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diff --git a/1053-0.txt b/1053-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..dd13c8d --- /dev/null +++ b/1053-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,6810 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Within the Tides, by Joseph Conrad + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: Within the Tides + Tales + + +Author: Joseph Conrad + + + +Release Date: January 5, 2011 [eBook #1053] +[This file was first posted on August 29, 1997] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WITHIN THE TIDES*** + + +Scanned and proofed by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org + + + + + + WITHIN THE + TIDES + + + TALES + + . . . Go, make you ready. + + HAMLET _to the_ PLAYERS. + + [Picture: Decorative graphic] + + * * * * * + + LONDON & TORONTO + J. M. DENT & SONS LTD. + PARIS: J. M. DENT ET. FILS + + * * * * * + +FIRST EDITION _February_ 1915 +REPRINTED _April_ 1915; _August_ 1919 + + * * * * * + + To + MR. AND MRS. RALPH WEDGWOOD + + THIS SHEAF OF CARE-FREE ANTE-BELLUM PAGES + IN GRATITUDE FOR THEIR CHARMING HOSPITALITY + IN THE LAST MONTH OF PEACE + + + + +Contents + + PAGE +THE PLANTER OF MALATA 3 +THE PARTNER 119 +THE INN OF THE TWO WITCHES 175 +BECAUSE OF THE DOLLARS 223 + +THE PLANTER OF MALATA + + +CHAPTER I + + +In the private editorial office of the principal newspaper in a great +colonial city two men were talking. They were both young. The stouter +of the two, fair, and with more of an urban look about him, was the +editor and part-owner of the important newspaper. + +The other’s name was Renouard. That he was exercised in his mind about +something was evident on his fine bronzed face. He was a lean, lounging, +active man. The journalist continued the conversation. + +“And so you were dining yesterday at old Dunster’s.” + +He used the word old not in the endearing sense in which it is sometimes +applied to intimates, but as a matter of sober fact. The Dunster in +question was old. He had been an eminent colonial statesman, but had now +retired from active politics after a tour in Europe and a lengthy stay in +England, during which he had had a very good press indeed. The colony +was proud of him. + +“Yes. I dined there,” said Renouard. “Young Dunster asked me just as I +was going out of his office. It seemed to be like a sudden thought. And +yet I can’t help suspecting some purpose behind it. He was very +pressing. He swore that his uncle would be very pleased to see me. Said +his uncle had mentioned lately that the granting to me of the Malata +concession was the last act of his official life.” + +“Very touching. The old boy sentimentalises over the past now and then.” + +“I really don’t know why I accepted,” continued the other. “Sentiment +does not move me very easily. Old Dunster was civil to me of course, but +he did not even inquire how I was getting on with my silk plants. Forgot +there was such a thing probably. I must say there were more people there +than I expected to meet. Quite a big party.” + +“I was asked,” remarked the newspaper man. “Only I couldn’t go. But +when did you arrive from Malata?” + +“I arrived yesterday at daylight. I am anchored out there in the bay—off +Garden Point. I was in Dunster’s office before he had finished reading +his letters. Have you ever seen young Dunster reading his letters? I +had a glimpse of him through the open door. He holds the paper in both +hands, hunches his shoulders up to his ugly ears, and brings his long +nose and his thick lips on to it like a sucking apparatus. A commercial +monster.” + +“Here we don’t consider him a monster,” said the newspaper man looking at +his visitor thoughtfully. + +“Probably not. You are used to see his face and to see other faces. I +don’t know how it is that, when I come to town, the appearance of the +people in the street strike me with such force. They seem so awfully +expressive.” + +“And not charming.” + +“Well—no. Not as a rule. The effect is forcible without being clear. . . . +I know that you think it’s because of my solitary manner of life away +there.” + +“Yes. I do think so. It is demoralising. You don’t see any one for +months at a stretch. You’re leading an unhealthy life.” + +The other hardly smiled and murmured the admission that true enough it +was a good eleven months since he had been in town last. + +“You see,” insisted the other. “Solitude works like a sort of poison. +And then you perceive suggestions in faces—mysterious and forcible, that +no sound man would be bothered with. Of course you do.” + +Geoffrey Renouard did not tell his journalist friend that the suggestions +of his own face, the face of a friend, bothered him as much as the +others. He detected a degrading quality in the touches of age which +every day adds to a human countenance. They moved and disturbed him, +like the signs of a horrible inward travail which was frightfully +apparent to the fresh eye he had brought from his isolation in Malata, +where he had settled after five strenuous years of adventure and +exploration. + +“It’s a fact,” he said, “that when I am at home in Malata I see no one +consciously. I take the plantation boys for granted.” + +“Well, and we here take the people in the streets for granted. And +that’s sanity.” + +The visitor said nothing to this for fear of engaging a discussion. What +he had come to seek in the editorial office was not controversy, but +information. Yet somehow he hesitated to approach the subject. Solitary +life makes a man reticent in respect of anything in the nature of gossip, +which those to whom chatting about their kind is an everyday exercise +regard as the commonest use of speech. + +“You very busy?” he asked. + +The Editor making red marks on a long slip of printed paper threw the +pencil down. + +“No. I am done. Social paragraphs. This office is the place where +everything is known about everybody—including even a great deal of +nobodies. Queer fellows drift in and out of this room. Waifs and strays +from home, from up-country, from the Pacific. And, by the way, last time +you were here you picked up one of that sort for your assistant—didn’t +you?” + +“I engaged an assistant only to stop your preaching about the evils of +solitude,” said Renouard hastily; and the pressman laughed at the +half-resentful tone. His laugh was not very loud, but his plump person +shook all over. He was aware that his younger friend’s deference to his +advice was based only on an imperfect belief in his wisdom—or his +sagacity. But it was he who had first helped Renouard in his plans of +exploration: the five-years’ programme of scientific adventure, of work, +of danger and endurance, carried out with such distinction and rewarded +modestly with the lease of Malata island by the frugal colonial +government. And this reward, too, had been due to the journalist’s +advocacy with word and pen—for he was an influential man in the +community. Doubting very much if Renouard really liked him, he was +himself without great sympathy for a certain side of that man which he +could not quite make out. He only felt it obscurely to be his real +personality—the true—and, perhaps, the absurd. As, for instance, in that +case of the assistant. Renouard had given way to the arguments of his +friend and backer—the argument against the unwholesome effect of +solitude, the argument for the safety of companionship even if +quarrelsome. Very well. In this docility he was sensible and even +likeable. But what did he do next? Instead of taking counsel as to the +choice with his old backer and friend, and a man, besides, knowing +everybody employed and unemployed on the pavements of the town, this +extraordinary Renouard suddenly and almost surreptitiously picked up a +fellow—God knows who—and sailed away with him back to Malata in a hurry; +a proceeding obviously rash and at the same time not quite straight. +That was the sort of thing. The secretly unforgiving journalist laughed +a little longer and then ceased to shake all over. + +“Oh, yes. About that assistant of yours. . . .” + +“What about him,” said Renouard, after waiting a while, with a shadow of +uneasiness on his face. + +“Have you nothing to tell me of him?” + +“Nothing except. . . .” Incipient grimness vanished out of Renouard’s +aspect and his voice, while he hesitated as if reflecting seriously +before he changed his mind. “No. Nothing whatever.” + +“You haven’t brought him along with you by chance—for a change.” + +The Planter of Malata stared, then shook his head, and finally murmured +carelessly: “I think he’s very well where he is. But I wish you could +tell me why young Dunster insisted so much on my dining with his uncle +last night. Everybody knows I am not a society man.” + +The Editor exclaimed at so much modesty. Didn’t his friend know that he +was their one and only explorer—that he was the man experimenting with +the silk plant. . . . + +“Still, that doesn’t tell me why I was invited yesterday. For young +Dunster never thought of this civility before. . . .” + +“Our Willie,” said the popular journalist, “never does anything without a +purpose, that’s a fact.” + +“And to his uncle’s house too!” + +“He lives there.” + +“Yes. But he might have given me a feed somewhere else. The +extraordinary part is that the old man did not seem to have anything +special to say. He smiled kindly on me once or twice, and that was all. +It was quite a party, sixteen people.” + +The Editor then, after expressing his regret that he had not been able to +come, wanted to know if the party had been entertaining. + +Renouard regretted that his friend had not been there. Being a man whose +business or at least whose profession was to know everything that went on +in this part of the globe, he could probably have told him something of +some people lately arrived from home, who were amongst the guests. Young +Dunster (Willie), with his large shirt-front and streaks of white skin +shining unpleasantly through the thin black hair plastered over the top +of his head, bore down on him and introduced him to that party, as if he +had been a trained dog or a child phenomenon. Decidedly, he said, he +disliked Willie—one of these large oppressive men. . . . + +A silence fell, and it was as if Renouard were not going to say anything +more when, suddenly, he came out with the real object of his visit to the +editorial room. + +“They looked to me like people under a spell.” + +The Editor gazed at him appreciatively, thinking that, whether the effect +of solitude or not, this was a proof of a sensitive perception of the +expression of faces. + +“You omitted to tell me their name, but I can make a guess. You mean +Professor Moorsom, his daughter and sister—don’t you?” + +Renouard assented. Yes, a white-haired lady. But from his silence, with +his eyes fixed, yet avoiding his friend, it was easy to guess that it was +not in the white-haired lady that he was interested. + +“Upon my word,” he said, recovering his usual bearing. “It looks to me +as if I had been asked there only for the daughter to talk to me.” + +He did not conceal that he had been greatly struck by her appearance. +Nobody could have helped being impressed. She was different from +everybody else in that house, and it was not only the effect of her +London clothes. He did not take her down to dinner. Willie did that. +It was afterwards, on the terrace. . . . + +The evening was delightfully calm. He was sitting apart and alone, and +wishing himself somewhere else—on board the schooner for choice, with the +dinner-harness off. He hadn’t exchanged forty words altogether during +the evening with the other guests. He saw her suddenly all by herself +coming towards him along the dimly lighted terrace, quite from a +distance. + +She was tall and supple, carrying nobly on her straight body a head of a +character which to him appeared peculiar, something—well—pagan, crowned +with a great wealth of hair. He had been about to rise, but her decided +approach caused him to remain on the seat. He had not looked much at her +that evening. He had not that freedom of gaze acquired by the habit of +society and the frequent meetings with strangers. It was not shyness, +but the reserve of a man not used to the world and to the practice of +covert staring, with careless curiosity. All he had captured by his +first, keen, instantly lowered, glance was the impression that her hair +was magnificently red and her eyes very black. It was a troubling +effect, but it had been evanescent; he had forgotten it almost till very +unexpectedly he saw her coming down the terrace slow and eager, as if she +were restraining herself, and with a rhythmic upward undulation of her +whole figure. The light from an open window fell across her path, and +suddenly all that mass of arranged hair appeared incandescent, chiselled +and fluid, with the daring suggestion of a helmet of burnished copper and +the flowing lines of molten metal. It kindled in him an astonished +admiration. But he said nothing of it to his friend the Editor. Neither +did he tell him that her approach woke up in his brain the image of +love’s infinite grace and the sense of the inexhaustible joy that lives +in beauty. No! What he imparted to the Editor were no emotions, but +mere facts conveyed in a deliberate voice and in uninspired words. + +“That young lady came and sat down by me. She said: ‘Are you French, Mr. +Renouard?’” + +He had breathed a whiff of perfume of which he said nothing either—of +some perfume he did not know. Her voice was low and distinct. Her +shoulders and her bare arms gleamed with an extraordinary splendour, and +when she advanced her head into the light he saw the admirable contour of +the face, the straight fine nose with delicate nostrils, the exquisite +crimson brushstroke of the lips on this oval without colour. The +expression of the eyes was lost in a shadowy mysterious play of jet and +silver, stirring under the red coppery gold of the hair as though she had +been a being made of ivory and precious metals changed into living +tissue. + +“. . . I told her my people were living in Canada, but that I was brought +up in England before coming out here. I can’t imagine what interest she +could have in my history.” + +“And you complain of her interest?” + +The accent of the all-knowing journalist seemed to jar on the Planter of +Malata. + +“No!” he said, in a deadened voice that was almost sullen. But after a +short silence he went on. “Very extraordinary. I told her I came out to +wander at large in the world when I was nineteen, almost directly after I +left school. It seems that her late brother was in the same school a +couple of years before me. She wanted me to tell her what I did at first +when I came out here; what other men found to do when they came out—where +they went, what was likely to happen to them—as if I could guess and +foretell from my experience the fates of men who come out here with a +hundred different projects, for hundreds of different reasons—for no +reason but restlessness—who come, and go, and disappear! Preposterous. +She seemed to want to hear their histories. I told her that most of them +were not worth telling.” + +The distinguished journalist leaning on his elbow, his head resting +against the knuckles of his left hand, listened with great attention, but +gave no sign of that surprise which Renouard, pausing, seemed to expect. + +“You know something,” the latter said brusquely. The all-knowing man +moved his head slightly and said, “Yes. But go on.” + +“It’s just this. There is no more to it. I found myself talking to her +of my adventures, of my early days. It couldn’t possibly have interested +her. Really,” he cried, “this is most extraordinary. Those people have +something on their minds. We sat in the light of the window, and her +father prowled about the terrace, with his hands behind his back and his +head drooping. The white-haired lady came to the dining-room window +twice—to look at us I am certain. The other guests began to go away—and +still we sat there. Apparently these people are staying with the +Dunsters. It was old Mrs. Dunster who put an end to the thing. The +father and the aunt circled about as if they were afraid of interfering +with the girl. Then she got up all at once, gave me her hand, and said +she hoped she would see me again.” + +While he was speaking Renouard saw again the sway of her figure in a +movement of grace and strength—felt the pressure of her hand—heard the +last accents of the deep murmur that came from her throat so white in the +light of the window, and remembered the black rays of her steady eyes +passing off his face when she turned away. He remembered all this +visually, and it was not exactly pleasurable. It was rather startling +like the discovery of a new faculty in himself. There are faculties one +would rather do without—such, for instance, as seeing through a stone +wall or remembering a person with this uncanny vividness. And what about +those two people belonging to her with their air of expectant solicitude! +Really, those figures from home got in front of one. In fact, their +persistence in getting between him and the solid forms of the everyday +material world had driven Renouard to call on his friend at the office. +He hoped that a little common, gossipy information would lay the ghost of +that unexpected dinner-party. Of course the proper person to go to would +have been young Dunster, but, he couldn’t stand Willie Dunster—not at any +price. + +In the pause the Editor had changed his attitude, faced his desk, and +smiled a faint knowing smile. + +“Striking girl—eh?” he said. + +The incongruity of the word was enough to make one jump out of the chair. +Striking! That girl striking! Stri . . .! But Renouard restrained his +feelings. His friend was not a person to give oneself away to. And, +after all, this sort of speech was what he had come there to hear. As, +however, he had made a movement he re-settled himself comfortably and +said, with very creditable indifference, that yes—she was, rather. +Especially amongst a lot of over-dressed frumps. There wasn’t one woman +under forty there. + +“Is that the way to speak of the cream of our society; the ‘top of the +basket,’ as the French say,” the Editor remonstrated with mock +indignation. “You aren’t moderate in your expressions—you know.” + +“I express myself very little,” interjected Renouard seriously. + +“I will tell you what you are. You are a fellow that doesn’t count the +cost. Of course you are safe with me, but will you never learn. . . .” + +“What struck me most,” interrupted the other, “is that she should pick me +out for such a long conversation.” + +“That’s perhaps because you were the most remarkable of the men there.” + +Renouard shook his head. + +“This shot doesn’t seem to me to hit the mark,” he said calmly. “Try +again.” + +“Don’t you believe me? Oh, you modest creature. Well, let me assure you +that under ordinary circumstances it would have been a good shot. You +are sufficiently remarkable. But you seem a pretty acute customer too. +The circumstances are extraordinary. By Jove they are!” + +He mused. After a time the Planter of Malata dropped a negligent— + +“And you know them.” + +“And I know them,” assented the all-knowing Editor, soberly, as though +the occasion were too special for a display of professional vanity; a +vanity so well known to Renouard that its absence augmented his wonder +and almost made him uneasy as if portending bad news of some sort. + +“You have met those people?” he asked. + +“No. I was to have met them last night, but I had to send an apology to +Willie in the morning. It was then that he had the bright idea to invite +you to fill the place, from a muddled notion that you could be of use. +Willie is stupid sometimes. For it is clear that you are the last man +able to help.” + +“How on earth do I come to be mixed up in this—whatever it is?” +Renouard’s voice was slightly altered by nervous irritation. “I only +arrived here yesterday morning.” + + + +CHAPTER II + + +His friend the Editor turned to him squarely. “Willie took me into +consultation, and since he seems to have let you in I may just as well +tell you what is up. I shall try to be as short as I can. But in +confidence—mind!” + +He waited. Renouard, his uneasiness growing on him unreasonably, +assented by a nod, and the other lost no time in beginning. Professor +Moorsom—physicist and philosopher—fine head of white hair, to judge from +the photographs—plenty of brains in the head too—all these famous +books—surely even Renouard would know. . . . + +Renouard muttered moodily that it wasn’t his sort of reading, and his +friend hastened to assure him earnestly that neither was it his +sort—except as a matter of business and duty, for the literary page of +that newspaper which was his property (and the pride of his life). The +only literary newspaper in the Antipodes could not ignore the fashionable +philosopher of the age. Not that anybody read Moorsom at the Antipodes, +but everybody had heard of him—women, children, dock labourers, cabmen. +The only person (besides himself) who had read Moorsom, as far as he +knew, was old Dunster, who used to call himself a Moorsomian (or was it +Moorsomite) years and years ago, long before Moorsom had worked himself +up into the great swell he was now, in every way. . . Socially too. +Quite the fashion in the highest world. + +Renouard listened with profoundly concealed attention. “A charlatan,” he +muttered languidly. + +“Well—no. I should say not. I shouldn’t wonder though if most of his +writing had been done with his tongue in his cheek. Of course. That’s +to be expected. I tell you what: the only really honest writing is to be +found in newspapers and nowhere else—and don’t you forget it.” + +The Editor paused with a basilisk stare till Renouard had conceded a +casual: “I dare say,” and only then went on to explain that old Dunster, +during his European tour, had been made rather a lion of in London, where +he stayed with the Moorsoms—he meant the father and the girl. The +professor had been a widower for a long time. + +“She doesn’t look just a girl,” muttered Renouard. The other agreed. +Very likely not. Had been playing the London hostess to tip-top people +ever since she put her hair up, probably. + +“I don’t expect to see any girlish bloom on her when I do have the +privilege,” he continued. “Those people are staying with the Dunster’s +_incog._, in a manner, you understand—something like royalties. They +don’t deceive anybody, but they want to be left to themselves. We have +even kept them out of the paper—to oblige old Dunster. But we shall put +your arrival in—our local celebrity.” + +“Heavens!” + +“Yes. Mr. G. Renouard, the explorer, whose indomitable energy, etc., and +who is now working for the prosperity of our country in another way on +his Malata plantation . . . And, by the by, how’s the silk +plant—flourishing?” + +“Yes.” + +“Did you bring any fibre?” + +“Schooner-full.” + +“I see. To be transhipped to Liverpool for experimental manufacture, eh? +Eminent capitalists at home very much interested, aren’t they?” + +“They are.” + +A silence fell. Then the Editor uttered slowly—“You will be a rich man +some day.” + +Renouard’s face did not betray his opinion of that confident prophecy. +He didn’t say anything till his friend suggested in the same meditative +voice— + +“You ought to interest Moorsom in the affair too—since Willie has let you +in.” + +“A philosopher!” + +“I suppose he isn’t above making a bit of money. And he may be clever at +it for all you know. I have a notion that he’s a fairly practical old +cove. . . . Anyhow,” and here the tone of the speaker took on a tinge of +respect, “he has made philosophy pay.” + +Renouard raised his eyes, repressed an impulse to jump up, and got out of +the arm-chair slowly. “It isn’t perhaps a bad idea,” he said. “I’ll +have to call there in any case.” + +He wondered whether he had managed to keep his voice steady, its tone +unconcerned enough; for his emotion was strong though it had nothing to +do with the business aspect of this suggestion. He moved in the room in +vague preparation for departure, when he heard a soft laugh. He spun +about quickly with a frown, but the Editor was not laughing at him. He +was chuckling across the big desk at the wall: a preliminary of some +speech for which Renouard, recalled to himself, waited silent and +mistrustful. + +“No! You would never guess! No one would ever guess what these people +are after. Willie’s eyes bulged out when he came to me with the tale.” + +“They always do,” remarked Renouard with disgust. “He’s stupid.” + +“He was startled. And so was I after he told me. It’s a search party. +They are out looking for a man. Willie’s soft heart’s enlisted in the +cause.” + +Renouard repeated: “Looking for a man.” + +He sat down suddenly as if on purpose to stare. “Did Willie come to you +to borrow the lantern,” he asked sarcastically, and got up again for no +apparent reason. + +“What lantern?” snapped the puzzled Editor, and his face darkened with +suspicion. “You, Renouard, are always alluding to things that aren’t +clear to me. If you were in politics, I, as a party journalist, wouldn’t +trust you further than I could see you. Not an inch further. You are +such a sophisticated beggar. Listen: the man is the man Miss Moorsom was +engaged to for a year. He couldn’t have been a nobody, anyhow. But he +doesn’t seem to have been very wise. Hard luck for the young lady.” + +He spoke with feeling. It was clear that what he had to tell appealed to +his sentiment. Yet, as an experienced man of the world, he marked his +amused wonder. Young man of good family and connections, going +everywhere, yet not merely a man about town, but with a foot in the two +big F’s. + +Renouard lounging aimlessly in the room turned round: “And what the +devil’s that?” he asked faintly. + +“Why Fashion and Finance,” explained the Editor. “That’s how I call it. +There are the three R’s at the bottom of the social edifice and the two +F’s on the top. See?” + +“Ha! Ha! Excellent! Ha! Ha!” Renouard laughed with stony eyes. + +“And you proceed from one set to the other in this democratic age,” the +Editor went on with unperturbed complacency. “That is if you are clever +enough. The only danger is in being too clever. And I think something +of the sort happened here. That swell I am speaking of got himself into +a mess. Apparently a very ugly mess of a financial character. You will +understand that Willie did not go into details with me. They were not +imparted to him with very great abundance either. But a bad +mess—something of the criminal order. Of course he was innocent. But he +had to quit all the same.” + +“Ha! Ha!” Renouard laughed again abruptly, staring as before. “So +there’s one more big F in the tale.” + +“What do you mean?” inquired the Editor quickly, with an air as if his +patent were being infringed. + +“I mean—Fool.” + +“No. I wouldn’t say that. I wouldn’t say that.” + +“Well—let him be a scoundrel then. What the devil do I care.” + +“But hold on! You haven’t heard the end of the story.” + +Renouard, his hat on his head already, sat down with the disdainful smile +of a man who had discounted the moral of the story. Still he sat down +and the Editor swung his revolving chair right round. He was full of +unction. + +“Imprudent, I should say. In many ways money is as dangerous to handle +as gunpowder. You can’t be too careful either as to who you are working +with. Anyhow there was a mighty flashy burst up, a sensation, and—his +familiar haunts knew him no more. But before he vanished he went to see +Miss Moorsom. That very fact argues for his innocence—don’t it? What +was said between them no man knows—unless the professor had the +confidence from his daughter. There couldn’t have been much to say. +There was nothing for it but to let him go—was there?