful man when you know that every word, every sentiment you utter is false?”

A fearful oath escaped the guilty man’s lips, his eyes shone horribly, and he clenched his fist as though to fell her. It was then she caught a glimpse of that nature which had destroyed her mother’s fond ideal.

“How dare you,” he gasped, “how dare you? By heaven, if you were not a girl—”

“Father,” she said coldly, never flinching an inch, but returning his furious gaze with a look of unutterable disdain, “what is the use of this pretence, this subterfuge? Why did you not come to me,” she went on half hysterically, “and say, ‘I owe Wingrove a sum of money, which I cannot pay. He has seen you, he would like to buy you. Come, let us make a bargain.’ It would, at least, have been straightforward, and we should have known on what ground we were standing.”

“Well,” said he with a cynical laugh, “you are a Tartar; and though I should very much like to beat you, and you deserve it, I must bow to your impertinence. Modesty alone forbade me from being as rude as you propose; but, since you suggest plain-speaking, let us beat no more about the bush. Well then, I do owe Wingrove money—three thousand pounds—which he will willingly forego, and dower you with twenty thousand more, if you will marry him. It is a large sum.” She remained silent. Now her passion had flown she was only a poor, weak little woman, who would have given the world to have been able to hide herself away, and cry to her heart’s content. “A very large sum,” he continued, “and one not to be picked up every day. Your dower will ensure your future; the removal of the mortgage from my estate will make me a happy man. You see, the future is entirely in your hands. You may make or mar us. It is for you to say whether we shall live or die.” He laughed in the same cynical way, and lit a cigarette, watching her closely as he did so. “Oh, by the way,” he added after a moment’s silence, “where did you get your information?”

“From Mr. Stanford.”

“Am I right then in supposing that he has presumed to approach you with any of his nonsense?”

She grew crimson, even to her neck, and falling on her knees before him burst into tears.

“Ah,” said he, “this is more serious than I imagined.”

“Pity me,” she cried, “I am not undutiful, indeed I am not.”

“Your actions shall prove the truth of your assertion. But come, come, my child,” he added tenderly, stroking her hair gently as he spoke, “this is a free country, the freest of all free countries—any colonial will tell you that! You are your own mistress, and may do whatsoever you please. All I would have you recollect is that I am your father and that I am utterly powerless to ward off disaster except through you. I will not go so far as to say that it is your duty to save me—that is a question between you and your conscience; but remember that I am entirely at your mercy, and that it rests with you whether I live or die.”