“Never mind the past, man,” interrupted Peter, “It’s the future that’s to be thought of.  What you’ve got to do is to take her away to a distance, and settle in some place where nobody knows what’s gone by.”

Fauchon considered for a moment, a slight, deprecatory smile stealing over his face.

“I suppose,” he remarked, “she hasn’t got any little purse of her own by this time; considering, I mean, that she’s been of use with the lines and the nets and so on.”

“Do you mean,” said Peter, “that you can’t support her?”

“Well, you see, I worked my passage from New Zealand as cook—­that’s what I waited so long for.  If she could pay her passage, the same captain would take us again, when he starts to go back next week.  And if she had a little in hand, when we got there, we could set up a store, may-be, and make shift to get on.  I only thought, may-be, she having been of use—­”

“I’ll sell the cottage and the bits of things,” said Peter, “and there’s a trifle put by to add to it.  But tell me this; when you’re out there, can you support her, or can’t you?”

“Well, there’s Mr. Boucher, that took me on as house-servant at first in New Zealand, he being in the sailing ship when I was picked up.  And when the paralytics came on, resulting from the injury I got in the wreck, he never let me want for nothing, the four years that I lay helpless.  He’s got money to spare, you see”—­with a wink—­“he’s well off, and he’s what I call easy-going; and if we could manage to get the right side of him”—­with another wink—­“I reckon he’d help us a bit.”

“Man,” said Peter, letting his hand fall heavily on Fauchon’s shoulder, “tell me plain that you’ve got honest work as’ll feed and clothe her out there, else, by God, you shan’t have her!” and his grip on Fauchon’s shoulder tightened, so that a flash of terror passed over the man’s face, and he tried to edge away, saying deprecatingly, “I’ve no wish, Mr. Girard, you understand—­I’ve no wish to offend.  In fact, my whole intention was not to cause any trouble.  On my honour, I was going to leave the island to-morrow, when I found how things were—­’tis the truth I speak.”

“You are her husband,” said Peter, “and she loves you, and she shall go with you.  But if you let her want, God do so unto you, and more also!”

And he let go of him, and strode away again.

When he got back it was dark, and he stood at his cottage door and looked in.  Louise was sitting by the hearth, with her back to him, and her hands in her lap, rocking herself gently on her stool, and gazing into the glowing ash on the hearthstone.  Opposite, on the other side of the hearth, Peter’s own stool stood empty, and on the shelf beside it were the two yellow porringers, out of which he and Louise used always to sup together.  His jersey, the one she had knitted for him when they were married, hung in the corner, with the bright blue patch in it, that she had been mending it with the last time he was at home.  Louise was so absorbed in her thoughts that she did not hear his approach, and stepping softly, he passed in and stood before her; she started back, and immediately began to whimper a little, putting up her hands to her face.