—for the affair had +got into the papers. And perhaps the kindest thing would have been to +forget him. Anyway the easiest. Forgiveness would have been more +difficult, I fancy, for a young lady of spirit and position drawn into an +ugly affair like that. Any ordinary young lady, I mean. Well, the +fellow asked nothing better than to be forgotten, only he didn’t find it +easy to do so himself, because he would write home now and then. Not to +any of his friends though. He had no near relations. The professor had +been his guardian. No, the poor devil wrote now and then to an old +retired butler of his late father, somewhere in the country, forbidding +him at the same time to let any one know of his whereabouts. So that +worthy old ass would go up and dodge about the Moorsom’s town house, +perhaps waylay Miss Moorsom’s maid, and then would write to ‘Master +Arthur’ that the young lady looked well and happy, or some such cheerful +intelligence. I dare say he wanted to be forgotten, but I shouldn’t +think he was much cheered by the news. What would you say?” + +Renouard, his legs stretched out and his chin on his breast, said +nothing. A sensation which was not curiosity, but rather a vague nervous +anxiety, distinctly unpleasant, like a mysterious symptom of some malady, +prevented him from getting up and going away. + +“Mixed feelings,” the Editor opined. “Many fellows out here receive news +from home with mixed feelings. But what will his feelings be when he +hears what I am going to tell you now? For we know he has not heard yet. +Six months ago a city clerk, just a common drudge of finance, gets +himself convicted of a common embezzlement or something of that kind. +Then seeing he’s in for a long sentence he thinks of making his +conscience comfortable, and makes a clean breast of an old story of +tampered with, or else suppressed, documents, a story which clears +altogether the honesty of our ruined gentleman. That embezzling fellow +was in a position to know, having been employed by the firm before the +smash. There was no doubt about the character being cleared—but where +the cleared man was nobody could tell. Another sensation in society. +And then Miss Moorsom says: ‘He will come back to claim me, and I’ll +marry him.’ But he didn’t come back. Between you and me I don’t think +he was much wanted—except by Miss Moorsom. I imagine she’s used to have +her own way. She grew impatient, and declared that if she knew where the +man was she would go to him. But all that could be got out of the old +butler was that the last envelope bore the postmark of our beautiful +city; and that this was the only address of ‘Master Arthur’ that he ever +had. That and no more. In fact the fellow was at his last gasp—with a +bad heart. Miss Moorsom wasn’t allowed to see him. She had gone herself +into the country to learn what she could, but she had to stay downstairs +while the old chap’s wife went up to the invalid. She brought down the +scrap of intelligence I’ve told you of. He was already too far gone to +be cross-examined on it, and that very night he died. He didn’t leave +behind him much to go by, did he? Our Willie hinted to me that there had +been pretty stormy days in the professor’s house, but—here they are. I +have a notion she isn’t the kind of everyday young lady who may be +permitted to gallop about the world all by herself—eh? Well, I think it +rather fine of her, but I quite understand that the professor needed all +his philosophy under the circumstances. She is his only child now—and +brilliant—what? Willie positively spluttered trying to describe her to +me; and I could see directly you came in that you had an uncommon +experience.” + +Renouard, with an irritated gesture, tilted his hat more forward on his +eyes, as though he were bored. The Editor went on with the remark that +to be sure neither he (Renouard) nor yet Willie were much used to meet +girls of that remarkable superiority. Willie when learning business with +a firm in London, years before, had seen none but boarding-house society, +he guessed. As to himself in the good old days, when he trod the +glorious flags of Fleet Street, he neither had access to, nor yet would +have cared for the swells. Nothing interested him then but parliamentary +politics and the oratory of the House of Commons. + +He paid to this not very distant past the tribute of a tender, +reminiscent smile, and returned to his first idea that for a society girl +her action was rather fine. All the same the professor could not be very +pleased. The fellow if he was as pure as a lily now was just about as +devoid of the goods of the earth. And there were misfortunes, however +undeserved, which damaged a man’s standing permanently. On the other +hand, it was difficult to oppose cynically a noble impulse—not to speak +of the great love at the root of it. Ah! Love! And then the lady was +quite capable of going off by herself. She was of age, she had money of +her own, plenty of pluck too. Moorsom must have concluded that it was +more truly paternal, more prudent too, and generally safer all round to +let himself be dragged into this chase. The aunt came along for the same +reasons. It was given out at home as a trip round the world of the usual +kind. + +Renouard had risen and remained standing with his heart beating, and +strangely affected by this tale, robbed as it was of all glamour by the +prosaic personality of the narrator. The Editor added: “I’ve been asked +to help in the search—you know.” + +Renouard muttered something about an appointment and went out into the +street. His inborn sanity could not defend him from a misty creeping +jealousy. He thought that obviously no man of that sort could be worthy +of such a woman’s devoted fidelity. Renouard, however, had lived long +enough to reflect that a man’s activities, his views, and even his ideas +may be very inferior to his character; and moved by a delicate +consideration for that splendid girl he tried to think out for the man a +character of inward excellence and outward gifts—some extraordinary +seduction. But in vain. Fresh from months of solitude and from days at +sea, her splendour presented itself to him absolutely unconquerable in +its perfection, unless by her own folly. It was easier to suspect her of +this than to imagine in the man qualities which would be worthy of her. +Easier and less degrading. Because folly may be generous—could be +nothing else but generosity in her; whereas to imagine her subjugated by +something common was intolerable. + +Because of the force of the physical impression he had received from her +personality (and such impressions are the real origins of the deepest +movements of our soul) this conception of her was even inconceivable. +But no Prince Charming has ever lived out of a fairy tale. He doesn’t +walk the worlds of Fashion and Finance—and with a stumbling gait at that. +Generosity. Yes. It was her generosity. But this generosity was +altogether regal in its splendour, almost absurd in its lavishness—or, +perhaps, divine. + +In the evening, on board his schooner, sitting on the rail, his arms +folded on his breast and his eyes fixed on the deck, he let the darkness +catch him unawares in the midst of a meditation on the mechanism of +sentiment and the springs of passion. And all the time he had an abiding +consciousness of her bodily presence. The effect on his senses had been +so penetrating that in the middle of the night, rousing up suddenly, +wide-eyed in the darkness of his cabin, he did not create a faint mental +vision of her person for himself, but, more intimately affected, he +scented distinctly the faint perfume she used, and could almost have +sworn that he had been awakened by the soft rustle of her dress. He even +sat up listening in the dark for a time, then sighed and lay down again, +not agitated but, on the contrary, oppressed by the sensation of +something that had happened to him and could not be undone. + + + +CHAPTER III + + +In the afternoon he lounged into the editorial office, carrying with +affected nonchalance that weight of the irremediable he had felt laid on +him suddenly in the small hours of the night—that consciousness of +something that could no longer be helped. His patronising friend +informed him at once that he had made the acquaintance of the Moorsom +party last night. At the Dunsters, of course. Dinner. + +“Very quiet. Nobody there. It was much better for the business. I say +. . .” + +Renouard, his hand grasping the back of a chair, stared down at him +dumbly. + +“Phew! That’s a stunning girl. . . Why do you want to sit on that chair? +It’s uncomfortable!” + +“I wasn’t going to sit on it.” Renouard walked slowly to the window, +glad to find in himself enough self-control to let go the chair instead +of raising it on high and bringing it down on the Editor’s head. + +“Willie kept on gazing at her with tears in his boiled eyes. You should +have seen him bending sentimentally over her at dinner.” + +“Don’t,” said Renouard in such an anguished tone that the Editor turned +right round to look at his back. + +“You push your dislike of young Dunster too far. It’s positively +morbid,” he disapproved mildly. “We can’t be all beautiful after thirty. +. . . I talked a little, about you mostly, to the professor. He appeared +to be interested in the silk plant—if only as a change from the great +subject. Miss Moorsom didn’t seem to mind when I confessed to her that I +had taken you into the confidence of the thing. Our Willie approved too. +Old Dunster with his white beard seemed to give me his blessing. All +those people have a great opinion of you, simply because I told them that +you’ve led every sort of life one can think of before you got struck on +exploration. They want you to make suggestions. What do you think +‘Master Arthur’ is likely to have taken to?” + +“Something easy,” muttered Renouard without unclenching his teeth. + +“Hunting man. Athlete. Don’t be hard on the chap. He may be riding +boundaries, or droving cattle, or humping his swag about the back-blocks +away to the devil—somewhere. He may be even prospecting at the back of +beyond—this very moment.” + +“Or lying dead drunk in a roadside pub. It’s late enough in the day for +that.” + +The Editor looked up instinctively. The clock was pointing at a quarter +to five. “Yes, it is,” he admitted. “But it needn’t be. And he may +have lit out into the Western Pacific all of a sudden—say in a trading +schooner. Though I really don’t see in what capacity. Still . . . ” + +“Or he may be passing at this very moment under this very window.” + +“Not he . . . and I wish you would get away from it to where one can see +your face. I hate talking to a man’s back. You stand there like a +hermit on a sea-shore growling to yourself. I tell you what it is, +Geoffrey, you don’t like mankind.” + +“I don’t make my living by talking about mankind’s affairs,” Renouard +defended himself. But he came away obediently and sat down in the +arm-chair. “How can you be so certain that your man isn’t down there in +the street?” he asked. “It’s neither more nor less probable than every +single one of your other suppositions.” + +Placated by Renouard’s docility the Editor gazed at him for a while. +“Aha! I’ll tell you how. Learn then that we have begun the campaign. +We have telegraphed his description to the police of every township up +and down the land. And what’s more we’ve ascertained definitely that he +hasn’t been in this town for the last three months at least. How much +longer he’s been away we can’t tell.” + +“That’s very curious.” + +“It’s very simple. Miss Moorsom wrote to him, to the post office here +directly she returned to London after her excursion into the country to +see the old butler. Well—her letter is still lying there. It has not +been called for. Ergo, this town is not his usual abode. Personally, I +never thought it was. But he cannot fail to turn up some time or other. +Our main hope lies just in the certitude that he must come to town sooner +or later. Remember he doesn’t know that the butler is dead, and he will +want to inquire for a letter. Well, he’ll find a note from Miss +Moorsom.” + +Renouard, silent, thought that it was likely enough. His profound +distaste for this conversation was betrayed by an air of weariness +darkening his energetic sun-tanned features, and by the augmented +dreaminess of his eyes. The Editor noted it as a further proof of that +immoral detachment from mankind, of that callousness of sentiment +fostered by the unhealthy conditions of solitude—according to his own +favourite theory. Aloud he observed that as long as a man had not given +up correspondence he could not be looked upon as lost. Fugitive +criminals had been tracked in that way by justice, he reminded his +friend; then suddenly changed the bearing of the subject somewhat by +asking if Renouard had heard from his people lately, and if every member +of his large tribe was well and happy. + +“Yes, thanks.” + +The tone was curt, as if repelling a liberty. Renouard did not like +being asked about his people, for whom he had a profound and remorseful +affection. He had not seen a single human being to whom he was related, +for many years, and he was extremely different from them all. + +On the very morning of his arrival from his island he had gone to a set +of pigeon-holes in Willie Dunster’s outer office and had taken out from a +compartment labelled “Malata” a very small accumulation of envelopes, a +few addressed to himself, and one addressed to his assistant, all to the +care of the firm, W. Dunster and Co. As opportunity offered, the firm +used to send them on to Malata either by a man-of-war schooner going on a +cruise, or by some trading craft proceeding that way. But for the last +four months there had been no opportunity. + +“You going to stay here some time?” asked the Editor, after a longish +silence. + +Renouard, perfunctorily, did see no reason why he should make a long +stay. + +“For health, for your mental health, my boy,” rejoined the newspaper man. +“To get used to human faces so that they don’t hit you in the eye so hard +when you walk about the streets. To get friendly with your kind. I +suppose that assistant of yours can be trusted to look after things?” + +“There’s the half-caste too. The Portuguese. He knows what’s to be +done.” + +“Aha!” The Editor looked sharply at his friend. “What’s his name?” + +“Who’s name?” + +“The assistant’s you picked up on the sly behind my back.” + +Renouard made a slight movement of impatience. + +“I met him unexpectedly one evening. I thought he would do as well as +another. He had come from up country and didn’t seem happy in a town. +He told me his name was Walter. I did not ask him for proofs, you know.” + +“I don’t think you get on very well with him.” + +“Why? What makes you think so.” + +“I don’t know. Something reluctant in your manner when he’s in +question.” + +“Really. My manner! I don’t think he’s a great subject for +conversation, perhaps. Why not drop him?” + +“Of course! You wouldn’t confess to a mistake. Not you. Nevertheless I +have my suspicions about it.” + +Renouard got up to go, but hesitated, looking down at the seated Editor. + +“How funny,” he said at last with the utmost seriousness, and was making +for the door, when the voice of his friend stopped him. + +“You know what has been said of you? That you couldn’t get on with +anybody you couldn’t kick. Now, confess—is there any truth in the soft +impeachment?” + +“No,” said Renouard. “Did you print that in your paper.” + +“No. I didn’t quite believe it. But I will tell you what I believe. I +believe that when your heart is set on some object you are a man that +doesn’t count the cost to yourself or others. And this shall get printed +some day.” + +“Obituary notice?” Renouard dropped negligently. + +“Certain—some day.” + +“Do you then regard yourself as immortal?” + +“No, my boy. I am not immortal. But the voice of the press goes on for +ever. . . . And it will say that this was the secret of your great +success in a task where better men than you—meaning no offence—did fail +repeatedly.” + +“Success,” muttered Renouard, pulling-to the office door after him with +considerable energy. And the letters of the word PRIVATE like a row of +white eyes seemed to stare after his back sinking down the staircase of +that temple of publicity. + +Renouard had no doubt that all the means of publicity would be put at the +service of love and used for the discovery of the loved man. He did not +wish him dead. He did not wish him any harm. We are all equipped with a +fund of humanity which is not exhausted without many and repeated +provocations—and this man had done him no evil. But before Renouard had +left old Dunster’s house, at the conclusion of the call he made there +that very afternoon, he had discovered in himself the desire that the +search might last long. He never really flattered himself that it might +fail. It seemed to him that there was no other course in this world for +himself, for all mankind, but resignation. And he could not help +thinking that Professor Moorsom had arrived at the same conclusion too. + +Professor Moorsom, slight frame of middle height, a thoughtful keen head +under the thick wavy hair, veiled dark eyes under straight eyebrows, and +with an inward gaze which when disengaged and arriving at one seemed to +issue from an obscure dream of books, from the limbo of meditation, +showed himself extremely gracious to him. Renouard guessed in him a man +whom an incurable habit of investigation and analysis had made gentle and +indulgent; inapt for action, and more sensitive to the thoughts than to +the events of existence. Withal not crushed, sub-ironic without a trace +of acidity, and with a simple manner which put people at ease quickly. +They had a long conversation on the terrace commanding an extended view +of the town and the harbour. + +The splendid immobility of the bay resting under his gaze, with its grey +spurs and shining indentations, helped Renouard to regain his +self-possession, which he had felt shaken, in coming out on the terrace, +into the setting of the most powerful emotion of his life, when he had +sat within a foot of Miss Moorsom with fire in his breast, a humming in +his ears, and in a complete disorder of his mind. There was the very +garden seat on which he had been enveloped in the radiant spell. And +presently he was sitting on it again with the professor talking of her. +Near by the patriarchal Dunster leaned forward in a wicker arm-chair, +benign and a little deaf, his big hand to his ear with the innocent +eagerness of his advanced age remembering the fires of life. + +It was with a sort of apprehension that Renouard looked forward to seeing +Miss Moorsom. And strangely enough it resembled the state of mind of a +man who fears disenchantment more than sortilege. But he need not have +been afraid. Directly he saw her in a distance at the other end of the +terrace he shuddered to the roots of his hair. With her approach the +power of speech left him for a time. Mrs. Dunster and her aunt were +accompanying her. All these people sat down; it was an intimate circle +into which Renouard felt himself cordially admitted; and the talk was of +the great search which occupied all their minds. Discretion was expected +by these people, but of reticence as to the object of the journey there +could be no question. Nothing but ways and means and arrangements could +be talked about. + +By fixing his eyes obstinately on the ground, which gave him an air of +reflective sadness, Renouard managed to recover his self-possession. He +used it to keep his voice in a low key and to measure his words on the +great subject. And he took care with a great inward effort to make them +reasonable without giving them a discouraging complexion. For he did not +want the quest to be given up, since it would mean her going away with +her two attendant grey-heads to the other side of the world. + +He was asked to come again, to come often and take part in the counsels +of all these people captivated by the sentimental enterprise of a +declared love. On taking Miss Moorsom’s hand he looked up, would have +liked to say something, but found himself voiceless, with his lips +suddenly sealed. She returned the pressure of his fingers, and he left +her with her eyes vaguely staring beyond him, an air of listening for an +expected sound, and the faintest possible smile on her lips. A smile not +for him, evidently, but the reflection of some deep and inscrutable +thought. + + + +CHAPTER IV + + +He went on board his schooner. She lay white, and as if suspended, in +the crepuscular atmosphere of sunset mingling with the ashy gleam of the +vast anchorage. He tried to keep his thoughts as sober, as reasonable, +as measured as his words had been, lest they should get away from him and +cause some sort of moral disaster. What he was afraid of in the coming +night was sleeplessness and the endless strain of that wearisome task. +It had to be faced however. He lay on his back, sighing profoundly in +the dark, and suddenly beheld his very own self, carrying a small bizarre +lamp, reflected in a long mirror inside a room in an empty and +unfurnished palace. In this startling image of himself he recognised +somebody he had to follow—the frightened guide of his dream. He +traversed endless galleries, no end of lofty halls, innumerable doors. +He lost himself utterly—he found his way again. Room succeeded room. At +last the lamp went out, and he stumbled against some object which, when +he stooped for it, he found to be very cold and heavy to lift. The +sickly white light of dawn showed him the head of a statue. Its marble +hair was done in the bold lines of a helmet, on its lips the chisel had +left a faint smile, and it resembled Miss Moorsom. While he was staring +at it fixedly, the head began to grow light in his fingers, to diminish +and crumble to pieces, and at last turned into a handful of dust, which +was blown away by a puff of wind so chilly that he woke up with a +desperate shiver and leaped headlong out of his bed-place. The day had +really come. He sat down by the cabin table, and taking his head between +his hands, did not stir for a very long time. + +Very quiet, he set himself to review this dream. The lamp, of course, he +connected with the search for a man. But on closer examination he +perceived that the reflection of himself in the mirror was not really the +true Renouard, but somebody else whose face he could not remember. In +the deserted palace he recognised a sinister adaptation by his brain of +the long corridors with many doors, in the great building in which his +friend’s newspaper was lodged on the first floor. The marble head with +Miss Moorsom’s face! Well! What other face could he have dreamed of? +And her complexion was fairer than Parian marble, than the heads of +angels. The wind at the end was the morning breeze entering through the +open porthole and touching his face before the schooner could swing to +the chilly gust. + +Yes! And all this rational explanation of the fantastic made it only +more mysterious and weird. There was something daemonic in that dream. +It was one of those experiences which throw a man out of conformity with +the established order of his kind and make him a creature of obscure +suggestions. + +Henceforth, without ever trying to resist, he went every afternoon to the +house where she lived. He went there as passively as if in a dream. He +could never make out how he had attained the footing of intimacy in the +Dunster mansion above the bay—whether on the ground of personal merit or +as the pioneer of the vegetable silk industry. It must have been the +last, because he remembered distinctly, as distinctly as in a dream, +hearing old Dunster once telling him that his next public task would be a +careful survey of the Northern Districts to discover tracts suitable for +the cultivation of the silk plant. The old man wagged his beard at him +sagely. It was indeed as absurd as a dream. + +Willie of course would be there in the evening. But he was more of a +figure out of a nightmare, hovering about the circle of