The name of the woman had not been mentioned between him and Dick Shand since they left the ship.  Dick had been curious, but had been afraid to inquire, and had in his heart applauded the courage of the man who had thus been able to shake off at once a woman with whom he had amused himself.  Caldigate himself was continually meditating as he worked with the windlass in his hand, or with his pick at the bottom of the hole, whether in conformity with the usages of the world he could not simply—­drop her.  Then he remembered the words which had passed between them on the subject, and he could not do it.  He was as yet too young to be at the same time so wise and so hard.  ’I shall hold you as engaged to me,’ he had said, ‘and myself as engaged to you.’  And he remembered the tones of her voice as, with her last words, she had said to him, ’My love, my love!’ They had been very pleasant to him then, but now they were most unfortunate.  They were unfortunate because there had been a power in them from which he was now unable to extricate himself.

Therefore, during one of those leisure periods in which Mick and Dick were at work, he wrote his letter, with the paper on his knees, squatting down just within his tent on a deal case which had contained boxes of sardines, bottles of pickles, and cans of jam.  For now, in their prosperity, they had advanced somewhat beyond the simple plenty of the frying-pan.  It was a difficult letter to write.  Should it be ecstatic and loving, or cold and severe,—­or light, and therefore false?  ‘My own one, here I am.  I have struck gold.  Come to me and share it.’  That would have been ecstatic and loving.’  ’Tis a hard life this, and not fit for a woman’s weakness.  But it must be my life—­and therefore let there be an end of all between us.’  That would have been cold and severe.  ’How are you, and what are you doing?  Dick and I are shoving along.  It isn’t half as nice as on board ship.  Hope to see you before long, and am yours,—­just the same as ever.’  That would have been light and false,—­keeping the word of promise to the ear but breaking it to the heart.  He could not write either of these.  He began by describing what they had done, and had completed two pages before he had said a word of their peculiar circumstances in regard to each other.  He felt that his letter was running into mere gossip, and was not such as she would have a right to expect.  If any letter were sent at all, there must be something more in it than all this.  And so, after much thinking of it, he at last rushed, as it were, into hot words, and ended it as follows:  ’I have put off to the last what I have really got to say.  Let me know what you are doing and what you wish,—­and whether you love me.  I have not as yet the power of offering you a home, but I trust that the time may come.’  These last words were false.  He knew that they were false.  But the falseness was not of a nature to cause him to be ashamed.  It shames no man to swear that he loves a woman when he has ceased to love her;—­but it does shame him to drop off from the love which he has promised.  He balanced the matter in his mind for a while before he would send his letter.  Then, getting up quickly, he rushed forth, and dropped it into the post-office box.