Harrigan

Harrigan strode off through the trees.  To loosen the tight, aching muscles of his throat he began to sing—­old Irish songs with a wail and a swing to them.  He had taken no certain direction, for he only wished to be alone and far away from the other two; but after a time he realized that he was on the side of the central hill to which McTee had gone to look for the dry wood.  Above all things in the world he wished to avoid the Scotchman now, and as soon as he became conscious of his whereabouts, he veered sharply to the right.  He had scarcely walked a minute in the new direction before he met McTee.  The latter had seen him first, and now stood with braced feet in his position of battle, rolling the sleeves of his shirt away from his forearms.  Harrigan stepped behind a tree.

“Come out,” roared McTee.  “I’ve seen you.  Don’t try to sneak behind and take me from the back.”

With an exceeding bitterness of heart, Harrigan stepped into view again.

“You look sick,” went on McTee.  “If you knew what would happen when we met, why did you come?  If you fear me, go back and hug the skirts of the girl.  She’ll take pity on you, Harrigan.”

The Irishman groaned.  “Think your thoughts an’ say your say, McTee.  I can’t lay a hand on you today.”

The latter stepped close, stupefied with wonder.

“Do I hear you right?  Are you taking water, Harrigan?”

Harrigan bowed his head, praying mutely for strength to endure.

“Don’t say it!” pleaded McTee.  “I’ve hunted the world and worn the roads bare looking for one man who could stand up to me—­and now that I’ve found him, he turns yellow inside!”

And he looked upon the Irishman with a sick horror, as if the big fellow were turning into a reptile before his eyes.  On the face of Harrigan there was an expression like that of the starving man whom the fear of poison induces to push away food.

“There’s no word I can speak to you, McTee.  You could never understand.  Go back to the girl.  Maybe she’ll explain.”

“The girl?”

At the wild hope in that voice Harrigan shuddered, and he could not look up.

“Harrigan, what do you mean?”

“Don’t ask me.  Leave me alone, McTee.”

“Here’s a mystery,” said the Scotchman, “and our little party is postponed.  The date is changed, that’s all.  Remember!”

He stepped off through the trees in the direction of the shelter on the beach, leaving Harrigan to throw himself upon the ground in a paroxysm of shame and hate.

But McTee, with hope to spur him on—­a vague hope; a thought half formed and therefore doubly delightful—­went with great strides until he came to Kate where she sat tending the fire.  He broke at once into the heart of his question.

“I met Harrigan.  He’s changed.  Something has happened.  Tell me what it is.  He says you know.”

He crouched close to her, intent and eager, his eyes ready to read a thousand meanings into the very lowering of her lashes; but she let her glance rove past him.

“Well?” he asked impatiently.

“It is hard to speak of it.”

Cold doubt fell upon the captain; he moistened his lips before he spoke.

“Hit straight from the shoulder.  There’s something between you and the Irishman?”

She dropped a hand over his mighty fist.

“After all, you are our only friend, Angus.  Why shouldn’t you know?”

He stood up and made a few paces to and fro, his hands locked behind him and his leonine head fallen low.

“Yes, why shouldn’t you tell me!  I think I understand already.”

All desire to laugh went from her, and deep fear took its place; her eyes were held fascinated upon his interlaced fingers, white under their own terrific pressure; yet she understood that she must go on.  If she failed, this mighty force would be turned against Harrigan; and Harrigan, not less grim in battle, as she could guess, would be turned against him.

She said quickly, to conceal her fear:  “I thought there was some trouble between you and Dan.  I asked him to promise that he would not fight with you.  But I don’t need to ask you to promise not to fight with him, for now that you know—­”

He leaped up and beat his hands together over his head.

“And that was why!  I taunted him and all the time he was laughing to himself!”

He stopped and then whispered to himself:  “Still, it’s only postponed.  The tune will come!  The time will come!”

She understood the promise.

“Angus!  What are you saying?”

He said quietly:  “Harrigan’s safe from me while you care for him.  Do you think I’m fool enough to make a martyr of him?  Not I!  But when we get back to the world—­”

He finished the sentence by slowly flexing his fingers.

“I love you, Kate, and until the strength goes out of my hands, I’ll still love you.  I want you; and what I want I get.  You’ll hate me for it, eh?”

He went off without waiting for an answer, stumbling as he walked like one who was dazed.  Her strength held with her until he was out of sight among the trees, but then she sank to the ground, panting.  Sooner or later they were sure to discover her ruse, and the moment one of them learned that she did not love the other, they would rush into battle.  She only prayed that the discovery would not come till they were safely off the island.  Once back in the world the strong arm of the law might suffice to keep them apart.

The falling of the fire roused her at last and she set about gathering wood to keep it alive.  It was the Irishman who returned first.  He waved her to the shade of the shelter and finished collecting the wood.