chairs in his +dress-clothes like a gigantic, repulsive, and sentimental bat. “Do away +with the beastly cocoons all over the world,” he buzzed in his blurred, +water-logged voice. He affected a great horror of insects of all kinds. +One evening he appeared with a red flower in his button-hole. Nothing +could have been more disgustingly fantastic. And he would also say to +Renouard: “You may yet change the history of our country. For economic +conditions do shape the history of nations. Eh? What?” And he would +turn to Miss Moorsom for approval, lowering protectingly his spatulous +nose and looking up with feeling from under his absurd eyebrows, which +grew thin, in the manner of canebrakes, out of his spongy skin. For this +large, bilious creature was an economist and a sentimentalist, facile to +tears, and a member of the Cobden Club. + +In order to see as little of him as possible Renouard began coming +earlier so as to get away before his arrival, without curtailing too much +the hours of secret contemplation for which he lived. He had given up +trying to deceive himself. His resignation was without bounds. He +accepted the immense misfortune of being in love with a woman who was in +search of another man only to throw herself into his arms. With such +desperate precision he defined in his thoughts the situation, the +consciousness of which traversed like a sharp arrow the sudden silences +of general conversation. The only thought before which he quailed was +the thought that this could not last; that it must come to an end. He +feared it instinctively as a sick man may fear death. For it seemed to +him that it must be the death of him followed by a lightless, bottomless +pit. But his resignation was not spared the torments of jealousy: the +cruel, insensate, poignant, and imbecile jealousy, when it seems that a +woman betrays us simply by this that she exists, that she breathes—and +when the deep movements of her nerves or her soul become a matter of +distracting suspicion, of killing doubt, of mortal anxiety. + +In the peculiar condition of their sojourn Miss Moorsom went out very +little. She accepted this seclusion at the Dunsters’ mansion as in a +hermitage, and lived there, watched over by a group of old people, with +the lofty endurance of a condescending and strong-headed goddess. It was +impossible to say if she suffered from anything in the world, and whether +this was the insensibility of a great passion concentrated on itself, or +a perfect restraint of manner, or the indifference of superiority so +complete as to be sufficient to itself. But it was visible to Renouard +that she took some pleasure in talking to him at times. Was it because +he was the only person near her age? Was this, then, the secret of his +admission to the circle? + +He admired her voice as well poised as her movements, as her attitudes. +He himself had always been a man of tranquil tones. But the power of +fascination had torn him out of his very nature so completely that to +preserve his habitual calmness from going to pieces had become a terrible +effort. + +He used to go from her on board the schooner exhausted, broken, shaken +up, as though he had been put to the most exquisite torture. When he saw +her approaching he always had a moment of hallucination. She was a misty +and fair creature, fitted for invisible music, for the shadows of love, +for the murmurs of waters. After a time (he could not be always staring +at the ground) he would summon up all his resolution and look at her. +There was a sparkle in the clear obscurity of her eyes; and when she +turned them on him they seemed to give a new meaning to life. He would +say to himself that another man would have found long before the happy +release of madness, his wits burnt to cinders in that radiance. But no +such luck for him. His wits had come unscathed through the furnaces of +hot suns, of blazing deserts, of flaming angers against the weaknesses of +men and the obstinate cruelties of hostile nature. + +Being sane he had to be constantly on his guard against falling into +adoring silences or breaking out into wild speeches. He had to keep +watch on his eyes, his limbs, on the muscles of his face. Their +conversations were such as they could be between these two people: she a +young lady fresh from the thick twilight of four million people and the +artificiality of several London seasons; he the man of definite +conquering tasks, the familiar of wide horizons, and in his very repose +holding aloof from these agglomerations of units in which one loses one’s +importance even to oneself. They had no common conversational small +change. They had to use the great pieces of general ideas, but they +exchanged them trivially. It was no serious commerce. Perhaps she had +not much of that coin. Nothing significant came from her. It could not +be said that she had received from the contacts of the external world +impressions of a personal kind, different from other women. What was +ravishing in her was her quietness and, in her grave attitudes, the +unfailing brilliance of her femininity. He did not know what there was +under that ivory forehead so splendidly shaped, so gloriously crowned. +He could not tell what were her thoughts, her feelings. Her replies were +reflective, always preceded by a short silence, while he hung on her lips +anxiously. He felt himself in the presence of a mysterious being in whom +spoke an unknown voice, like the voice of oracles, bringing everlasting +unrest to the heart. + +He was thankful enough to sit in silence with secretly clenched teeth, +devoured by jealousy—and nobody could have guessed that his quiet +deferential bearing to all these grey-heads was the supreme effort of +stoicism, that the man was engaged in keeping a sinister watch on his +tortures lest his strength should fail him. As before, when grappling +with other forces of nature, he could find in himself all sorts of +courage except the courage to run away. + +It was perhaps from the lack of subjects they could have in common that +Miss Moorsom made him so often speak of his own life. He did not shrink +from talking about himself, for he was free from that exacerbated, timid +vanity which seals so many vain-glorious lips. He talked to her in his +restrained voice, gazing at the tip of her shoe, and thinking that the +time was bound to come soon when her very inattention would get weary of +him. And indeed on stealing a glance he would see her dazzling and +perfect, her eyes vague, staring in mournful immobility, with a drooping +head that made him think of a tragic Venus arising before him, not from +the foam of the sea, but from a distant, still more formless, mysterious, +and potent immensity of mankind. + + + +CHAPTER V + + +One afternoon Renouard stepping out on the terrace found nobody there. +It was for him, at the same time, a melancholy disappointment and a +poignant relief. + +The heat was great, the air was still, all the long windows of the house +stood wide open. At the further end, grouped round a lady’s work-table, +several chairs disposed sociably suggested invisible occupants, a company +of conversing shades. Renouard looked towards them with a sort of dread. +A most elusive, faint sound of ghostly talk issuing from one of the rooms +added to the illusion and stopped his already hesitating footsteps. He +leaned over the balustrade of stone near a squat vase holding a tropical +plant of a bizarre shape. Professor Moorsom coming up from the garden +with a book under his arm and a white parasol held over his bare head, +found him there and, closing the parasol, leaned over by his side with a +remark on the increasing heat of the season. Renouard assented and +changed his position a little; the other, after a short silence, +administered unexpectedly a question which, like the blow of a club on +the head, deprived Renouard of the power of speech and even thought, but, +more cruel, left him quivering with apprehension, not of death but of +everlasting torment. Yet the words were extremely simple. + +“Something will have to be done soon. We can’t remain in a state of +suspended expectation for ever. Tell me what do you think of our +chances?” + +Renouard, speechless, produced a faint smile. The professor confessed in +a jocular tone his impatience to complete the circuit of the globe and be +done with it. It was impossible to remain quartered on the dear +excellent Dunsters for an indefinite time. And then there were the +lectures he had arranged to deliver in Paris. A serious matter. + +That lectures by Professor Moorsom were a European event and that +brilliant audiences would gather to hear them Renouard did not know. All +he was aware of was the shock of this hint of departure. The menace of +separation fell on his head like a thunderbolt. And he saw the absurdity +of his emotion, for hadn’t he lived all these days under the very cloud? +The professor, his elbows spread out, looked down into the garden and +went on unburdening his mind. Yes. The department of sentiment was +directed by his daughter, and she had plenty of volunteered moral +support; but he had to look after the practical side of life without +assistance. + +“I have the less hesitation in speaking to you about my anxiety, because +I feel you are friendly to us and at the same time you are detached from +all these sublimities—confound them.” + +“What do you mean?” murmured Renouard. + +“I mean that you are capable of calm judgment. Here the atmosphere is +simply detestable. Everybody has knuckled under to sentiment. Perhaps +your deliberate opinion could influence . . .” + +“You want Miss Moorsom to give it up?” The professor turned to the young +man dismally. + +“Heaven only knows what I want.” + +Renouard leaning his back against the balustrade folded his arms on his +breast, appeared to meditate profoundly. His face, shaded softly by the +broad brim of a planter’s Panama hat, with the straight line of the nose +level with the forehead, the eyes lost in the depth of the setting, and +the chin well forward, had such a profile as may be seen amongst the +bronzes of classical museums, pure under a crested helmet—recalled +vaguely a Minerva’s head. + +“This is the most troublesome time I ever had in my life,” exclaimed the +professor testily. + +“Surely the man must be worth it,” muttered Renouard with a pang of +jealousy traversing his breast like a self-inflicted stab. + +Whether enervated by the heat or giving way to pent up irritation the +professor surrendered himself to the mood of sincerity. + +“He began by being a pleasantly dull boy. He developed into a +pointlessly clever young man, without, I suspect, ever trying to +understand anything. My daughter knew him from childhood. I am a busy +man, and I confess that their engagement was a complete surprise to me. +I wish their reasons for that step had been more naïve. But simplicity +was out of fashion in their set. From a worldly point of view he seems +to have been a mere baby. Of course, now, I am assured that he is the +victim of his noble confidence in the rectitude of his kind. But that’s +mere idealising of a sad reality. For my part I will tell you that from +the very beginning I had the gravest doubts of his dishonesty. +Unfortunately my clever daughter hadn’t. And now we behold the reaction. +No. To be earnestly dishonest one must be really poor. This was only a +manifestation of his extremely refined cleverness. The complicated +simpleton. He had an awful awakening though.” + +In such words did Professor Moorsom give his “young friend” to understand +the state of his feelings toward the lost man. It was evident that the +father of Miss Moorsom wished him to remain lost. Perhaps the +unprecedented heat of the season made him long for the cool spaces of the +Pacific, the sweep of the ocean’s free wind along the promenade decks, +cumbered with long chairs, of a ship steaming towards the Californian +coast. To Renouard the philosopher appeared simply the most treacherous +of fathers. He was amazed. But he was not at the end of his +discoveries. + +“He may be dead,” the professor murmured. + +“Why? People don’t die here sooner than in Europe. If he had gone to +hide in Italy, for instance, you wouldn’t think of saying that.” + +“Well! And suppose he has become morally disintegrated. You know he was +not a strong personality,” the professor suggested moodily. “My +daughter’s future is in question here.” + +Renouard thought that the love of such a woman was enough to pull any +broken man together—to drag a man out of his grave. And he thought this +with inward despair, which kept him silent as much almost as his +astonishment. At last he managed to stammer out a generous— + +“Oh! Don’t let us even suppose. . .” + +The professor struck in with a sadder accent than before— + +“It’s good to be young. And then you have been a man of action, and +necessarily a believer in success. But I have been looking too long at +life not to distrust its surprises. Age! Age! Here I stand before you +a man full of doubts and hesitation—_spe lentus_, _timidus futuri_.” + +He made a sign to Renouard not to interrupt, and in a lowered voice, as +if afraid of being overheard, even there, in the solitude of the terrace— + +“And the worst is that I am not even sure how far this sentimental +pilgrimage is genuine. Yes. I doubt my own child. It’s true that she’s +a woman. . . . ” + +Renouard detected with horror a tone of resentment, as if the professor +had never forgiven his daughter for not dying instead of his son. The +latter noticed the young man’s stony stare. + +“Ah! you don’t understand. Yes, she’s clever, open-minded, popular, +and—well, charming. But you don’t know what it is to have moved, +breathed, existed, and even triumphed in the mere smother and froth of +life—the brilliant froth. There thoughts, sentiments, opinions, +feelings, actions too, are nothing but agitation in empty space—to amuse +life—a sort of superior debauchery, exciting and fatiguing, meaning +nothing, leading nowhere. She is the creature of that circle. And I ask +myself if she is obeying the uneasiness of an instinct seeking its +satisfaction, or is it a revulsion of feeling, or is she merely deceiving +her own heart by this dangerous trifling with romantic images. And +everything is possible—except sincerity, such as only stark, struggling +humanity can know. No woman can stand that mode of life in which women +rule, and remain a perfectly genuine, simple human being. Ah! There’s +some people coming out.” + +He moved off a pace, then turning his head: “Upon my word! I would be +infinitely obliged to you if you could throw a little cold water. . . ” +and at a vaguely dismayed gesture of Renouard, he added: “Don’t be +afraid. You wouldn’t be putting out a sacred fire.” + +Renouard could hardly find words for a protest: “I assure you that I +never talk with Miss Moorsom—on—on—that. And if you, her father . . . ” + +“I envy you your innocence,” sighed the professor. “A father is only an +everyday person. Flat. Stale. Moreover, my child would naturally +mistrust me. We belong to the same set. Whereas you carry with you the +prestige of the unknown. You have proved yourself to be a force.” + +Thereupon the professor followed by Renouard joined the circle of all the +inmates of the house assembled at the other end of the terrace about a +tea-table; three white heads and that resplendent vision of woman’s +glory, the sight of which had the power to flutter his heart like a +reminder of the mortality of his frame. + +He avoided the seat by the side of Miss Moorsom. The others were talking +together languidly. Unnoticed he looked at that woman so marvellous that +centuries seemed to lie between them. He was oppressed and overcome at +the thought of what she could give to some man who really would be a +force! What a glorious struggle with this amazon. What noble burden for +the victorious strength. + +Dear old Mrs. Dunster was dispensing tea, looking from time to time with +interest towards Miss Moorsom. The aged statesman having eaten a raw +tomato and drunk a glass of milk (a habit of his early farming days, long +before politics, when, pioneer of wheat-growing, he demonstrated the +possibility of raising crops on ground looking barren enough to +discourage a magician), smoothed his white beard, and struck lightly +Renouard’s knee with his big wrinkled hand. + +“You had better come back to-night and dine with us quietly.” + +He liked this young man, a pioneer, too, in more than one direction. +Mrs. Dunster added: “Do. It will be very quiet. I don’t even know if +Willie will be home for dinner.” Renouard murmured his thanks, and left +the terrace to go on board the schooner. While lingering in the +drawing-room doorway he heard the resonant voice of old Dunster uttering +oracularly— + +“. . . the leading man here some day. . . . Like me.” + +Renouard let the thin summer portière of the doorway fall behind him. +The voice of Professor Moorsom said— + +“I am told that he has made an enemy of almost every man who had to work +with him.” + +“That’s nothing. He did his work. . . . Like me.” + +“He never counted the cost they say. Not even of lives.” + +Renouard understood that they were talking of him. Before he could move +away, Mrs. Dunster struck in placidly— + +“Don’t let yourself be shocked by the tales you may hear of him, my dear. +Most of it is envy.” + +Then he heard Miss Moorsom’s voice replying to the old lady— + +“Oh! I am not easily deceived. I think I may say I have an instinct for +truth.” + +He hastened away from that house with his heart full of dread. + + + +CHAPTER VI + + +On board the schooner, lying on the settee on his back with the knuckles +of his hands pressed over his eyes, he made up his mind that he would not +return to that house for dinner—that he would never go back there any +more. He made up his mind some twenty times. The knowledge that he had +only to go up on the quarter deck, utter quietly the words: “Man the +windlass,” and that the schooner springing into life would run a hundred +miles out to sea before sunrise, deceived his struggling will. Nothing +easier! Yet, in the end, this young man, almost ill-famed for his +ruthless daring, the inflexible leader of two tragically successful +expeditions, shrank from that act of savage energy, and began, instead, +to hunt for excuses. + +No! It was not for him to run away like an incurable who cuts his +throat. He finished dressing and looked at his own impassive face in the +saloon mirror scornfully. While being pulled on shore in the gig, he +remembered suddenly the wild beauty of a waterfall seen when hardly more +than a boy, years ago, in Menado. There was a legend of a +governor-general of the Dutch East Indies, on official tour, committing +suicide on that spot by leaping into the chasm. It was supposed that a +painful disease had made him weary of life. But was there ever a +visitation like his own, at the same time binding one to life and so +cruelly mortal! + +The dinner was indeed quiet. Willie, given half an hour’s grace, failed +to turn up, and his chair remained vacant by the side of Miss Moorsom. +Renouard had the professor’s sister on his left, dressed in an expensive +gown becoming her age. That maiden lady in her wonderful preservation +reminded Renouard somehow of a wax flower under glass. There were no +traces of the dust of life’s battles on her anywhere. She did not like +him very much in the afternoons, in his white drill suit and planter’s +hat, which seemed to her an unduly Bohemian costume for calling in a +house where there were ladies. But in the evening, lithe and elegant in +his dress clothes and with his pleasant, slightly veiled voice, he always +made her conquest afresh. He might have been anybody distinguished—the +son of a duke. Falling under that charm probably (and also because her +brother had given her a hint), she attempted to open her heart to +Renouard, who was watching with all the power of his soul her niece +across the table. She spoke to him as frankly as though that miserable +mortal envelope, emptied of everything but hopeless passion, were indeed +the son of a duke. + +Inattentive, he heard her only in snatches, till the final confidential +burst: “. . . glad if you would express an opinion. Look at her, so +charming, such a great favourite, so generally admired! It would be too +sad. We all hoped she would make a brilliant marriage with somebody very +rich and of high position, have a house in London and in the country, and +entertain us all splendidly. She’s so eminently fitted for it. She has +such hosts of distinguished friends! And then—this instead! . . . My +heart really aches.” + +Her well-bred if anxious whisper was covered by the voice of professor +Moorsom discoursing subtly down the short length of the dinner table on +the Impermanency of the Measurable to his venerable disciple. It might +have been a chapter in a new and popular book of Moorsomian philosophy. +Patriarchal and delighted, old Dunster leaned forward a little, his eyes +shining youthfully, two spots of colour at the roots of his white beard; +and Renouard, glancing at the senile excitement, recalled the words heard +on those subtle lips, adopted their scorn for his own, saw their truth +before this man ready to be amused by the side of the grave. Yes! +Intellectual debauchery in the froth of existence! Froth and fraud! + +On the same side of the table Miss Moorsom never once looked towards her +father, all her grace as if frozen, her red lips compressed, the faintest +rosiness under her dazzling complexion, her black eyes burning +motionless, and the very coppery gleams of light lying still on the waves +and undulation of her hair. Renouard fancied himself overturning the +table, smashing crystal and china, treading fruit and flowers under foot, +seizing her in his arms, carrying her off in a tumult of shrieks from all +these people, a silent frightened mortal, into some profound retreat as +in the age of Cavern men. Suddenly everybody got up, and he hastened to +rise too, finding himself out of breath and quite unsteady on his feet. + +On the terrace the philosopher, after lighting a cigar, slipped his hand +condescendingly under his “dear young friend’s” arm. Renouard regarded +him now with the profoundest mistrust. But the great man seemed really +to have a liking for his young friend—one of those mysterious sympathies, +disregarding the differences of age and position, which in this case +might have been explained by the failure of philosophy to meet a very +real worry of a practical kind. + +After a turn or two and some casual talk the professor said suddenly: “My +late son was in your school—do you know? I can imagine that had he lived +and you had ever met you would have understood each other. He too was +inclined to action.” + +He sighed, then, shaking off the mournful thought and with a nod at the +dusky part of the terrace where the dress of his daughter made a luminous +stain: “I really wish you would drop in that quarter a few sensible, +discouraging words.” + +Renouard disengaged himself from that most perfidious of men under the +pretence of astonishment, and stepping back a pace— + +“Surely you are making fun of me, Professor Moorsom,” he said with a low +laugh, which was really a sound of rage. + +“My dear young friend! It’s no subject for jokes, to me. . . You don’t +seem to have any notion of your prestige,” he added, walking away towards +the chairs. + +“Humbug!” thought Renouard, standing still and looking after him. “And +yet! And yet! What if it were true?” + +He advanced then towards Miss Moorsom. Posed on the seat on which they +had first spoken to each other, it was her turn to watch him coming on. +But many of the windows were not lighted that evening. It was dark over +there. She appeared to him luminous in her clear dress, a figure without +shape, a face without features, awaiting his approach, till he got quite +near to her, sat down, and they had exchanged a few insignificant words. +Gradually she came out like a magic painting of charm, fascination, and +desire, glowing mysteriously on the dark background. Something +imperceptible in the lines of her attitude, in the modulations of her +voice, seemed to soften that suggestion of calm unconscious pride which +enveloped her always like a mantle. He, sensitive like a bond slave to +the moods of the master, was moved by the subtle relenting of her grace +to an infinite tenderness. He fought down the impulse to seize her by +the hand, lead her down into the garden away under the big trees, and +throw himself at her feet uttering words of love. His emotion was so +strong that he had to cough slightly, and not knowing what to talk to her +about he began to tell her of his mother and sisters. All the family +were coming to London to live there, for some little time at least. + +“I hope you will go and tell them something of me. Something seen,” he +said pressingly. + +By this miserable subterfuge, like a man about to part with his life, he +hoped to make her remember him a little longer. + +“Certainly,” she said. “I’ll be glad to call when I get back. But that +‘when’ may be a long time.” + +He heard a light sigh. A cruel jealous curiosity made him ask— + +“Are you growing weary, Miss Moorsom?” + +A silence fell on his low spoken question. + +“Do you mean heart-weary?” sounded Miss Moorsom’s voice. “You don’t know +me, I see.” + +“Ah! Never despair,” he muttered. + +“This, Mr. Renouard, is a work of reparation. I stand for truth here. I +can’t think of myself.” + +He could have taken her by the throat for every word seemed an insult to +his passion; but he only said— + +“I never doubted the—the—nobility of your purpose.” + +“And to hear the word weariness pronounced in this connection surprises +me. And from a man too who, I understand, has never counted the cost.” + +“You are pleased to tease me,” he said, directly he had recovered his +voice and had mastered his anger. It was as if Professor Moorsom had +dropped poison in his ear which was spreading now and tainting his +passion, his very jealousy. He mistrusted every word that came from +those lips on which his life hung. “How can you know anything of men who +do not count the cost?” he asked in his gentlest tones. + +“From hearsay—a little.” + +“Well, I assure you they are like the others, subject to suffering, +victims of spells. . . .” + +“One of them, at least, speaks very strangely.” + +She dismissed the subject after a short silence. “Mr. Renouard, I had a +disappointment this morning. This mail brought me a letter from the +widow of the old butler—you know. I expected to learn that she had heard +from—from here. But no. No letter arrived home since we left.” + +Her voice was calm. His jealousy couldn’t stand much more of this sort +of talk; but he was glad that nothing had turned up to help the search; +glad blindly, unreasonably—only because it would keep her longer in his +sight—since she wouldn’t give up. + +“I am too near her,” he thought, moving a little further on the seat. He +was afraid in the revulsion of feeling of flinging himself on her hands, +which were lying on her lap, and covering them with kisses. He was +afraid. Nothing, nothing could shake that spell—not if she were ever so +false, stupid, or degraded. She was fate itself. The extent of his +misfortune plunged him in such a stupor that he failed at first to hear +the sound of voices and footsteps inside the drawing-room. Willie had +come home—and the Editor was with him. + +They burst out on the terrace babbling noisily, and then pulling +themselves together stood still, surprising—and as if themselves +surprised. + + + +CHAPTER VII + + +They had been feasting a poet from the bush, the latest discovery of the +Editor. Such discoveries were the business, the vocation, the pride and +delight of the only apostle of letters in the hemisphere, the solitary +patron of culture, the Slave of the Lamp—as he subscribed himself at the +bottom of the weekly literary page of his paper. He had had no +difficulty in persuading the virtuous Willie (who had festive instincts) +to help in the good work, and now they had left the poet lying asleep on +the hearthrug of the editorial room and had rushed to the Dunster mansion +wildly. The Editor had another discovery to announce. Swaying a little +where he stood he opened his mouth very wide to shout the one word +“Found!” Behind him Willie flung both his hands above his head and let +them fall dramatically. Renouard saw the four white-headed people at the +end of the terrace rise all together from their chairs with an effect of +sudden panic. + +“I tell you—he—is—found,” the patron of letters shouted emphatically. + +“What is this!” exclaimed Renouard in a choked voice. Miss Moorsom +seized his wrist suddenly, and at that contact fire ran through all his +veins, a hot stillness descended upon him in which he heard the blood—or +the fire—beating in his ears. He made a movement as if to rise, but was +restrained by the convulsive pressure on his wrist. + +“No, no.” Miss Moorsom’s eyes stared black as night, searching the space +before her. Far away the Editor strutted forward, Willie following with +his ostentatious manner of carrying his bulky and oppressive carcass +which, however, did not remain exactly perpendicular for two seconds +together. + +“The innocent Arthur . . . Yes. We’ve got him,” the Editor became very +business-like. “Yes, this letter has done it.” + +He plunged into an inside pocket for it, slapped the scrap of paper with +his open palm. “From that old woman. William had it in his pocket since +this morning when Miss Moorsom gave it to him to show me. Forgot all +about it till an hour ago. Thought it was of no importance. Well, no! +Not till it was properly read.” + +Renouard and Miss Moorsom emerged from the shadows side by side, a +well-matched couple, animated yet statuesque in their calmness and in +their pallor. She had let go his wrist. On catching sight of Renouard +the Editor exclaimed: + +“What—you here!” in a quite shrill voice. + +There came a dead pause. All the faces had in them something dismayed +and cruel. + +“He’s the very man we want,” continued the Editor. “Excuse my +excitement. You are the very man, Renouard. Didn’t you tell me that +your assistant called himself Walter? Yes? Thought so. But here’s that +old woman—the butler’s wife—listen to this. She writes: All I can tell +you, Miss, is that my poor husband directed his letters to the name of H. +Walter.” + +Renouard’s violent but repressed exclamation was lost in a general murmur +and shuffle of feet. The Editor made a step forward, bowed with +creditable steadiness. + +“Miss Moorsom, allow me to congratulate you from the bottom of my heart +on the happy—er—issue. . . ” + +“Wait,” muttered Renouard irresolutely. + +The Editor jumped on him in the manner of their old friendship. “Ah, +you! You are a fine fellow too. With your solitary ways of life you +will end by having no more discrimination than a savage. Fancy living +with a gentleman for months and never guessing. A man, I am certain, +accomplished, remarkable, out of the common, since he had been +distinguished” (he bowed again) “by Miss Moorsom, whom we all admire.” + +She turned her back on him. + +“I hope to goodness you haven’t been leading him a dog’s life, Geoffrey,” +the Editor addressed his friend in a whispered aside. + +Renouard seized a chair violently, sat down, and propping his elbow on +his knee leaned his head on his hand. Behind him the sister of the +professor looked up to heaven and wrung her hands stealthily. Mrs. +Dunster’s hands were clasped forcibly under her chin, but she, dear soul, +was looking sorrowfully at Willie. The model nephew! In this strange +state! So very much flushed! The careful disposition of the thin hairs +across Willie’s bald spot was deplorably disarranged, and the spot itself +was red and, as it were, steaming. + +“What’s the matter, Geoffrey?” The Editor seemed disconcerted by the +silent attitudes round him, as though he had expected all these people to +shout and dance. “You have him on the island—haven’t you?” + +“Oh, yes: I have him there,” said Renouard, without looking up. + +“Well, then!” The Editor looked helplessly around as if begging for +response of some sort. But the only response that came was very +unexpected. Annoyed at being left in the background, and also because +very little drink made him nasty, the emotional Willie turned malignant +all at once, and in a bibulous tone surprising in a man able to keep his +balance so well— + +“Aha! But you haven’t got him here—not yet!” he sneered. “No! You +haven’t got him yet.” + +This outrageous exhibition was to the Editor like the lash to a jaded +horse. He positively jumped. + +“What of that? What do you mean? We—haven’t—got—him—here. Of course he +isn’t here! But Geoffrey’s schooner is here. She can be sent at once to +fetch him here. No! Stay! There’s a better plan. Why shouldn’t you +all sail over to Malata, professor? Save time! I am sure Miss Moorsom +would prefer. . .” + +With a gallant flourish of his arm he looked for Miss Moorsom. She had +disappeared. He was taken aback somewhat. + +“Ah! H’m. Yes. . . . Why not. A pleasure cruise, delightful ship, +delightful season, delightful errand, del . . . No! There are no +objections. Geoffrey, I understand, has indulged in a bungalow three +sizes too large for him. He can put you all up. It will be a pleasure +for him. It will be the greatest privilege. Any man would be proud of +being an agent of this happy reunion. I am proud of the little part I’ve +played. He will consider it the greatest honour. Geoff, my boy, you had +better be stirring to-morrow bright and early about the preparations for +the trip. It would be criminal to lose a single day.” + +He was as flushed as Willie, the excitement keeping up the effect of the +festive dinner. For a time Renouard, silent, as if he had not heard a +word of all that babble, did not stir. But when he got up it was to +advance towards the Editor and give him such a hearty slap on the back +that the plump little man reeled in his tracks and looked quite +frightened for a moment. + +“You are a heaven-born discoverer and a first-rate manager. . . He’s +right. It’s the only way. You can’t resist the claim of sentiment, and +you must even risk the voyage to Malata. . . ” Renouard’s voice sank. “A +lonely spot,” he added, and fell into thought under all these eyes +converging on him in the sudden silence. His slow glance passed over all +the faces in succession, remaining arrested on Professor Moorsom, stony +eyed, a smouldering cigar in his fingers, and with his sister standing by +his side. + +“I shall be infinitely gratified if you consent to come. But, of course, +you will. We shall sail to-morrow evening then. And now let me leave +you to your happiness.” + +He bowed, very grave, pointed suddenly his finger at Willie who was +swaying about with a sleepy frown. . . . “Look at him. He’s overcome +with happiness. You had better put him to bed . . . ” and disappeared +while every head on the terrace was turned to Willie with varied +expressions. + +Renouard ran through the house. Avoiding the carriage road he fled down +the steep short cut to the shore, where his gig was waiting. At his loud +shout the sleeping Kanakas jumped up. He leaped in. “Shove off. Give +way!” and the gig darted through the water. “Give way! Give way!” She +flew past the wool-clippers sleeping at their anchors each with the open +unwinking eye of the lamp in the rigging; she flew past the flagship of +the Pacific squadron, a great mass all dark and silent, heavy with the +slumbers of five hundred men, and where the invisible sentries heard his +urgent “Give way! Give way!” in the night. The Kanakas, panting, rose +off the thwarts at every stroke. Nothing could be fast enough for him! +And he ran up the side of his schooner shaking the ladder noisily with +his rush. + +On deck he stumbled and stood still. + +Wherefore this haste? To what end, since he knew well before he started +that he had a pursuer from whom there was no escape. + +As his foot touched the deck his will, his purpose he had been hurrying +to save, died out within. It had been nothing less than getting the +schooner under-way, letting her vanish silently in the night from amongst +these sleeping ships. And now he was certain he could not do it. It was +impossible! And he reflected that whether he lived or died such an act +would lay him under a dark suspicion from which he shrank. No, there was +nothing to be done. + +He went down into the cabin and, before even unbuttoning his overcoat, +took out of the drawer the letter addressed to his assistant; that letter +which he had found in the pigeon-hole labelled “Malata” in young +Dunster’s outer office, where it had been waiting for three months some +occasion for being forwarded. From the moment of dropping it in the +drawer he had utterly forgotten its existence—till now, when the man’s +name had come out so clamorously. He glanced at the common envelope, +noted the shaky and laborious handwriting: H. Walter, Esqre. Undoubtedly +the very last letter the old butler had posted before his illness, and in +answer clearly to one from “Master Arthur” instructing him to address in +the future: “Care of Messrs. W. Dunster and Co.” Renouard made as if to +open the envelope, but paused, and, instead, tore the letter deliberately +in two, in four, in eight. With his hand full of pieces of paper he +returned on deck and scattered them overboard on the dark water, in which +they vanished instantly. + +He did it slowly, without hesitation or remorse. H. Walter, Esqre, in +Malata. The innocent Arthur—What was his name? The man sought for by +that woman who as she went by seemed to draw all the passion of the earth +to her, without effort, not deigning to notice, naturally, as other women +breathed the air. But Renouard was no longer jealous of her very +existence. Whatever its meaning it was not for that man he had picked up +casually on obscure impulse, to get rid of the tiresome expostulations of +a so-called friend; a man of whom he really knew nothing—and now a dead +man. In Malata. Oh, yes! He was there secure enough, untroubled in his +grave. In Malata. To bury him was the last service Renouard had +rendered to his assistant before leaving the island on this trip to town. + +Like many men ready enough for arduous enterprises Renouard was inclined +to evade the small complications of existence. This trait of his +character was composed of a little indolence, some disdain, and a +shrinking from contests with certain forms of vulgarity—like a man who +would face a lion and go out of his way to avoid a toad. His intercourse +with the meddlesome journalist was that merely outward intimacy without +sympathy some young men get drawn into easily. It had amused him rather +to keep that “friend” in the dark about the fate of his assistant. +Renouard had never needed other company than his own, for there was in +him something of the sensitiveness of a dreamer who is easily jarred. He +had said to himself that the all-knowing one would only preach again +about the evils of solitude and worry his head off in favour of some +forlornly useless protégé of his. Also the inquisitiveness of the Editor +had irritated him and had closed his lips in sheer disgust. + +And now he contemplated the noose of consequences drawing tight around +him. + +It was the memory of that diplomatic reticence which on the terrace had +stiffled his first cry which would have told them all that the man sought +for was not to be met on earth any more. He shrank from the absurdity of +hearing the all-knowing one, and not very sober at that, turning on him +with righteous reproaches— + +“You never told me. You gave me to understand that your assistant was +alive, and now you say he’s dead. Which is it? Were you lying then or +are you lying now?” No! the thought of such a scene was not to be borne. +He had sat down appalled, thinking: “What shall I do now?” + +His courage had oozed out of him. Speaking the truth meant the Moorsoms +going away at once—while it seemed to him that he would give the last +shred of his rectitude to secure a day more of her company. He sat +on—silent. Slowly, from confused sensations, from his talk with the +professor, the manner of the girl herself, the intoxicating familiarity +of her sudden hand-clasp, there had come to him a half glimmer of hope. +The other man was dead. Then! . . . Madness, of course—but he could not +give it up. He had listened to that confounded busybody arranging +everything—while all these people stood around assenting, under the spell +of that dead romance. He had listened scornful and silent. The glimmers +of hope, of opportunity, passed before his eyes. He had only to sit +still and say nothing. That and no more. And what was truth to him in +the face of that great passion which had flung him prostrate in spirit at +her adored feet! + +And now it was done! Fatality had willed it! With the eyes of a mortal +struck by the maddening thunderbolt of the gods, Renouard looked up to +the sky, an immense black pall dusted over with gold, on which great +shudders seemed to pass from the breath of life affirming its sway. + + + +CHAPTER VIII + + +At last, one morning, in a clear spot of a glassy horizon charged with +heraldic masses of black vapours, the island grew out from the sea, +showing here and there its naked members of basaltic rock through the +rents of heavy foliage. Later, in the great spilling of all the riches +of sunset, Malata stood out green and rosy before turning into a violet +shadow in the autumnal light of the expiring day. Then came the night. +In the faint airs the schooner crept on past a sturdy squat headland, and +it was pitch dark when her headsails ran down, she turned short on her +heel, and her anchor bit into the sandy bottom on the edge of the outer +reef; for it was too dangerous then to attempt entering the little bay +full of shoals. After the last solemn flutter of the mainsail the +murmuring voices of the Moorsom party lingered, very frail, in the black +stillness. + +They were sitting aft, on chairs, and nobody made a move. Early in the +day, when it had become evident that the wind was failing, Renouard, +basing his advice on the shortcomings of his bachelor establishment, had +urged on the ladies the advisability of not going ashore in the middle of +the night. Now he approached them in a constrained manner (it was +astonishing the constraint that had reigned between him and his guests +all through the passage) and renewed his arguments. No one ashore would +dream of his bringing any visitors with him. Nobody would even think of +coming off. There was only one old canoe on the plantation. And landing +in the schooner’s boats would be awkward in the dark. There was the risk +of getting aground on some shallow patches. It would be best to spend +the rest of the night on board. + +There was really no opposition. The professor smoking a pipe, and very +comfortable in an ulster buttoned over his tropical clothes, was the +first to speak from his long chair. + +“Most excellent advice.” + +Next to him Miss Moorsom assented by a long silence. Then in a voice as +of one coming out of a dream— + +“And so this is Malata,” she said. “I have often wondered . . .” + +A shiver passed through Renouard. She had wondered! What about? Malata +was himself. He and Malata were one. And she had wondered! She had . . . + +The professor’s sister leaned over towards Renouard. Through all these +days at sea the man’s—the found man’s—existence had not been alluded to +on board the schooner. That reticence was part of the general constraint +lying upon them all. She, herself, certainly had not been exactly elated +by this finding—poor Arthur, without money, without prospects. But she +felt moved by the sentiment and romance of the situation. + +“Isn’t it wonderful,” she whispered out of her white wrap, “to think of +poor Arthur sleeping there, so near to our dear lovely Felicia, and not +knowing the immense joy in store for him to-morrow.” + +There was such artificiality in the wax-flower lady that nothing in this +speech touched Renouard. It was but the simple anxiety of his heart that +he was voicing when he muttered gloomily— + +“No one in the world knows what to-morrow may hold in store.” + +The mature lady had a recoil as though he had said something impolite. +What a harsh thing to say—instead of finding something nice and +appropriate. On board, where she never saw him in evening clothes, +Renouard’s resemblance to a duke’s son was not so apparent to her. +Nothing but his—ah—bohemianism remained. She rose with a sort of +ostentation. + +“It’s late—and since we are going to sleep on board to-night . . .” she +said. “But it does seem so cruel.” + +The professor started up eagerly, knocking the ashes out of his pipe. +“Infinitely more sensible, my dear Emma.” + +Renouard waited behind Miss Moorsom’s chair. + +She got up slowly, moved one step forward, and paused looking at the +shore. The blackness of the island blotted out the stars with its vague +mass like a low thundercloud brooding over the waters and ready to burst +into flame and crashes. + +“And so—this is Malata,” she repeated dreamily, moving towards the cabin +door. The clear cloak hanging from her shoulders, the ivory face—for the +night had put out nothing of her but the gleams of her hair—made her +resemble a shining dream-woman uttering words of wistful inquiry. She +disappeared without a sign, leaving Renouard penetrated to the very +marrow by the sounds that came from her body like a mysterious resonance +of an exquisite instrument. + +He stood stock still. What was this accidental touch which had evoked +the strange accent of her voice? He dared not answer that question. But +he had to answer the question of what was to be done now. Had the moment +of confession come? The thought was enough to make one’s blood run cold. + +It was as if those people had a premonition of something. In the +taciturn days of the passage he had noticed their reserve even amongst +themselves. The professor smoked his pipe moodily in retired spots. +Renouard had caught Miss Moorsom’s eyes resting on himself more than +once, with a peculiar and grave expression. He fancied that she avoided +all opportunities of conversation. The maiden lady seemed to nurse a +grievance. And now what had he to do? + +The lights on the deck had gone out one after the other. The schooner +slept. + +About an hour after Miss Moorsom had gone below without a sign or a word +for him, Renouard got out of his hammock slung in the waist under the +midship awning—for he had given up all the accommodation below to his +guests. He got out with a sudden swift movement, flung off his sleeping +jacket, rolled his pyjamas up his thighs, and stole forward, unseen by +the one Kanaka of the anchor-watch. His white torso, naked like a +stripped athlete’s, glimmered, ghostly, in the deep shadows of the deck. +Unnoticed he got out of the ship over the knight-heads, ran along the +back rope, and seizing the dolphin-striker firmly with both hands, +lowered himself into the sea without a splash. + +He swam away, noiseless like a fish, and then struck boldly for the land, +sustained, embraced, by the tepid water. The gentle, voluptuous heave of +its breast swung him up and down slightly; sometimes a wavelet murmured +in his ears; from time to time, lowering his feet, he felt for the bottom +on a shallow patch to rest and correct his direction. He landed at the +lower end of the bungalow garden, into the dead stillness of the island. +There were no lights. The plantation seemed to sleep, as profoundly as +the schooner. On the path a small shell cracked under his naked heel. + +The faithful half-caste foreman going his rounds cocked his ears at the +sharp sound. He gave one enormous start of fear at the sight of the +swift white figure flying at him out of the night. He crouched in +terror, and then sprang up and clicked his tongue in amazed recognition. + +“Tse! Tse! The master!” + +“Be quiet, Luiz, and listen to what I say.” + +Yes, it was the master, the strong master who was never known to raise +his voice, the man blindly obeyed and never questioned. He talked low +and rapidly in the quiet night, as if every minute were precious. On +learning that three guests were coming to stay Luiz clicked his tongue +rapidly. These clicks were the uniform, stenographic symbols of his +emotions, and he could give them an infinite variety of meaning. He +listened to the rest in a deep silence hardly affected by the low, “Yes, +master,” whenever Renouard paused. + +“You understand?” the latter insisted. “No preparations are to be made +till we land in the morning. And you are to say that Mr. Walter has gone +off in a trading schooner on a round of the islands.” + +“Yes, master.” + +“No mistakes—mind!” + +“No, master.” + +Renouard walked back towards the sea. Luiz, following him, proposed to +call out half a dozen boys and man the canoe. + +“Imbecile!” + +“Tse! Tse! Tse!” + +“Don’t you understand that you haven’t seen me?” + +“Yes, master. But what a long swim. Suppose you drown.” + +“Then you can say of me and of Mr. Walter what you like. The dead don’t +mind.” + +Renouard entered the sea and heard a faint “Tse! Tse! Tse!” of concern +from the half-caste, who had already lost sight of the master’s dark head +on the overshadowed water. + +Renouard set his direction by a big star that, dipping on the horizon, +seemed to look curiously into his face. On this swim back he felt the +mournful fatigue of all that length of the traversed road, which brought +him no nearer to his desire. It was as if his love had sapped the +invisible supports of his strength. There came a moment when it seemed +to him that he must have swum beyond the confines of life. He had a +sensation of eternity close at hand, demanding no effort—offering its +peace. It was easy to swim like this beyond the confines of life looking +at a star. But the thought: “They will think I dared not face them and +committed suicide,” caused a revolt of his mind which carried him on. He +returned on board, as he had left, unheard and unseen. He lay in his +hammock utterly exhausted and with a confused feeling that he had been +beyond the confines of life, somewhere near a star, and that it was very +quiet there. + + + +CHAPTER IX + + +Sheltered by the squat headland from the first morning sparkle of the sea +the little bay breathed a delicious freshness. The party from the +schooner landed at the bottom of the garden. They exchanged +insignificant words in studiously casual tones. The professor’s sister +put up a long-handled eye-glass as if to scan the novel surroundings, but +in reality searching for poor Arthur anxiously. Having never seen him +otherwise than in his town clothes she had no idea what he would look +like. It had been left to the professor to help his ladies out of the +boat because Renouard, as if intent on giving directions, had stepped +forward at once to meet the half-caste Luiz hurrying down the path. In +the distance, in front of the dazzlingly sunlit bungalow, a row of +dark-faced house-boys unequal in stature and varied in complexion +preserved the immobility of a guard of honour. + +Luiz had taken off his soft felt hat before coming within earshot. +Renouard bent his head to his rapid talk of domestic arrangements he +meant to make for the visitors; another bed in the master’s room for the +ladies and a cot for the gentleman to be hung in the room opposite +where—where Mr. Walter—here he gave a scared look all round—Mr. +Walter—had died. + +“Very good,” assented Renouard in an even undertone. “And remember what +you have to say of him.” + +“Yes, master. Only”—he wriggled slightly and put one bare foot on the +other for a moment in apologetic embarrassment—“only I—I—don’t like to +say it.” + +Renouard looked at him without anger, without any sort of expression. +“Frightened of the dead? Eh? Well—all right. I will say it myself—I +suppose once for all. . . .” Immediately he raised his voice very much. + +“Send the boys down to bring up the luggage.” + +“Yes, master.” + +Renouard turned to his distinguished guests who, like a personally +conducted party of tourists, had stopped and were looking about them. + +“I am sorry,” he began with an impassive face. “My man has just told me +that Mr. Walter . . .” he managed to smile, but didn’t correct himself . +. . “has gone in a trading schooner on a short tour of the islands, to +the westward.” + +This communication was received in profound silence. + +Renouard forgot himself in the thought: “It’s done!” But the sight of +the string of boys marching up to the house with suit-cases and +dressing-bags rescued him from that appalling abstraction. + +“All I can do is to beg you to make yourselves at home . . . with what +patience you may.” + +This was so obviously the only thing to do that everybody moved on at +once. The professor walked alongside Renouard, behind the two ladies. + +“Rather unexpected—this absence.” + +“Not exactly,” muttered Renouard. “A trip has to be made every year to +engage labour.” + +“I see . . . And he . . . How vexingly elusive the poor fellow has +become! I’ll begin to think that some wicked fairy is favouring this +love tale with unpleasant attentions.” + +Renouard noticed that the party did not seem weighed down by this new +disappointment. On the contrary they moved with a freer step. The +professor’s sister dropped her eye-glass to the end of its chain. Miss +Moorsom took the lead. The professor, his lips unsealed, lingered in the +open: but Renouard did not listen to that man’s talk. He looked after +that man’s daughter—if indeed that creature of irresistible seductions +were a daughter of mortals. The very intensity of his desire, as if his +soul were streaming after her through his eyes, defeated his object of +keeping hold of her as long as possible with, at least, one of his +senses. Her moving outlines dissolved into a misty coloured shimmer of a +woman made of flame and shadows, crossing the threshold of his house. + +The days which followed were not exactly such as Renouard had feared—yet +they were not better than his fears. They were accursed in all the moods +they brought him. But the general aspect of things was quiet. The +professor smoked innumerable pipes with the air of a worker on his +holiday, always in movement and looking at things with that mysteriously +sagacious aspect of men who are admittedly wiser than the rest of the +world. His white head of hair—whiter than anything within the horizon +except the broken water on the reefs—was glimpsed in every part of the +plantation always on the move under the white parasol. And once he +climbed the headland and appeared suddenly to those below, a white speck +elevated in the blue, with a diminutive but statuesque effect. + +Felicia Moorsom remained near the house. Sometimes she could be seen +with a despairing expression scribbling rapidly in her lock-up dairy. +But only for a moment. At the sound of Renouard’s footsteps she would +turn towards him her beautiful face, adorable in that calm which was like +a wilful, like a cruel ignoring of her tremendous power. Whenever she +sat on the verandah, on a chair more specially reserved for her use, +Renouard would stroll up and sit on the steps near her, mostly silent, +and often not trusting himself to turn his glance on her. She, very +still with her eyes half-closed, looked down on his head—so that to a +beholder (such as Professor Moorsom, for instance) she would appear to be +turning over in her mind profound thoughts about that man sitting at her +feet, his shoulders bowed a little, his hands listless—as if vanquished. +And, indeed, the moral poison of falsehood has such a decomposing power +that Renouard felt his old personality turn to dead dust. Often, in the +evening, when they sat outside conversing languidly in the dark, he felt +that he must rest his forehead on her feet and burst into tears. + +The professor’s sister suffered from some little strain caused by the +unstability of her own feelings toward Renouard. She could not tell +whether she really did dislike him or not. At times he appeared to her +most fascinating; and, though he generally ended by saying something +shockingly crude, she could not resist her inclination to talk with +him—at least not always. One day when her niece had left them alone on +the verandah she leaned forward in her chair—speckless, resplendent, and, +in her way, almost as striking a personality as her niece, who did not +resemble her in the least. “Dear Felicia has inherited her hair and the +greatest part of her appearance from her mother,” the maiden lady used to +tell people. + +She leaned forward then, confidentially. + +“Oh! Mr. Renouard! Haven’t you something comforting to say?” + +He looked up, as surprised as if a voice from heaven had spoken with this +perfect society intonation, and by the puzzled profundity of his blue +eyes fluttered the wax-flower of refined womanhood. She continued. +“For—I can speak to you openly on this tiresome subject—only think what a +terrible strain this hope deferred must be for Felicia’s heart—for her +nerves.” + +“Why speak to me about it,” he muttered feeling half choked suddenly. + +“Why! As a friend—a well-wisher—the kindest of hosts. I am afraid we +are really eating you out of house and home.” She laughed a little. +“Ah! When, when will this suspense be relieved! That poor lost Arthur! +I confess that I am almost afraid of the great moment. It will be like +seeing a ghost.” + +“Have you ever seen a ghost?” asked Renouard, in a dull voice. + +She shifted her hands a little. Her pose was perfect in its ease and +middle-aged grace. + +“Not actually. Only in a photograph. But we have many friends who had +the experience of apparitions.” + +“Ah! They see ghosts in London,” mumbled Renouard, not looking at her. + +“Frequently—in a certain very interesting set. But all sorts of people +do. We have a friend, a very famous author—his ghost is a girl. One of +my brother’s intimates is a very great man of science. He is friendly +with a ghost . . . Of a girl too,” she added in a voice as if struck for +the first time by the coincidence. “It is the photograph of that +apparition which I have seen. Very sweet. Most interesting. A little +cloudy naturally. . . . Mr. Renouard! I hope you are not a sceptic. +It’s so consoling to think. . .” + +“Those plantation boys of mine see ghosts too,” said Renouard grimly. + +The sister of the philosopher sat up stiffly. What crudeness! It was +always so with this strange young man. + +“Mr. Renouard! How can you compare the superstitious fancies of your +horrible savages with the manifestations . . . ” + +Words failed her. She broke off with a very faint primly angry smile. +She was perhaps the more offended with him because of that flutter at the +beginning of the conversation. And in a moment with perfect tact and +dignity she got up from her chair and left him alone. + +Renouard didn’t even look up. It was not the displeasure of the lady +which deprived him of his sleep that night. He was beginning to forget +what simple, honest sleep was like. His hammock from the ship had been +hung for him on a side verandah, and he spent his nights in it on his +back, his hands folded on his chest, in a sort of half conscious, +oppressed stupor. In the morning he watched with unseeing eyes the +headland come out a shapeless inkblot against the thin light of the false +dawn, pass through all the stages of daybreak to the deep purple of its +outlined mass nimbed gloriously with the gold of the rising sun. He +listened to the vague sounds of waking within the house: and suddenly he +became aware of Luiz standing by the hammock—obviously troubled. + +“What’s the matter?” + +“Tse! Tse! Tse!” + +“Well, what now? Trouble with the boys?” + +“No, master. The gentleman when I take him his bath water he speak to +me. He ask me—he ask—when, when, I think Mr. Walter, he come back.” + +The half-caste’s teeth chattered slightly. Renouard got out of the +hammock. + +“And he is here all the time—eh?” + +Luiz nodded a scared affirmative, but at once protested, “I no see him. +I never. Not I! The ignorant wild boys say they see . . . Something! +Ough!” + +He clapped his teeth on another short rattle, and stood there, shrunk, +blighted, like a man in a freezing blast. + +“And what did you say to the gentleman?” + +“I say I don’t know—and I clear out. I—I don’t like to speak of him.” + +“All right. We shall try to lay that poor ghost,” said Renouard +gloomily, going off to a small hut near by to dress. He was saying to +himself: “This fellow will end by giving me away. The last thing that I +. . . No! That mustn’t be.” And feeling his hand being forced he +discovered the whole extent of his cowardice. + + + +CHAPTER X + + +That morning wandering about his plantation, more like a frightened soul +than its creator and master, he dodged the white parasol bobbing up here +and there like a buoy adrift on a sea of dark-green plants. The crop +promised to be magnificent, and the fashionable philosopher of the age +took other than a merely scientific interest in the experiment. His +investments were judicious, but he had always some little money lying by, +for experiments. + +After lunch, being left alone with Renouard, he talked a little of +cultivation and such matters. Then suddenly: + +“By the way, is it true what my sister tells me, that your plantation +boys have been disturbed by a ghost?” + +Renouard, who since the ladies had left the table was not keeping such a +strict watch on himself, came out of his abstraction with a start and a +stiff smile. + +“My foreman had some trouble with them during my absence. They funk +working in a certain field on the slope of the hill.” + +“A ghost here!” exclaimed the amused professor. “Then our whole +conception of the psychology of ghosts must be revised. This island has +been uninhabited probably since the dawn of ages. How did a ghost come +here. By air or water? And why did it leave its native haunts. Was it +from misanthropy? Was he expelled from some community of spirits?” + +Renouard essayed to respond in the same tone. The words died on his +lips. Was it a man or a woman ghost, the professor inquired. + +“I don’t know.” Renouard made an effort to appear at ease. He had, he +said, a couple of Tahitian amongst his boys—a ghost-ridden race. They +had started the scare. They had probably brought their ghost with them. + +“Let us investigate the matter, Renouard,” proposed the professor half in +earnest. “We may make some interesting discoveries as to the state of +primitive minds, at any rate.” + +This was too much. Renouard jumped up and leaving the room went out and +walked about in front of the house. He would allow no one to force his +hand. Presently the professor joined him outside. He carried his +parasol, but had neither his book nor his pipe with him. Amiably serious +he laid his hand on his “dear young friend’s” arm. + +“We are all of us a little strung up,” he said. “For my part I have been +like sister Anne in the story. But I cannot see anything coming. +Anything that would be the least good for anybody—I mean.” + +Renouard had recovered sufficiently to murmur coldly his regret of this +waste of time. For that was what, he supposed, the professor had in his +mind. + +“Time,” mused Professor Moorsom. “I don’t know that time can be wasted. +But I will tell you, my dear friend, what this is: it is an awful waste +of life. I mean for all of us. Even for my sister, who has got a +headache and is gone to lie down.” + +He shook gently Renouard’s arm. “Yes, for all of us! One may meditate +on life endlessly, one may even have a poor opinion of it—but the fact +remains that we have only one life to live. And it is short. Think of +that, my young friend.” + +He released Renouard’s arm and stepped out of the shade opening his +parasol. It was clear that there was something more in his mind than +mere anxiety about the date of his lectures for fashionable audiences. +What did the man mean by his confounded platitudes? To Renouard, scared +by Luiz in the morning (for he felt that nothing could be more fatal than +to have his deception unveiled otherwise than by personal confession), +this talk sounded like encouragement or a warning from that man who +seemed to him to be very brazen and very subtle. It was like being +bullied by the dead and cajoled by the living into a throw of dice for a +supreme stake. + +Renouard went away to some distance from the house and threw himself down +in the shade of a tree. He lay there perfectly still with his forehead +resting on his folded arms, light-headed and thinking. It seemed to him +that he must be on fire, then that he had fallen into a cool whirlpool, a +smooth funnel of water swirling about with nauseating rapidity. And then +(it must have been a reminiscence of his boyhood) he was walking on the +dangerous thin ice of a river, unable to turn back. . . . Suddenly it +parted from shore to shore with a loud crack like the report of a gun. + +With one leap he found himself on his feet. All was peace, stillness, +sunshine. He walked away from there slowly. Had he been a gambler he +would have perhaps been supported in a measure by the mere excitement. +But he was not a gambler. He had always disdained that artificial manner +of challenging the fates. The bungalow came into view, bright and +pretty, and all about everything was peace, stillness, sunshine. . . . + +While he was plodding towards it he had a disagreeable sense of the dead +man’s company at his elbow. The ghost! He seemed to be everywhere but +in his grave. Could one ever shake him off? he wondered. At that moment +Miss Moorsom came out on the verandah; and at once, as if by a mystery of +radiating waves, she roused a great tumult in his heart, shook earth and +sky together—but he plodded on. Then like a grave song-note in the storm +her voice came to him ominously. + +“Ah! Mr. Renouard. . . ” He came up and smiled, but she was very +serious. “I can’t keep still any longer. Is there time to walk up this +headland and back before dark?” + +The shadows were lying lengthened on the ground; all was stillness and +peace. “No,” said Renouard, feeling suddenly as steady as a rock. “But +I can show you a view from the central hill which your father has not +seen. A view of reefs and of broken water without end, and of great +wheeling clouds of sea-birds.” + +She came down the verandah steps at once and they moved off. “You go +first,” he proposed, “and I’ll direct you. To the left.” + +She was wearing a short nankin skirt, a muslin blouse; he could see +through the thin stuff the skin of her shoulders, of her arms. The noble +delicacy of her neck caused him a sort of transport. “The path begins +where these three palms are. The only palms on the island.” + +“I see.” + +She never turned her head. After a while she observed: “This path looks +as if it had been made recently.” + +“Quite recently,” he assented very low. + +They went on climbing steadily without exchanging another word; and when +they stood on the top she gazed a long time before her. The low evening +mist veiled the further limit of the reefs. Above the enormous and +melancholy confusion, as of a fleet of wrecked islands, the restless +myriads of sea-birds rolled and unrolled dark ribbons on the sky, +gathered in clouds, soared and stooped like a play of shadows, for they +were too far for them to hear their cries. + +Renouard broke the silence in low tones. + +“They’ll be settling for the night presently.” She made no sound. Round +them all was peace and declining sunshine. Near by, the topmost pinnacle +of Malata, resembling the top of a buried tower, rose a rock, +weather-worn, grey, weary of watching the monotonous centuries of the +Pacific. Renouard leaned his shoulders against it. Felicia Moorsom +faced him suddenly, her splendid black eyes full on his face as though +she had made up her mind at last to destroy his wits once and for all. +Dazzled, he lowered his eyelids slowly. + +“Mr. Renouard! There is something strange in all this. Tell me where he +is?” + +He answered deliberately. + +“On the other side of this rock. I buried him there myself.” + +She pressed her hands to her breast, struggled for her breath for a +moment, then: “Ohhh! . . . You buried him! . . . What sort of man are +you? . . . You dared not tell! . . . He is another of your victims? . . . +You dared not confess that evening. . . . You must have killed him. What +could he have done to you? . . . You fastened on him some atrocious +quarrel and . . .” + +Her vengeful aspect, her poignant cries left him as unmoved as the weary +rock against which he leaned. He only raised his eyelids to look at her +and lowered them slowly. Nothing more. It silenced her. And as if +ashamed she made a gesture with her hand, putting away from her that +thought. He spoke, quietly ironic at first. + +“Ha! the legendary Renouard of sensitive idiots—the ruthless +adventurer—the ogre with a future. That was a parrot cry, Miss Moorsom. +I don’t think that the greatest fool of them all ever dared hint such a +stupid thing of me that I killed men for nothing. No, I had noticed this +man in a hotel. He had come from up country I was told, and was doing +nothing. I saw him sitting there lonely in a corner like a sick crow, +and I went over one evening to talk to him. Just on impulse. He wasn’t +impressive. He was pitiful. My worst enemy could have told you he +wasn’t good enough to be one of Renouard’s victims. It didn’t take me +long to judge that he was drugging himself. Not drinking. Drugs.” + +“Ah! It’s now that you are trying to murder him,” she cried. + +“Really. Always the Renouard of shopkeepers’ legend. Listen! I would +never have been jealous of him. And yet I am jealous of the air you +breathe, of the soil you tread on, of the world that sees you—moving +free—not mine. But never mind. I rather liked him. For a certain +reason I proposed he should come to be my assistant here. He said he +believed this would save him. It did not save him from death. It came +to him as it were from nothing—just a fall. A mere slip and tumble of +ten feet into a ravine. But it seems he had been hurt before +up-country—by a horse. He ailed and ailed. No, he was not a +steel-tipped man. And his poor soul seemed to have been damaged too. It +gave way very soon.” + +“This is tragic!” Felicia Moorsom whispered with feeling. Renouard’s +lips twitched, but his level voice continued mercilessly. + +“That’s the story. He rallied a little one night and said he wanted to +tell me something. I, being a gentleman, he said, he could confide in +me. I told him that he was mistaken. That there was a good deal of a +plebeian in me, that he couldn’t know. He seemed disappointed. He +muttered something about his innocence and something that sounded like a +curse on some woman, then turned to the wall and—just grew cold.” + +“On a woman,” cried Miss Moorsom indignantly. “What woman?” + +“I wonder!” said Renouard, raising his eyes and noting the crimson of her +ear-lobes against the live whiteness of her complexion, the sombre, as if +secret, night-splendour of her eyes under the writhing flames of her +hair. “Some woman who wouldn’t believe in that poor innocence of his. . +. Yes. You probably. And now you will not believe in me—not even in me +who must in truth be what I am—even to death. No! You won’t. And yet, +Felicia, a woman like you and a man like me do not often come together on +this earth.” + +The flame of her glorious head scorched his face. He flung his hat far +away, and his suddenly lowered eyelids brought out startlingly his +resemblance to antique bronze, the profile of Pallas, still, austere, +bowed a little in the shadow of the rock. “Oh! If you could only +understand the truth that is in me!” he added. + +She waited, as if too astounded to speak, till he looked up again, and +then with unnatural force as if defending herself from some unspoken +aspersion, “It’s I who stand for truth here! Believe in you! In you, +who by a heartless falsehood—and nothing else, nothing else, do you +hear?—have brought me here, deceived, cheated, as in some abominable +farce!” She sat down on a boulder, rested her chin in her hands, in the +pose of simple grief—mourning for herself. + +“It only wanted this. Why! Oh! Why is it that ugliness, ridicule, and +baseness must fall across my path.” + +On that height, alone with the sky, they spoke to each other as if the +earth had fallen away from under their feet. + +“Are you grieving for your dignity? He was a mediocre soul and could +have given you but an unworthy existence.” + +She did not even smile at those words, but, superb, as if lifting a +corner of the veil, she turned on him slowly. + +“And do you imagine I would have devoted myself to him for such a +purpose! Don’t you know that reparation was due to him from me? A +sacred debt—a fine duty. To redeem him would not have been in my power—I +know it. But he was blameless, and it was for me to come forward. Don’t +you see that in the eyes of the world nothing could have rehabilitated +him so completely as his marriage with me? No word of evil could be +whispered of him after I had given him my hand. As to giving myself up +to anything less than the shaping of a man’s destiny—if I thought I could +do it I would abhor myself. . . .” She spoke with authority in her deep +fascinating, unemotional voice. Renouard meditated, gloomy, as if over +some sinister riddle of a beautiful sphinx met on the wild road of his +life. + +“Yes. Your father was right. You are one of these aristocrats . . .” + +She drew herself up haughtily. + +“What do you say? My father! . . . I an aristocrat.” + +“Oh! I don’t mean that you are like the men and women of the time of +armours, castles, and great deeds. Oh, no! They stood on the naked +soil, had traditions to be faithful to, had their feet on this earth of +passions and death which is not a hothouse. They would have been too +plebeian for you since they had to lead, to suffer with, to understand +the commonest humanity. No, you are merely of the topmost layer, +disdainful and superior, the mere pure froth and bubble on the +inscrutable depths which some day will toss you out of existence. But +you are you! You are you! You are the eternal love itself—only, O +Divinity, it isn’t your body, it is your soul that is made of foam.” + +She listened as if in a dream. He had succeeded so well in his effort to +drive back the flood of his passion that his life itself seemed to run +with it out of his body. At that moment he felt as one dead speaking. +But the headlong wave returning with tenfold force flung him on her +suddenly, with open arms and blazing eyes. She found herself like a +feather in his grasp, helpless, unable to struggle, with her feet off the +ground. But this contact with her, maddening like too much felicity, +destroyed its own end. Fire ran through his veins, turned his passion to +ashes, burnt him out and left him empty, without force—almost without +desire. He let her go before she could cry out. And she was so used to +the forms of repression enveloping, softening the crude impulses of old +humanity that she no longer believed in their existence as if it were an +exploded legend. She did not recognise what had happened to her. She +came safe out of his arms, without a struggle, not even having felt +afraid. + +“What’s the meaning of this?” she said, outraged but calm in a scornful +way. + +He got down on his knees in silence, bent low to her very feet, while she +looked down at him, a little surprised, without animosity, as if merely +curious to see what he would do. Then, while he remained bowed to the +ground pressing the hem of her skirt to his lips, she made a slight +movement. He got up. + +“No,” he said. “Were you ever so much mine what could I do with you +without your consent? No. You don’t conquer a wraith, cold mist, stuff +of dreams, illusion. It must come to you and cling to your breast. And +then! Oh! And then!” + +All ecstasy, all expression went out of his face. + +“Mr. Renouard,” she said, “though you can have no claim on my +consideration after having decoyed me here for the vile purpose, +apparently, of gloating over me as your possible prey, I will tell you +that I am not perhaps the extraordinary being you think I am. You may +believe me. Here I stand for truth itself.” + +“What’s that to me what you are?” he answered. “At a sign from you I +would climb up to the seventh heaven to bring you down to earth for my +own—and if I saw you steeped to the lips in vice, in crime, in mud, I +would go after you, take you to my arms—wear you for an incomparable +jewel on my breast. And that’s love—true love—the gift and the curse of +the gods. There is no other.” + +The truth vibrating in his voice made her recoil slightly, for she was +not fit to hear it—not even a little—not even one single time in her +life. It was revolting to her; and in her trouble, perhaps prompted by +the suggestion of his name or to soften the harshness of expression, for +she was obscurely moved, she spoke to him in French. + +“_Assez_! _J’ai horreur de tout cela_,” she said. + +He was white to his very lips, but he was trembling no more. The dice +had been cast, and not even violence could alter the throw. She passed +by him unbendingly, and he followed her down the path. After a time she +heard him saying: + +“And your dream is to influence a human destiny?” + +“Yes!” she answered curtly, unabashed, with a woman’s complete assurance. + +“Then you may rest content. You have done it.” + +She shrugged her shoulders slightly. But just before reaching the end of +the path she relented, stopped, and went back to him. + +“I don’t suppose you are very anxious for people to know how near you +came to absolute turpitude. You may rest easy on that point. I shall +speak to my father, of course, and we will agree to say that he has +died—nothing more.” + +“Yes,” said Renouard in a lifeless voice. “He is dead. His very ghost +shall be done with presently.” + +She went on, but he remained standing stock still in the dusk. She had +already reached the three palms when she heard behind her a loud peal of +laughter, cynical and joyless, such as is heard in smoking-rooms at the +end of a scandalous story. It made her feel positively faint for a +moment. + + + +CHAPTER XI + + +Slowly a complete darkness enveloped Geoffrey Renouard. His resolution +had failed him. Instead of following Felicia into the house, he had +stopped under the three palms, and leaning against a smooth trunk had +abandoned himself to a sense of an immense deception and the feeling of +extreme fatigue. This walk up the hill and down again was like the +supreme effort of an explorer trying to penetrate the interior of an +unknown country, the secret of which is too well defended by its cruel +and barren nature. Decoyed by a mirage, he had gone too far—so far that +there was no going back. His strength was at an end. For the first time +in his life he had to give up, and with a sort of despairing +self-possession he tried to understand the cause of the defeat. He did +not ascribe it to that absurd dead man. + +The hesitating shadow of Luiz approached him unnoticed till it spoke +timidly. Renouard started. + +“Eh? What? Dinner waiting? You must say I beg to be excused. I can’t +come. But I shall see them to-morrow morning, at the landing place. +Take your orders from the professor as to the sailing of the schooner. +Go now.” + +Luiz, dumbfounded, retreated into the darkness. Renouard did not move, +but hours afterwards, like the bitter fruit of his immobility, the words: +“I had nothing to offer to her vanity,” came from his lips in the silence +of the island. And it was then only that he stirred, only to wear the +night out in restless tramping up and down the various paths of the +plantation. Luiz, whose sleep was made light by the consciousness of +some impending change, heard footsteps passing by his hut, the firm tread +of the master; and turning on his mats emitted a faint Tse! Tse! Tse! of +deep concern. + +Lights had been burning in the bungalow almost all through the night; and +with the first sign of day began the bustle of departure. House boys +walked processionally carrying suit-cases and dressing-bags down to the +schooner’s boat, which came to the landing place at the bottom of the +garden. Just as the rising sun threw its golden nimbus around the purple +shape of the headland, the Planter of Malata was perceived pacing +bare-headed the curve of the little bay. He exchanged a few words with +the sailing-master of the schooner, then remained by the boat, standing +very upright, his eyes on the ground, waiting. + +He had not long to wait. Into the cool, overshadowed garden the +professor descended first, and came jauntily down the path in a lively +cracking of small shells. With his closed parasol hooked on his forearm, +and a book in his hand, he resembled a banal tourist more than was +permissible to a man of his unique distinction. He waved the disengaged +arm from a distance, but at close quarters, arrested before Renouard’s +immobility, he made no offer to shake hands. He seemed to appraise the +aspect of the man with a sharp glance, and made up his mind. + +“We are going back by Suez,” he began almost boisterously. “I have been +looking up the sailing lists. If the zephirs of your Pacific are only +moderately propitious I think we are sure to catch the mail boat due in +Marseilles on the 18th of March. This will suit me excellently. . . .” +He lowered his tone. “My dear young friend, I’m deeply grateful to you.” + +Renouard’s set lips moved. + +“Why are you grateful to me?” + +“Ah! Why? In the first place you might have made us miss the next boat, +mightn’t you? . . . I don’t thank you for your hospitality. You can’t be +angry with me for saying that I am truly thankful to escape from it. But +I am grateful to you for what you have done, and—for being what you are.” + +It was difficult to define the flavour of that speech, but Renouard +received it with an austerely equivocal smile. The professor stepping +into the boat opened his parasol and sat down in the stern-sheets waiting +for the ladies. No sound of human voice broke the fresh silence of the +morning while they walked the broad path, Miss Moorsom a little in +advance of her aunt. + +When she came abreast of him Renouard raised his head. + +“Good-bye, Mr. Renouard,” she said in a low voice, meaning to pass on; +but there was such a look of entreaty in the blue gleam of his sunken +eyes that after an imperceptible hesitation she laid her hand, which was +ungloved, in his extended palm. + +“Will you condescend to remember me?” he asked, while an emotion with +which she was angry made her pale cheeks flush and her black eyes +sparkle. + +“This is a strange request for you to make,” she said, exaggerating the +coldness of her tone. + +“Is it? Impudent perhaps. Yet I am not so guilty as you think; and bear +in mind that to me you can never make reparation.” + +“Reparation? To you! It is you who can offer me no reparation for the +offence against my feelings—and my person; for what reparation can be +adequate for your odious and ridiculous plot so scornful in its +implication, so humiliating to my pride. No! I don’t want to remember +you.” + +Unexpectedly, with a tightening grip, he pulled her nearer to him, and +looking into her eyes with fearless despair— + +“You’ll have to. I shall haunt you,” he said firmly. + +Her hand was wrenched out of his grasp before he had time to release it. +Felicia Moorsom stepped into the boat, sat down by the side of her +father, and breathed tenderly on her crushed fingers. + +The professor gave her a sidelong look—nothing more. But the professor’s +sister, yet on shore, had put up her long-handle double eye-glass to look +at the scene. She dropped it with a faint rattle. + +“I’ve never in my life heard anything so crude said to a lady,” she +murmured, passing before Renouard with a perfectly erect head. When, a +moment afterwards, softening suddenly, she turned to throw a good-bye to +that young man, she saw only his back in the distance moving towards the +bungalow. She watched him go in—amazed—before she too left the soil of +Malata. + +Nobody disturbed Renouard in that room where he had shut himself in to +breathe the evanescent perfume of her who for him was no more, till late +in the afternoon when the half-caste was heard on the other side of the +door. + +He wanted the master to know that the trader _Janet_ was just entering +the cove. + +Renouard’s strong voice on his side of the door gave him most unexpected +instructions. He was to pay off the boys with the cash in the office and +arrange with the captain of the _Janet_ to take every worker away from +Malata, returning them to their respective homes. An order on the +Dunster firm would be given to him in payment. + +And again the silence of the bungalow remained unbroken till, next +morning, the half-caste came to report that everything was done. The +plantation boys were embarking now. + +Through a crack in the door a hand thrust at him a piece of paper, and +the door slammed to so sharply that Luiz stepped back. Then approaching +cringingly the keyhole, in a propitiatory tone he asked: + +“Do I go too, master?” + +“Yes. You too. Everybody.” + +“Master stop here alone?” + +Silence. And the half-caste’s eyes grew wide with wonder. But he also, +like those “ignorant savages,” the plantation boys, was only too glad to +leave an island haunted by the ghost of a white man. He backed away +noiselessly from the mysterious silence in the closed room, and only in +the very doorway of the bungalow allowed himself to give vent to his +feelings by a deprecatory and pained— + +“Tse! Tse! Tse!” + + + +CHAPTER XII + + +The Moorsoms did manage to catch the homeward mail boat all right, but +had only twenty-four hours in town. Thus the sentimental Willie could +not see very much of them. This did not prevent him afterwards from +relating at great length, with manly tears in his eyes, how poor Miss +Moorsom—the fashionable and clever beauty—found her betrothed in Malata +only to see him die in her arms. Most people were deeply touched by the +sad story. It was the talk of a good many days. + +But the all-knowing Editor, Renouard’s only friend and crony, wanted to +know more than the rest of the world. From professional incontinence, +perhaps, he thirsted for a full cup of harrowing detail. And when he +noticed Renouard’s schooner lying in port day after day he sought the +sailing master to learn the reason. The man told him that such were his +instructions. He had been ordered to lie there a month before returning +to Malata. And the month was nearly up. “I will ask you to give me a +passage,” said the Editor. + +He landed in the morning at the bottom of the garden and found peace, +stillness, sunshine reigning everywhere, the doors and windows of the +bungalow standing wide open, no sight of a human being anywhere, the +plants growing rank and tall on the deserted fields. For hours the +Editor and the schooner’s crew, excited by the mystery, roamed over the +island shouting Renouard’s name; and at last set themselves in grim +silence to explore systematically the uncleared bush and the deeper +ravines in search of his corpse. What had happened? Had he been +murdered by the boys? Or had he simply, capricious and secretive, +abandoned his plantation taking the people with him. It was impossible +to tell what had happened. At last, towards the decline of the day, the +Editor and the sailing master discovered a track of sandals crossing a +strip of sandy beach on the north shore of the bay. Following this track +fearfully, they passed round the spur of the headland, and there on a +large stone found the sandals, Renouard’s white jacket, and the Malay +sarong of chequered pattern which the planter of Malata was well known to +wear when going to bathe. These things made a little heap, and the +sailor remarked, after gazing at it in silence— + +“Birds have been hovering over this for many a day.” + +“He’s gone bathing and got drowned,” cried the Editor in dismay. + +“I doubt it, sir. If he had been drowned anywhere within a mile from the +shore the body would have been washed out on the reefs. And our boats +have found nothing so far.” + +Nothing was ever found—and Renouard’s disappearance remained in the main +inexplicable. For to whom could it have occurred that a man would set +out calmly to swim beyond the confines of life—with a steady stroke—his +eyes fixed on a star! + +Next evening, from the receding schooner, the Editor looked back for the +last time at the deserted island. A black cloud hung listlessly over the +high rock on the middle hill; and under the mysterious silence of that +shadow Malata lay mournful, with an air of anguish in the wild sunset, as +if remembering the heart that was broken there. + + * * * * * + +_Dec._ 1913. + + + + +THE PARTNER + + +“And that be hanged for a silly yarn. The boatmen here in Westport have +been telling this lie to the summer visitors for years. The sort that +gets taken out for a row at a shilling a head—and asks foolish +questions—must be told something to pass the time away. D’ye know +anything more silly than being pulled in a boat along a beach? . . . It’s +like drinking weak lemonade when you aren’t thirsty. I don’t know why +they do it! They don’t even get sick.” + +A forgotten glass of beer stood at his elbow; the locality was a small +respectable smoking-room of a small respectable hotel, and a taste for +forming chance acquaintances accounts for my sitting up late with him. +His great, flat, furrowed cheeks were shaven; a thick, square wisp of +white hairs hung from his chin; its waggling gave additional point to his +deep utterance; and his general contempt for mankind with its activities +and moralities was expressed in the rakish set of his big soft hat of +black felt with a large rim, which he kept always on his head. + +His appearance was that of an old adventurer, retired after many unholy +experiences in the darkest parts of the earth; but I had every reason to +believe that he had never been outside England. From a casual remark +somebody dropped I gathered that in his early days he must have been +somehow connected with shipping—with ships in docks. Of individuality he +had plenty. And it was this which attracted my attention at first. But +he was not easy to classify, and before the end of the week I gave him up +with the vague definition, “an imposing old ruffian.” + +One rainy afternoon, oppressed by infinite boredom, I went into the +smoking-room. He was sitting there in absolute immobility, which was +really fakir-like and impressive. I began to wonder what could be the +associations of that sort of man, his “milieu,” his private connections, +his views, his morality, his friends, and even his wife—when to my +surprise he opened a conversation in a deep, muttering voice. + +I must say that since he had learned from somebody that I was a writer of +stories he had been acknowledging my existence by means of some vague +growls in the morning. + +He was essentially a taciturn man. There was an effect of rudeness in +his fragmentary sentences. It was some time before I discovered that +what he would be at was the process by which stories—stories for +periodicals—were produced. + +What could one say to a fellow like that? But I was bored to death; the +weather continued impossible; and I resolved to be amiable. + +“And so you make these tales up on your own. How do they ever come into +your head?” he rumbled. + +I explained that one generally got a hint for a tale. + +“What sort of hint?” + +“Well, for instance,” I said, “I got myself rowed out to the rocks the +other day. My boatman told me of the wreck on these rocks nearly twenty +years ago. That could be used as a hint for a mainly descriptive bit of +story with some such title as ‘In the Channel,’ for instance.” + +It was then that he flew out at the boatmen and the summer visitors who +listen to their tales. Without moving a muscle of his face he emitted a +powerful “Rot,” from somewhere out of the depths of his chest, and went +on in his hoarse, fragmentary mumble. “Stare at the silly rocks—nod +their silly heads [the visitors, I presume]. What do they think a man +is—blown-out paper bag or what?—go off pop like that when he’s hit—Damn +silly yarn—Hint indeed! . . . A lie?” + +You must imagine this statuesque ruffian enhaloed in the black rim of his +hat, letting all this out as an old dog growls sometimes, with his head +up and staring-away eyes. + +“Indeed!” I exclaimed. “Well, but even if untrue it _is_ a hint, +enabling me to see these rocks, this gale they speak of, the heavy seas, +etc., etc., in relation to mankind. The struggle against natural forces +and the effect of the issue on at least one, say, exalted—” + +He interrupted me by an aggressive— + +“Would truth be any good to you?” + +“I shouldn’t like to say,” I answered, cautiously. “It’s said that truth +is stranger than fiction.” + +“Who says that?” he mouthed. + +“Oh! Nobody in particular.” + +I turned to the window; for the contemptuous beggar was oppressive to +look at, with his immovable arm on the table. I suppose my unceremonious +manner provoked him to a comparatively long speech. + +“Did you ever see such a silly lot of rocks? Like plums in a slice of +cold pudding.” + +I was looking at them—an acre or more of black dots scattered on the +steel-grey shades of the level sea, under the uniform gossamer grey mist +with a formless brighter patch in one place—the veiled whiteness of the +cliff coming through, like a diffused, mysterious radiance. It was a +delicate and wonderful picture, something expressive, suggestive, and +desolate, a symphony in grey and black—a Whistler. But the next thing +said by the voice behind me made me turn round. It growled out contempt +for all associated notions of roaring seas with concise energy, then went +on— + +“I—no such foolishness—looking at the rocks out there—more likely call to +mind an office—I used to look in sometimes at one time—office in +London—one of them small streets behind Cannon Street Station. . . ” + +He was very deliberate; not jerky, only fragmentary; at times profane. + +“That’s a rather remote connection,” I observed, approaching him. + +“Connection? To Hades with your connections. It was an accident.” + +“Still,” I said, “an accident has its backward and forward connections, +which, if they could be set forth—” + +Without moving he seemed to lend an attentive ear. + +“Aye! Set forth. That’s perhaps what you could do. Couldn’t you now? +There’s no sea life in this connection. But you can put it in out of +your head—if you like.” + +“Yes. I could, if necessary,” I said. “Sometimes it pays to put in a +lot out of one’s head, and sometimes it doesn’t. I mean that the story +isn’t worth it. Everything’s in that.” + +It amused me to talk to him like this. He reflected audibly that he +guessed story-writers were out after money like the rest of the world +which had to live by its wits: and that it was extraordinary how far +people who were out after money would go. . . Some of them. + +Then he made a sally against sea life. Silly sort of life, he called it. +No opportunities, no experience, no variety, nothing. Some fine men came +out of it—he admitted—but no more chance in the world if put to it than +fly. Kids. So Captain Harry Dunbar. Good sailor. Great name as a +skipper. Big man; short side-whiskers going grey, fine face, loud voice. +A good fellow, but no more up to people’s tricks than a baby. + +“That’s the captain of the _Sagamore_ you’re talking about,” I said, +confidently. + +After a low, scornful “Of course” he seemed now to hold on the wall with +his fixed stare the vision of that city office, “at the back of Cannon +Street Station,” while he growled and mouthed a fragmentary description, +jerking his chin up now and then, as if angry. + +It was, according to his account, a modest place of business, not shady +in any sense, but out of the way, in a small street now rebuilt from end +to end. “Seven doors from the Cheshire Cat public house under the +railway bridge. I used to take my lunch there when my business called me +to the city. Cloete would come in to have his chop and make the girl +laugh. No need to talk much, either, for that. Nothing but the way he +would twinkle his spectacles on you and give a twitch of his thick mouth +was enough to start you off before he began one of his little tales. +Funny fellow, Cloete. C-l-o-e-t-e—Cloete.” + +“What was he—a Dutchman?” I asked, not seeing in the least what all this +had to do with the Westport boatmen and the Westport summer visitors and +this extraordinary old fellow’s irritable view of them as liars and +fools. “Devil knows,” he grunted, his eyes on the wall as if not to miss +a single movement of a cinematograph picture. “Spoke nothing but +English, anyway. First I saw him—comes off a ship in dock from the +States—passenger. Asks me for a small hotel near by. Wanted to be quiet +and have a look round for a few days. I took him to a place—friend of +mine. . . Next time—in the City—Hallo! You’re very obliging—have a +drink. Talks plenty about himself. Been years in the States. All sorts +of business all over the place. With some patent medicine people, too. +Travels. Writes advertisements and all that. Tells me funny stories. +Tall, loose-limbed fellow. Black hair up on end, like a brush; long +face, long legs, long arms, twinkle in his specs, jocular way of +speaking—in a low voice. . . See that?” + +I nodded, but he was not looking at me. + +“Never laughed so much in my life. The beggar—would make you laugh +telling you how he skinned his own father. He was up to that, too. A +man who’s been in the patent-medicine trade will be up to anything from +pitch-and-toss to wilful murder. And that’s a bit of hard truth for you. +Don’t mind what they do—think they can carry off anything and talk +themselves out of anything—all the world’s a fool to them. Business man, +too, Cloete. Came over with a few hundred pounds. Looking for something +to do—in a quiet way. Nothing like the old country, after all, says he. . . +And so we part—I with more drinks in me than I was used to. After a +time, perhaps six months or so, I run up against him again in Mr. George +Dunbar’s office. Yes, _that_ office. It wasn’t often that I . . . +However, there was a bit of his cargo in a ship in dock that I wanted to +ask Mr. George about. In comes Cloete out of the room at the back with +some papers in his hand. Partner. You understand?” + +“Aha!” I said. “The few hundred pounds.” + +“And that tongue of his,” he growled. “Don’t forget that tongue. Some +of his tales must have opened George Dunbar’s eyes a bit as to what +business means.” + +“A plausible fellow,” I suggested. + +“H’m! You must have it in your own way—of course. Well. Partner. +George Dunbar puts his top-hat on and tells me to wait a moment. . . +George always looked as though he were making a few thousands a year—a +city swell. . . Come along, old man! And he and Captain Harry go out +together—some business with a solicitor round the corner. Captain Harry, +when he was in England, used to turn up in his brother’s office regularly +about twelve. Sat in a corner like a good boy, reading the paper and +smoking his pipe. So they go out. . . Model brothers, says Cloete—two +love-birds—I am looking after the tinned-fruit side of this cozy little +show. . . Gives me that sort of talk. Then by-and-by: What sort of old +thing is that _Sagamore_? Finest ship out—eh? I dare say all ships are +fine to you. You live by them. I tell you what; I would just as soon +put my money into an old stocking. Sooner!” + + * * * * * + +He drew a breath, and I noticed his hand, lying loosely on the table, +close slowly into a fist. In that immovable man it was startling, +ominous, like the famed nod of the Commander. + +“So, already at that time—note—already,” he growled. + +“But hold on,” I interrupted. “The _Sagamore_ belonged to Mundy and +Rogers, I’ve been told.” + +He snorted contemptuously. “Damn boatmen—know no better. Flew the +firm’s _house-flag_. That’s another thing. Favour. It was like this: +When old man Dunbar died, Captain Harry was already in command with the +firm. George chucked the bank he was clerking in—to go on his own with +what there was to share after the old chap. George was a smart man. +Started warehousing; then two or three things at a time: wood-pulp, +preserved-fruit trade, and so on. And Captain Harry let him have his +share to work with. . . I am provided for in my ship, he says. . . But +by-and-by Mundy and Rogers begin to sell out to foreigners all their +ships—go into steam right away. Captain Harry gets very upset—lose +command, part with the ship he was fond of—very wretched. Just then, so +it happened, the brothers came in for some money—an old woman died or +something. Quite a tidy bit. Then young George says: There’s enough +between us two to buy the _Sagamore_ with. . . But you’ll need more money +for your business, cries Captain Harry—and the other laughs at him: My +business is going on all right. Why, I can go out and make a handful of +sovereigns while you are trying to get your pipe to draw, old man. . . +Mundy and Rogers very friendly about it: Certainly, Captain. And we will +manage her for you, if you like, as if she were still our own. . . Why, +with a connection like that it was good investment to buy that ship. +Good! Aye, at the time.” + +The turning of his head slightly toward me at this point was like a sign +of strong feeling in any other man. + +“You’ll mind that this was long before Cloete came into it at all,” he +muttered, warningly. + +“Yes. I will mind,” I said. “We generally say: some years passed. +That’s soon done.” + +He eyed me for a while silently in an unseeing way, as if engrossed in +the thought of the years so easily dealt with; his own years, too, they +were, the years before and the years (not so many) after Cloete came upon +the scene. When he began to speak again, I discerned his intention to +point out to me, in his obscure and graphic manner, the influence on +George Dunbar of long association with Cloete’s easy moral standards, +unscrupulously persuasive gift of humour (funny fellow), and +adventurously reckless disposition. He desired me anxiously to elaborate +this view, and I assured him it was quite within my powers. He wished me +also to understand that George’s business had its ups and downs (the +other brother was meantime sailing to and fro serenely); that he got into +low water at times, which worried him rather, because he had married a +young wife with expensive tastes. He was having a pretty anxious time of +it generally; and just then Cloete ran up in the city somewhere against a +man working a patent medicine (the fellow’s old trade) with some success, +but which, with capital, capital to the tune of thousands to be spent +with both hands on advertising, could be turned into a great +thing—infinitely better-paying than a gold-mine. Cloete became excited +at the possibilities of that sort of business, in which he was an expert. +I understood that George’s partner was all on fire from the contact with +this unique opportunity. + +“So he goes in every day into George’s room about eleven, and sings that +tune till George gnashes his teeth with rage. Do shut up. What’s the +good? No money. Hardly any to go on with, let alone pouring thousands +into advertising. Never dare propose to his brother Harry to sell the +ship. Couldn’t think of it. Worry him to death. It would be like the +end of the world coming. And certainly not for a business of that kind! +. . . Do you think it would be a swindle? asks Cloete, twitching his +mouth. . . George owns up: No—would be no better than a squeamish ass if +he thought that, after all these years in business. + +“Cloete looks at him hard—Never thought of _selling_ the ship. Expected +the blamed old thing wouldn’t fetch half her insured value by this time. +Then George flies out at him. What’s the meaning, then, of these silly +jeers at ship-owning for the last three weeks? Had enough of them, +anyhow. + +“Angry at having his mouth made to water, see. Cloete don’t get excited. . . +I am no squeamish ass, either, says he, very slowly. ’Tisn’t selling +your old _Sagamore_ wants. The blamed thing wants tomahawking (seems the +name _Sagamore_ means an Indian chief or something. The figure-head was +a half-naked savage with a feather over one ear and a hatchet in his +belt). Tomahawking, says he. + +“What do you mean? asks George. . . Wrecking—it could be managed with +perfect safety, goes on Cloete—your brother would then put in his share +of insurance money. Needn’t tell him exactly what for. He thinks you’re +the smartest business man that ever lived. Make his fortune, too. . . +George grips the desk with both hands in his rage. . . You think my +brother’s a man to cast away his ship on purpose. I wouldn’t even dare +think of such a thing in the same room with him—the finest fellow that +ever lived. . . Don’t make such noise; they’ll hear you outside, says +Cloete; and he tells him that his brother is the salted pattern of all +virtues, but all that’s necessary is to induce him to stay ashore for a +voyage—for a holiday—take a rest—why not? . . . In fact, I have in view +somebody up to that sort of game—Cloete whispers. + +“George nearly chokes. . . So you think I am of that sort—you think _me_ +capable—What do you take me for? . . . He almost loses his head, while +Cloete keeps cool, only gets white about the gills. . . I take you for a +man who will be most cursedly hard up before long. . . He goes to the +door and sends away the clerks—there were only two—to take their lunch +hour. Comes back . . . What are you indignant about? Do I want you to +rob the widow and orphan? Why, man! Lloyd’s a corporation, it hasn’t +got a body to starve. There’s forty or more of them perhaps who +underwrote the lines on that silly ship of yours. Not one human being +would go hungry or cold for it. They take every risk into consideration. +Everything I tell you. . . That sort of talk. H’m! George too upset to +speak—only gurgles and waves his arms; so sudden, you see. The other, +warming his back at the fire, goes on. Wood-pulp business next door to a +failure. Tinned-fruit trade nearly played out. . . You’re frightened, he +says; but the law is only meant to frighten fools away. . . And he shows +how safe casting away that ship would be. Premiums paid for so many, +many years. No shadow of suspicion could arise. And, dash it all! a +ship must meet her end some day. . . + +“I am not frightened. I am indignant,” says George Dunbar. + +“Cloete boiling with rage inside. Chance of a lifetime—his chance! And +he says kindly: Your wife’ll be much more indignant when you ask her to +get out of that pretty house of yours and pile in into a two-pair +back—with kids perhaps, too. . . + +“George had no children. Married a couple of years; looked forward to a +kid or two very much. Feels more upset than ever. Talks about an honest +man for father, and so on. Cloete grins: You be quick before they come, +and they’ll have a rich man for father, and no one the worse for it. +That’s the beauty of the thing. + +“George nearly cries. I believe he did cry at odd times. This went on +for weeks. He couldn’t quarrel with Cloete. Couldn’t pay off his few +hundreds; and besides, he was used to have him about. Weak fellow, +George. Cloete generous, too. . . Don’t think of my little pile, says +he. Of course it’s gone when we have to shut up. But I don’t care, he +says. . . And then there was George’s new wife. When Cloete dines there, +the beggar puts on a dress suit; little woman liked it; . . . Mr. Cloete, +my husband’s partner; such a clever man, man of the world, so amusing! . . . +When he dines there and they are alone: Oh, Mr. Cloete, I wish George +would do something to improve our prospects. Our position is really so +mediocre. . . And Cloete smiles, but isn’t surprised, because he had put +all these notions himself into her empty head. . . What your husband +wants is enterprise, a little audacity. You can encourage him best, Mrs. +Dunbar. . . She was a silly, extravagant little fool. Had made George +take a house in Norwood. Live up to a lot of people better off than +themselves. I saw her once; silk dress, pretty boots, all feathers and +scent, pink face. More like the Promenade at the Alhambra than a decent +home, it looked to me. But some women do get a devil of a hold on a +man.” + +“Yes, some do,” I assented. “Even when the man is the husband.” + +“My missis,” he addressed me unexpectedly, in a solemn, surprisingly +hollow tone, “could wind me round her little finger. I didn’t find it +out till she was gone. Aye. But she was a woman of sense, while that +piece of goods ought to have been walking the streets, and that’s all I +can say. . . You must make her up out of your head. You will know the +sort.” + +“Leave all that to me,” I said. + +“H’m!” he grunted, doubtfully, then going back to his scornful tone: “A +month or so afterwards the _Sagamore_ arrives home. All very jolly at +first. . . Hallo, George boy! Hallo, Harry, old man! . . . But by and by +Captain Harry thinks his clever brother is not looking very well. And +George begins to look worse. He can’t get rid of Cloete’s notion. It +has stuck in his head. . . There’s nothing wrong—quite well. . . Captain +Harry still anxious. Business going all right, eh? Quite right. Lots +of business. Good business. . . Of course Captain Harry believes that +easily. Starts chaffing his brother in his jolly way about rolling in +money. George’s shirt sticks to his back with perspiration, and he feels +quite angry with the captain. . . The fool, he says to himself. Rolling +in money, indeed! And then he thinks suddenly: Why not? . . . Because +Cloete’s notion has got hold of his mind. + +“But next day he weakens and says to Cloete . . . Perhaps it would be +best to sell. Couldn’t you talk to my brother? and Cloete explains to +him over again for the twentieth time why selling wouldn’t do, anyhow. +No! The _Sagamore_ must be tomahawked—as he would call it; to spare +George’s feelings, maybe. But every time he says the word, George +shudders. . . I’ve got a man at hand competent for the job who will do +the trick for five hundred, and only too pleased at the chance, says +Cloete. . . George shuts his eyes tight at that sort of talk—but at the +same time he thinks: Humbug! There can be no such man. And yet if there +was such a man it would be safe enough—perhaps. + +“And Cloete always funny about it. He couldn’t talk about anything +without it seeming there was a great joke in it somewhere. . . Now, says +he, I know you are a moral citizen, George. Morality is mostly funk, and +I think you’re the funkiest man I ever came across in my travels. Why, +you are afraid to speak to your brother. Afraid to open your mouth to +him with a fortune for us all in sight. . . George flares up at this: no, +he ain’t afraid; he will speak; bangs fist on the desk. And Cloete pats +him on the back. . . We’ll be made men presently, he says. + +“But the first time George attempts to speak to Captain Harry his heart +slides down into his boots. Captain Harry only laughs at the notion of +staying ashore. He wants no holiday, not he. But Jane thinks of +remaining in England this trip. Go about a bit and see some of her +people. Jane was the Captain’s wife; round-faced, pleasant lady. George +gives up that time; but Cloete won’t let him rest. So he tries again; +and the Captain frowns. He frowns because he’s puzzled. He can’t make +it out. He has no notion of living away from his _Sagamore_. . . + +“Ah!” I cried. “Now I understand.” + +“No, you don’t,” he growled, his black, contemptuous stare turning on me +crushingly. + +“I beg your pardon,” I murmured. + +“H’m! Very well, then. Captain Harry looks very stern, and George +crumples all up inside. . . He sees through me, he thinks. . . Of course +it could not be; but George, by that time, was scared at his own shadow. +He is shirking it with Cloete, too. Gives his partner to understand that +his brother has half a mind to try a spell on shore, and so on. Cloete +waits, gnawing his fingers; so anxious. Cloete really had found a man +for the job. Believe it or not, he had found him inside the very +boarding-house he lodged in—somewhere about Tottenham Court Road. He had +noticed down-stairs a fellow—a boarder and not a boarder—hanging about +the dark—part of the passage mostly; sort of ‘man of the house,’ a +slinking chap. Black eyes. White face. The woman of the house—a widow +lady, she called herself—very full of Mr. Stafford; Mr. Stafford this and +Mr. Stafford that. . . Anyhow, Cloete one evening takes him out to have a +drink. Cloete mostly passed away his evenings in saloon bars. No +drunkard, though, Cloete; for company; liked to talk to all sorts there; +just habit; American fashion. + +“So Cloete takes that chap out more than once. Not very good company, +though. Little to say for himself. Sits quiet and drinks what’s given +to him, eyes always half closed, speaks sort of demure. . . I’ve had +misfortunes, he says. The truth was they had kicked him out of a big +steam-ship company for disgraceful conduct; nothing to affect his +certificate, you understand; and he had gone down quite easily. Liked +it, I expect. Anything’s better than work. Lived on the widow lady who +kept that boarding-house.” + +“That’s almost incredible,” I ventured to interrupt. “A man with a +master’s certificate, do you mean?” + +“I do; I’ve known them ’bus cads,” he growled, contemptuously. “Yes. +Swing on the tail-board by the strap and yell, ‘tuppence all the way.’ +Through drink. But this Stafford was of another kind. Hell’s full of +such Staffords; Cloete would make fun of him, and then there would be a +nasty gleam in the fellow’s half-shut eye. But Cloete was generally kind +to him. Cloete was a fellow that would be kind to a mangy dog. Anyhow, +he used to stand drinks to that object, and now and then gave him half a +crown—because the widow lady kept Mr. Stafford short of pocket-money. +They had rows almost every day down in the basement. . . + +“It was the fellow being a sailor that put into Cloete’s mind the first +notion of doing away with the _Sagamore_. He studies him a bit, thinks +there’s enough devil in him yet to be tempted, and one evening he says to +him . . . I suppose you wouldn’t mind going to sea again, for a spell? . . . +The other never raises his eyes; says it’s scarcely worth one’s while +for the miserable salary one gets. . . Well, but what do you say to +captain’s wages for a time, and a couple of hundred extra if you are +compelled to come home without the ship. Accidents will happen, says +Cloete. . . Oh! sure to, says that Stafford; and goes on taking sips of +his drink as if he had no interest in the matter. + +“Cloete presses him a bit; but the other observes, impudent and languid +like: You see, there’s no future in a thing like that—is there? . . Oh! +no, says Cloete. Certainly not. I don’t mean this to have any future—as +far as you are concerned. It’s a ‘once for all’ transaction. Well, what +do you estimate your future at? he asks. . . The fellow more listless +than ever—nearly asleep.—I believe the skunk was really too lazy to care. +Small cheating at cards, wheedling or bullying his living out of some +woman or other, was more his style. Cloete swears at him in whispers +something awful. All this in the saloon bar of the Horse Shoe, Tottenham +Court Road. Finally they agree, over the second sixpennyworth of Scotch +hot, on five hundred pounds as the price of tomahawking the _Sagamore_. +And Cloete waits to see what George can do. + +“A week or two goes by. The other fellow loafs about the house as if +there had been nothing, and Cloete begins to doubt whether he really +means ever to tackle that job. But one day he stops Cloete at the door, +with his downcast eyes: What about that employment you wished to give me? +he asks. . . You see, he had played some more than usual dirty trick on +the woman and expected awful ructions presently; and to be fired out for +sure. Cloete very pleased. George had been prevaricating to him such a +lot that he really thought the thing was as well as settled. And he +says: Yes. It’s time I introduced you to my friend. Just get your hat +and we will go now. . . + +“The two come into the office, and George at his desk sits up in a sudden +panic—staring. Sees a tallish fellow, sort of nasty-handsome face, heavy +eyes, half shut; short drab overcoat, shabby bowler hat, very +careful—like in his movements. And he thinks to himself, Is that how +such a man looks! No, the thing’s impossible. . . Cloete does the +introduction, and the fellow turns round to look behind him at the chair +before he sits down. . . A thoroughly competent man, Cloete goes on . . . +The man says nothing, sits perfectly quiet. And George can’t speak, +throat too dry. Then he makes an effort: H’m! H’m! Oh +yes—unfortunately—sorry to disappoint—my brother—made other +arrangements—going himself. + +“The fellow gets up, never raising his eyes off the ground, like a modest +girl, and goes out softly, right out of the office without a sound. +Cloete sticks his chin in his hand and bites all his fingers at once. +George’s heart slows down and he speaks to Cloete. . . This can’t be +done. How can it be? Directly the ship is lost Harry would see through +it. You know he is a man to go to the underwriters himself with his +suspicions. And he would break his heart over me. How can I play that +on him? There’s only two of us in the world belonging to each other. . . + +“Cloete lets out a horrid cuss-word, jumps up, bolts away into his room, +and George hears him there banging things around. After a while he goes +to the door and says in a trembling voice: You ask me for an +impossibility. . . Cloete inside ready to fly out like a tiger and rend +him; but he opens the door a little way and says softly: Talking of +hearts, yours is no bigger than a mouse’s, let me tell you. . . But +George doesn’t care—load off the heart, anyhow. And just then Captain +Harry comes in. . . Hallo, George boy. I am little late. What about a +chop at the Cheshire, now? . . . Right you are, old man. . . And off they +go to lunch together. Cloete has nothing to eat that day. + +“George feels a new man for a time; but all of a sudden that fellow +Stafford begins to hang about the street, in sight of the house door. +The first time George sees him he thinks he made a mistake. But no; next +time he has to go out, there is the very fellow skulking on the other +side of the road. It makes George nervous; but he must go out on +business, and when the fellow cuts across the road-way he dodges him. He +dodges him once, twice, three times; but at last he gets nabbed in his +very doorway. . . What do you want? he says, trying to look fierce. + +“It seems that ructions had come in the basement of that boarding-house, +and the widow lady had turned on him (being jealous mad), to the extent +of talking of the police. _That_ Mr. Stafford couldn’t stand; so he +cleared out like a scared stag, and there he was, chucked into the +streets, so to speak. Cloete looked so savage as he went to and fro that +he hadn’t the spunk to tackle him; but George seemed a softer kind to his +eye. He would have been glad of half a quid, anything. . . I’ve had +misfortunes, he says softly, in his demure way, which frightens George +more than a row would have done. . . Consider the severity of my +disappointment, he says. . . + +“George, instead of telling him to go to the devil, loses his head. . . I +don’t know you. What do you want? he cries, and bolts up-stairs to +Cloete. . . . Look what’s come of it, he gasps; now we are at the mercy +of that horrid fellow. . . Cloete tries to show him that the fellow can +do nothing; but George thinks that some sort of scandal may be forced on, +anyhow. Says that he can’t live with that horror haunting him. Cloete +would laugh if he weren’t too weary of it all. Then a thought strikes +him and he changes his tune. . . Well, perhaps! I will go down-stairs +and send him away to begin with. . . He comes back. . . He’s gone. But +perhaps you are right. The fellow’s hard up, and that’s what makes +people desperate. The best thing would be to get him out of the country +for a time. Look here, the poor devil is really in want of employment. +I won’t ask you much this time: only to hold your tongue; and I shall try +to get your brother to take him as chief officer. At this George lays +his arms and his head on his desk, so that Cloete feels sorry for him. +But altogether Cloete feels more cheerful because he has shaken the ghost +a bit into that Stafford. That very afternoon he buys him a suit of blue +clothes, and tells him that he will have to turn to and work for his +living now. Go to sea as mate of the _Sagamore_. The skunk wasn’t very +willing, but what with having nothing to eat and no place to sleep in, +and the woman having frightened him with the talk of some prosecution or +other, he had no choice, properly speaking. Cloete takes care of him for +a couple of days. . . Our arrangement still stands, says he. Here’s the +ship bound for Port Elizabeth; not a safe anchorage at all. Should she +by chance part from her anchors in a north-east gale and get lost on the +beach, as many of them do, why, it’s five hundred in your pocket—and a +quick return home. You are up to the job, ain’t you? + +“Our Mr. Stafford takes it all in with downcast eyes. . . I am a +competent seaman, he says, with his sly, modest air. A ship’s chief mate +has no doubt many opportunities to manipulate the chains and anchors to +some purpose. . . At this Cloete thumps him on the back: You’ll do, my +noble sailor. Go in and win. . . + +“Next thing George knows, his brother tells him that he had occasion to +oblige his partner. And glad of it, too. Likes the partner no end. +Took a friend of his as mate. Man had his troubles, been ashore a year +nursing a dying wife, it seems. Down on his luck. . . George protests +earnestly that he knows nothing of the person. Saw him once. Not very +attractive to look at. . . And Captain Harry says in his hearty way, +That’s so, but must give the poor devil a chance. . . + +“So Mr. Stafford joins in dock. And it seems that he did manage to +monkey with one of the cables—keeping his mind on Port Elizabeth. The +riggers had all the cable ranged on deck to clean lockers. The new mate +watches them go ashore—dinner hour—and sends the ship-keeper out of the +ship to fetch him a bottle of beer. Then he goes to work whittling away +the forelock of the forty-five-fathom shackle-pin, gives it a tap or two +with a hammer just to make it loose, and of course that cable wasn’t safe +any more. Riggers come back—you know what riggers are: come day, go day, +and God send Sunday. Down goes the chain into the locker without their +foreman looking at the shackles at all. What does he care? He ain’t +going in the ship. And two days later the ship goes to sea. . . ” + + * * * * * + +At this point I was incautious enough to breathe out another “I see,” +which gave offence again, and brought on me a rude “No, you don’t”—as +before. But in the pause he remembered the glass of beer at his elbow. +He drank half of it, wiped his mustaches, and remarked grimly— + +“Don’t you think that there will be any sea life in this, because there +ain’t. If you’re going to put in any out of your own head, now’s your +chance. I suppose you know what ten days of bad weather in the Channel +are like? I don’t. Anyway, ten whole days go by. One Monday Cloete +comes to the office a little late—hears a woman’s voice in George’s room +and looks in. Newspapers on the desk, on the floor; Captain Harry’s wife +sitting with red eyes and a bag on the chair near her. . . Look at this, +says George, in great excitement, showing him a paper. Cloete’s heart +gives a jump. Ha! Wreck in Westport Bay. The _Sagamore_ gone ashore +early hours of Sunday, and so the newspaper men had time to put in some +of their work. Columns of it. Lifeboat out twice. Captain and crew +remain by the ship. Tugs summoned to assist. If the weather improves, +this well-known fine ship may yet be saved. . . You know the way these +chaps put it. . . Mrs. Harry there on her way to catch a train from +Cannon Street. Got an hour to wait. + +“Cloete takes George aside and whispers: Ship saved yet! Oh, damn! That +must never be; you hear? But George looks at him dazed, and Mrs. Harry +keeps on sobbing quietly: . . . I ought to have been with him. But I am +going to him. . . We are all going together, cries Cloete, all of a +sudden. He rushes out, sends the woman a cup of hot bovril from the shop +across the road, buys a rug for her, thinks of everything; and in the +train tucks her in and keeps on talking, thirteen to the dozen, all the +way, to keep her spirits up, as it were; but really because he can’t hold +his peace for very joy. Here’s the thing done all at once, and nothing +to pay. Done. Actually done. His head swims now and again when he +thinks of it. What enormous luck! It almost frightens him. He would +like to yell and sing. Meantime George Dunbar sits in his corner, +looking so deadly miserable that at last poor Mrs. Harry tries to comfort +him, and so cheers herself up at the same time by talking about how her +Harry is a prudent man; not likely to risk his crew’s life or his own +unnecessarily—and so on. + +“First thing they hear at Westport station is that the life-boat has been +out to the ship again, and has brought off the second officer, who had +hurt himself, and a few sailors. Captain and the rest of the crew, about +fifteen in all, are still on board. Tugs expected to arrive every +moment. + +“They take Mrs. Harry to the inn, nearly opposite the rocks; she bolts +straight up-stairs to look out of the window, and she lets out a great +cry when she sees the wreck. She won’t rest till she gets on board to +her Harry. Cloete soothes her all he can. . . All right; you try to eat +a mouthful, and we will go to make inquiries. + +“He draws George out of the room: Look here, she can’t go on board, but I +shall. I’ll see to it that he doesn’t stop in the ship too long. Let’s +go and find the coxswain of the life-boat. . . George follows him, +shivering from time to time. The waves are washing over the old pier; +not much wind, a wild, gloomy sky over the bay. In the whole world only +one tug away off, heading to the seas, tossed in and out of sight every +minute as regular as clockwork. + +“They meet the coxswain and he tells them: Yes! He’s going out again. +No, they ain’t in danger on board—not yet. But the ship’s chance is very +poor. Still, if the wind doesn’t pipe up again and the sea goes down +something might be tried. After some talk he agrees to take Cloete on +board; supposed to be with an urgent message from the owners to the +captain. + +“Whenever Cloete looks at the sky he feels comforted; it looks so +threatening. George Dunbar follows him about with a white face and +saying nothing. Cloete takes him to have a drink or two, and by and by +he begins to pick up. . . That’s better, says Cloete; dash me if it +wasn’t like walking about with a dead man before. You ought to be +throwing up your cap, man. I feel as if I wanted to stand in the street +and cheer. Your brother is safe, the ship is lost, and we are made men. + +“Are you certain she’s lost? asks George. It would be an awful blow +after all the agonies I have gone through in my mind, since you first +spoke to me, if she were to be got off—and—and—all this temptation to +begin over again. . . For we had nothing to do with this; had we? + +“Of course not, says Cloete. Wasn’t your brother himself in charge? +It’s providential. . . Oh! cries George, shocked. . . Well, say it’s the +devil, says Cloete, cheerfully. I don’t mind! You had nothing to do +with it any more than a baby unborn, you great softy, you. . . Cloete has +got so that he almost loved George Dunbar. Well. Yes. That was so. I +don’t mean he respected him. He was just fond of his partner. + +“They go back, you may say fairly skipping, to the hotel, and find the +wife of the captain at the open window, with her eyes on the ship as if +she wanted to fly across the bay over there. . . Now then, Mrs. Dunbar, +cries Cloete, you can’t go, but I am going. Any messages? Don’t be shy. +I’ll deliver every word faithfully. And if you would like to give me a +kiss for him, I’ll deliver that too, dash me if I don’t. + +“He makes Mrs. Harry laugh with his patter. . . Oh, dear Mr. Cloete, you +are a calm, reasonable man. Make him behave sensibly. He’s a bit +obstinate, you know, and he’s so fond of the ship, too. Tell him I am +here—looking on. . . Trust me, Mrs. Dunbar. Only shut that window, +that’s a good girl. You will be sure to catch cold if you don’t, and the +Captain won’t be pleased coming off the wreck to find you coughing and +sneezing so that you can’t tell him how happy you are. And now if you +can get me a bit of tape to fasten my glasses on good to my ears, I will +be going. . . + +“How he gets on board I don’t know. All wet and shaken and excited and +out of breath, he does get on board. Ship lying over, smothered in +sprays, but not moving very much; just enough to jag one’s nerve a bit. +He finds them all crowded on the deck-house forward, in their shiny +oilskins, with faces like sick men. Captain Harry can’t believe his +eyes. What! Mr. Cloete! What are you doing here, in God’s name? . . . +Your wife’s ashore there, looking on, gasps out Cloete; and after they +had talked a bit, Captain Harry thinks it’s uncommonly plucky and kind of +his brother’s partner to come off to him like this. Man glad to have +somebody to talk to. . . It’s a bad business, Mr. Cloete, he says. And +Cloete rejoices to hear that. Captain Harry thinks he had done his best, +but the cable had parted when he tried to anchor her. It was a great +trial to lose the ship. Well, he would have to face it. He fetches a +deep sigh now and then. Cloete almost sorry he had come on board, +because to be on that wreck keeps his chest in a tight band all the time. +They crouch out of the wind under the port boat, a little apart from the +men. The life-boat had gone away after putting Cloete on board, but was +coming back next high water to take off the crew if no attempt at getting +the ship afloat could be made. Dusk was falling; winter’s day; black +sky; wind rising. Captain Harry felt melancholy. God’s will be done. +If she must be left on the rocks—why, she must. A man should take what +God sends him standing up. . . Suddenly his voice breaks, and he squeezes +Cloete’s arm: It seems as if I couldn’t leave her, he whispers. Cloete +looks round at the men like a lot of huddled sheep and thinks to himself: +They won’t stay. . . Suddenly the ship lifts a little and sets down with +a thump. Tide rising. Everybody beginning to look out for the +life-boat. Some of the men made her out far away and also two more tugs. +But the gale has come on again, and everybody knows that no tug will ever +dare come near the ship. + +“That’s the end, Captain Harry says, very low. . . . Cloete thinks he +never felt so cold in all his life. . . And I feel as if I didn’t care to +live on just now, mutters Captain Harry . . . Your wife’s ashore, looking +on, says Cloete . . . Yes. Yes. It must be awful for her to look at the +poor old ship lying here done for. Why, that’s our home. + +“Cloete thinks that as long as the _Sagamore’s_ done for he doesn’t care, +and only wishes himself somewhere else. The slightest movement of the +ship cuts his breath like a blow. And he feels excited by the danger, +too. The captain takes him aside. . . The life-boat can’t come near us +for more than an hour. Look here, Cloete, since you are here, and such a +plucky one—do something for me. . . He tells him then that down in his +cabin aft in a certain drawer there is a bundle of important papers and +some sixty sovereigns in a small canvas bag. Asks Cloete to go and get +these things out. He hasn’t been below since the ship struck, and it +seems to him that if he were to take his eyes off her she would fall to +pieces. And then the men—a scared lot by this time—if he were to leave +them by themselves they would attempt to launch one of the ship’s boats +in a panic at some heavier thump—and then some of them bound to get +drowned. . . There are two or three boxes of matches about my shelves in +my cabin if you want a light, says Captain Harry. Only wipe your wet +hands before you begin to feel for them. . . + +“Cloete doesn’t like the job, but doesn’t like to show funk, either—and +he goes. Lots of water on the main-deck, and he splashes along; it was +getting dark, too. All at once, by the mainmast, somebody catches him by +the arm. Stafford. He wasn’t thinking of Stafford at all. Captain +Harry had said something as to the mate not being quite satisfactory, but +it wasn’t much. Cloete doesn’t recognise him in his oilskins at first. +He sees a white face with big eyes peering at him. . . Are you pleased, +Mr. Cloete . . . ? + +“Cloete is moved to laugh at the whine, and shakes him off. But the +fellow scrambles on after him on the poop and follows him down into the +cabin of that wrecked ship. And there they are, the two of them; can +hardly see each other. . . You don’t mean to make me believe you have had +anything to do with this, says Cloete. . . + +“They both shiver, nearly out of their wits with the excitement of being +on board that ship. She thumps and lurches, and they stagger together, +feeling sick. Cloete again bursts out laughing at that wretched creature +Stafford pretending to have been up to something so desperate. . . Is +that how you think you can treat me now? yells the other man all of a +sudden. . . + +“A sea strikes the stern, the ship trembles and groans all round them, +there’s the noise of the seas about and overhead, confusing Cloete, and +he hears the other screaming as if crazy. . . Ah, you don’t believe me! +Go and look at the port chain. Parted? Eh? Go and see if it’s parted. +Go and find the broken link. You can’t. There’s no broken link. That +means a thousand pounds for me. No less. A thousand the day after we +get ashore—prompt. I won’t wait till she breaks up, Mr. Cloete. To the +underwriters I go if I’ve to walk to London on my bare feet. Port cable! +Look at her port cable, I will say to them. I doctored it—for the +owners—tempted by a low rascal called Cloete. + +“Cloete does not understand what it means exactly. All he sees is that +the fellow means to make mischief. He sees trouble ahead. . . Do you +think you can scare me? he asks,—you poor miserable skunk. . . And +Stafford faces him out—both holding on to the cabin table: No, damn you, +you are only a dirty vagabond; but I can scare the other, the chap in the +black coat. . . + +“Meaning George Dunbar. Cloete’s brain reels at the thought. He doesn’t +imagine the fellow can do any real harm, but he knows what George is; +give the show away; upset the whole business he had set his heart on. He +says nothing; he hears the other, what with the funk and strain and +excitement, panting like a dog—and then a snarl. . . A thousand down, +twenty-four hours after we get ashore; day after to-morrow. That’s my +last word, Mr. Cloete. . . A thousand pounds, day after to-morrow, says +Cloete. Oh yes. And to-day take this, you dirty cur. . . He hits +straight from the shoulder in sheer rage, nothing else. Stafford goes +away spinning along the bulk-head. Seeing this, Cloete steps out and +lands him another one somewhere about the jaw. The fellow staggers +backward right into the captain’s cabin through the open door. Cloete, +following him up, hears him fall down heavily and roll to leeward, then +slams the door to and turns the key. . . There! says he to himself, that +will stop you from making trouble.” + +“By Jove!” I murmured. + +The old fellow departed from his impressive immobility to turn his +rakishly hatted head and look at me with his old, black, lack-lustre +eyes. + +“He did leave him there,” he uttered, weightily, returning to the +contemplation of the wall. “Cloete didn’t mean to allow anybody, let +alone a thing like Stafford, to stand in the way of his great notion of +making George and himself, and Captain Harry, too, for that matter, rich +men. And he didn’t think much of consequences. These patent-medicine +chaps don’t care what they say or what they do. They think the world’s +bound to swallow any story they like to tell. . . He stands listening for +a bit. And it gives him quite a turn to hear a thump at the door and a +sort of muffled raving screech inside the captain’s room. He thinks he +hears his own name, too, through the awful crash as the old _Sagamore_ +rises and falls to a sea. That noise and that awful shock make him clear +out of the cabin. He collects his senses on the poop. But his heart +sinks a little at the black wildness of the night. Chances that he will +get drowned himself before long. Puts his head down the companion. +Through the wind and breaking seas he can hear the noise of Stafford’s +beating against the door and cursing. He listens and says to himself: +No. Can’t trust him now. . . + +“When he gets back to the top of the deck-house he says to Captain Harry, +who asks him if he got the things, that he is very sorry. There was +something wrong with the door. Couldn’t open it. And to tell you the +truth, says he, I didn’t like to stop any longer in that cabin. There +are noises there as if the ship were going to pieces. . . Captain Harry +thinks: Nervous; can’t be anything wrong with the door. But he says: +Thanks—never mind, never mind. . . All hands looking out now for the +life-boat. Everybody thinking of himself rather. Cloete asks himself, +will they miss him? But the fact is that Mr. Stafford had made such poor +show at sea that after the ship struck nobody ever paid any attention to +him. Nobody cared what he did or where he was. Pitch dark, too—no +counting of heads. The light of the tug with the lifeboat in tow is seen +making for the ship, and Captain Harry asks: Are we all there? . . . +Somebody answers: All here, sir. . . Stand by to leave the ship, then, +says Captain Harry; and two of you help the gentleman over first. . . +Aye, aye, sir. . . Cloete was moved to ask Captain Harry to let him stay +till last, but the life-boat drops on a grapnel abreast the fore-rigging, +two chaps lay hold of him, watch their chance, and drop him into her, all +safe. + +“He’s nearly exhausted; not used to that sort of thing, you see. He sits +in the stern-sheets with his eyes shut. Don’t want to look at the white +water boiling all around. The men drop into the boat one after another. +Then he hears Captain Harry’s voice shouting in the wind to the coxswain, +to hold on a moment, and some other words he can’t catch, and the +coxswain yelling back: Don’t be long, sir. . . What is it? Cloete asks +feeling faint. . . Something about the ship’s papers, says the coxswain, +very anxious. It’s no time to be fooling about alongside, you +understand. They haul the boat off a little and wait. The water flies +over her in sheets. Cloete’s senses almost leave him. He thinks of +nothing. He’s numb all over, till there’s a shout: Here he is! . . . +They see a figure in the fore-rigging waiting—they slack away on the +grapnel-line and get him in the boat quite easy. There is a little +shouting—it’s all mixed up with the noise of the sea. Cloete fancies +that Stafford’s voice is talking away quite close to his ear. There’s a +lull in the wind, and Stafford’s voice seems to be speaking very fast to +the coxswain; he tells him that of course he was near his skipper, was +all the time near him, till the old man said at the last moment that he +must go and get the ship’s papers from aft; would insist on going +himself; told him, Stafford, to get into the life-boat. . . He had meant +to wait for his skipper, only there came this smooth of the seas, and he +thought he would take his chance at once. + +“Cloete opens his eyes. Yes. There’s Stafford sitting close by him in +that crowded life-boat. The coxswain stoops over Cloete and cries: Did +you hear what the mate said, sir? . . . Cloete’s face feels as if it were +set in plaster, lips and all. Yes, I did, he forces himself to answer. +The coxswain waits a moment, then says: I don’t like it. . . And he turns +to the mate, telling him it was a pity he did not try to run along the +deck and hurry up the captain when the lull came. Stafford answers at +once that he did think of it, only he was afraid of missing him on the +deck in the dark. For, says he, the captain might have got over at once, +thinking I was already in the life-boat, and you would have hauled off +perhaps, leaving me behind. . . True enough, says the coxswain. A minute +or so passes. This won’t do, mutters the coxswain. Suddenly Stafford +speaks up in a sort of hollow voice: I was by when he told Mr. Cloete +here that he didn’t know how he would ever have the courage to leave the +old ship; didn’t he, now? . . . And Cloete feels his arm being gripped +quietly in the dark. . . Didn’t he now? We were standing together just +before you went over, Mr. Cloete? . . . + +“Just then the coxswain cries out: I’m going on board to see. . . Cloete +tears his arm away: I am going with you. . . + +“When they get aboard, the coxswain tells Cloete to go aft along one side +of the ship and he would go along the other so as not to miss the +captain. . . And feel about with your hands, too, says he; he might have +fallen and be lying insensible somewhere on the deck. . . When Cloete +gets at last to the cabin companion on the poop the coxswain is already +there, peering down and sniffing. I detect a smell of smoke down there, +says he. And he yells: Are you there, sir? . . . This is not a case for +shouting, says Cloete, feeling his heart go stony, as it were. . . Down +they go. Pitch dark; the inclination so sharp that the coxswain, groping +his way into the captain’s room, slips and goes tumbling down. Cloete +hears him cry out as though he had hurt himself, and asks what’s the +matter. And the coxswain answers quietly that he had fallen on the +captain, lying there insensible. Cloete without a word begins to grope +all over the shelves for a box of matches, finds one, and strikes a +light. He sees the coxswain in his cork jacket kneeling over Captain +Harry. . . Blood, says the coxswain, looking up, and the match goes out. +. . + +“Wait a bit, says Cloete; I’ll make paper spills. . . He had felt the +back of books on the shelves. And so he stands lighting one spill from +another while the coxswain turns poor Captain Harry over. Dead, he says. +Shot through the heart. Here’s the revolver. . . He hands it up to +Cloete, who looks at it before putting it in his pocket, and sees a plate +on the butt with _H. Dunbar_ on it. . . His own, he mutters. . . Whose +else revolver did you expect to find? snaps the coxswain. And look, he +took off his long oilskin in the cabin before he went in. But what’s +this lot of burnt paper? What could he want to burn the ship’s papers +for? . . . + +Cloete sees all, the little drawers drawn out, and asks the coxswain to +look well into them. . . There’s nothing, says the man. Cleaned out. +Seems to have pulled out all he could lay his hands on and set fire to +the lot. Mad—that’s what it is—went mad. And now he’s dead. You’ll +have to break it to his wife. . . + +“I feel as if I were going mad myself, says Cloete, suddenly, and the +coxswain begs him for God’s sake to pull himself together, and drags him +away from the cabin. They had to leave the body, and as it was they were +just in time before a furious squall came on. Cloete is dragged into the +life-boat and the coxswain tumbles in. Haul away on the grapnel, he +shouts; the captain has shot himself. . . + +“Cloete was like a dead man—didn’t care for anything. He let that +Stafford pinch his arm twice without making a sign. Most of Westport was +on the old pier to see the men out of the life-boat, and at first there +was a sort of confused cheery uproar when she came alongside; but after +the coxswain has shouted something the voices die out, and everybody is +very quiet. As soon as Cloete has set foot on something firm he becomes +himself again. The coxswain shakes hands with him: Poor woman, poor +woman, I’d rather you had the job than I. . . + +“Where’s the mate?” asks Cloete. He’s the last man who spoke to the +master. . . Somebody ran along—the crew were being taken to the Mission +Hall, where there was a fire and shake-downs ready for them—somebody ran +along the pier and caught up with Stafford. . . Here! The owner’s agent +wants you. . . Cloete tucks the fellow’s arm under his own and walks away +with him to the left, where the fishing-harbour is. . . I suppose I +haven’t misunderstood you. You wish me to look after you a bit, says he. +The other hangs on him rather limp, but gives a nasty little laugh: You +had better, he mumbles; but mind, no tricks; no tricks, Mr. Cloete; we +are on land now. + +“There’s a police office within fifty yards from here, says Cloete. He +turns into a little public house, pushes Stafford along the passage. The +landlord runs out of the bar. . . This is the mate of the ship on the +rocks, Cloete explains; I wish you would take care of him a bit to-night. . . +What’s the matter with him? asks the man. Stafford leans against the +wall in the passage, looking ghastly. And Cloete says it’s nothing—done +up, of course. . . I will be responsible for the expense; I am the +owner’s agent. I’ll be round in an hour or two to see him. + +And Cloete gets back to the hotel. The news had travelled there already, +and the first thing he sees is George outside the door as white as a +sheet waiting for him. Cloete just gives him a nod and they go in. Mrs. +Harry stands at the head of the stairs, and, when she sees only these two +coming up, flings her arms above her head and runs into her room. Nobody +had dared tell her, but not seeing her husband was enough. Cloete hears +an awful shriek. . . Go to her, he says to George. + +“While he’s alone in the private parlour Cloete drinks a glass of brandy +and thinks it all out. Then George comes in. . . The landlady’s with +her, he says. And he begins to walk up and down the room, flinging his +arms about and talking, disconnected like, his face set hard as Cloete +has never seen it before. . . What must be, must be. Dead—only brother. +Well, dead—his troubles over. But we are living, he says to Cloete; and +I suppose, says he, glaring at him with hot, dry eyes, that you won’t +forget to wire in the morning to your friend that we are coming in for +certain. . . + +“Meaning the patent-medicine fellow. . . Death is death and business is +business, George goes on; and look—my hands are clean, he says, showing +them to Cloete. Cloete thinks: He’s going crazy. He catches hold of him +by the shoulders and begins to shake him: Damn you—if you had had the +sense to know what to say to your brother, if you had had the spunk to +speak to him at all, you moral creature you, he would be alive now, he +shouts. + +“At this George stares, then bursts out weeping with a great bellow. He +throws himself on the couch, buries his face in a cushion, and howls like +a kid. . . That’s better, thinks Cloete, and he leaves him, telling the +landlord that he must go out, as he has some little business to attend to +that night. The landlord’s wife, weeping herself, catches him on the +stairs: Oh, sir, that poor lady will go out of her mind. . . + +“Cloete shakes her off, thinking to himself: Oh no! She won’t. She will +get over it. Nobody will go mad about this affair unless I do. It isn’t +sorrow that makes people go mad, but worry. + +“There Cloete was wrong. What affected Mrs. Harry was that her husband +should take his own life, with her, as it were, looking on. She brooded +over it so that in less than a year they had to put her into a Home. She +was very, very quiet; just gentle melancholy. She lived for quite a long +time. + +“Well, Cloete splashes along in the wind and rain. Nobody in the +streets—all the excitement over. The publican runs out to meet him in +the passage and says to him: Not this way. He isn’t in his room. We +couldn’t get him to go to bed nohow. He’s in the little parlour there. +We’ve lighted him a fire. . . You have been giving him drinks too, says +Cloete; I never said I would be responsible for drinks. How many? . . . +Two, says the other. It’s all right. I don’t mind doing that much for a +shipwrecked sailor. . . Cloete smiles his funny smile: Eh? Come. He +paid for them. . . The publican just blinks. . . Gave you gold, didn’t +he? Speak up! . . . What of that! cries the man. What are you after, +anyway? He had the right change for his sovereign. + +“Just so, says Cloete. He walks into the parlour, and there he sees our +Stafford; hair all up on end, landlord’s shirt and pants on, bare feet in +slippers, sitting by the fire. When he sees Cloete he casts his eyes +down. + +“You didn’t mean us ever to meet again, Mr. Cloete, Stafford says, +demurely. . . That fellow, when he had the drink he wanted—he wasn’t a +drunkard—would put on this sort of sly, modest air. . . But since the +captain committed suicide, he says, I have been sitting here thinking it +out. All sorts of things happen. Conspiracy to lose the ship—attempted +murder—and this suicide. For if it was not suicide, Mr. Cloete, then I +know of a victim of the most cruel, cold-blooded attempt at murder; +somebody who has suffered a thousand deaths. And that makes the thousand +pounds of which we spoke once a quite insignificant sum. Look how very +convenient this suicide is. . . + +“He looks up at Cloete then, who smiles at him and comes quite close to +the table. + +“You killed Harry Dunbar, he whispers. . . The fellow glares at him and +shows his teeth: Of course I did! I had been in that cabin for an hour +and a half like a rat in a trap. . . Shut up and left to drown in that +wreck. Let flesh and blood judge. Of course I shot him! I thought it +was you, you murdering scoundrel, come back to settle me. He opens the +door flying and tumbles right down upon me; I had a revolver in my hand, +and I shot him. I was crazy. Men have gone crazy for less. + +“Cloete looks at him without flinching. Aha! That’s your story, is it? +. . . And he shakes the table a little in his passion as he speaks. . . +Now listen to mine. What’s this conspiracy? Who’s going to prove it? +You were there to rob. You were rifling his cabin; he came upon you +unawares with your hands in the drawer; and you shot him with his own +revolver. You killed to steal—to steal! His brother and the clerks in +the office know that he took sixty pounds with him to sea. Sixty pounds +in gold in a canvas bag. He told me where they were. The coxswain of +the life-boat can swear to it that the drawers were all empty. And you +are such a fool that before you’re half an hour ashore you change a +sovereign to pay for a drink. Listen to me. If you don’t turn up day +after to-morrow at George Dunbar’s solicitors, to make the proper +deposition as to the loss of the ship, I shall set the police on your +track. Day after to-morrow. . . + +“And then what do you think? That Stafford begins to tear his hair. +Just so. Tugs at it with both hands without saying anything. Cloete +gives a push to the table which nearly sends the fellow off his chair, +tumbling inside the fender; so that he has got to catch hold of it to +save himself. . . + +“You know the sort of man I am, Cloete says, fiercely. I’ve got to a +point that I don’t care what happens to me. I would shoot you now for +tuppence. + +“At this the cur dodges under the table. Then Cloete goes out, and as he +turns in the street—you know, little fishermen’s cottages, all dark; +raining in torrents, too—the other opens the window of the parlour and +speaks in a sort of crying voice— + +“You low Yankee fiend—I’ll pay you off some day. + +“Cloete passes by with a damn bitter laugh, because he thinks that the +fellow in a way has paid him off already, if he only knew it.” + + * * * * * + +My impressive ruffian drank what remained of his beer, while his black, +sunken eyes looked at me over the rim. + +“I don’t quite understand this,” I said. “In what way?” + +He unbent a little and explained without too much scorn that Captain +Harry being dead, his half of the insurance money went to his wife, and +her trustees of course bought consols with it. Enough to keep her +comfortable. George Dunbar’s half, as Cloete feared from the first, did +not prove sufficient to launch the medicine well; other moneyed men +stepped in, and these two had to go out of that business, pretty nearly +shorn of everything. + +“I am curious,” I said, “to learn what the motive force of this tragic +affair was—I mean the patent medicine. Do you know?” + +He named it, and I whistled respectfully. Nothing less than Parker’s +Lively Lumbago Pills. Enormous property! You know it; all the world +knows it. Every second man, at least, on this globe of ours has tried +it. + +“Why!” I cried, “they missed an immense fortune.” + +“Yes,” he mumbled, “by the price of a revolver-shot.” + +He told me also that eventually Cloete returned to the States, passenger +in a cargo-boat from Albert Dock. The night before he sailed he met him +wandering about the quays, and took him home for a drink. “Funny chap, +Cloete. We sat all night drinking grogs, till it was time for him to go +on board.” + +It was then that Cloete, unembittered but weary, told him this story, +with that utterly unconscious frankness of a patent-medicine man stranger +to all moral standards. Cloete concluded by remarking that he, had “had +enough of the old country.” George Dunbar had turned on him, too, in the +end. Cloete was clearly somewhat disillusioned. + +As to Stafford, he died, professed loafer, in some East End hospital or +other, and on his last day clamoured “for a parson,” because his +conscience worried him for killing an innocent man. “Wanted somebody to +tell him it was all right,” growled my old ruffian, contemptuously. “He +told the parson that I knew this Cloete who had tried to murder him, and +so the parson (he worked among the dock labourers) once spoke to me about +it. That skunk of a fellow finding himself trapped yelled for mercy. . . +Promised to be good and so on. . . Then he went crazy . . . screamed and +threw himself about, beat his head against the bulkheads . . . you can +guess all that—eh? . . . till he was exhausted. Gave up. Threw himself +down, shut his eyes, and wanted to pray. So he says. Tried to think of +some prayer for a quick death—he was that terrified. Thought that if he +had a knife or something he would cut his throat, and be done with it. +Then he thinks: No! Would try to cut away the wood about the lock. . . +He had no knife in his pocket. . . he was weeping and calling on God to +send him a tool of some kind when suddenly he thinks: Axe! In most ships +there is a spare emergency axe kept in the master’s room in some locker +or other. . . Up he jumps. . . Pitch dark. Pulls at the drawers to find +matches and, groping for them, the first thing he comes upon—Captain +Harry’s revolver. Loaded too. He goes perfectly quiet all over. Can +shoot the lock to pieces. See? Saved! God’s providence! There are +boxes of matches too. Thinks he: I may just as well see what I am about. + +“Strikes a light and sees the little canvas bag tucked away at the back +of the drawer. Knew at once what that was. Rams it into his pocket +quick. Aha! says he to himself: this requires more light. So he pitches +a lot of paper on the floor, set fire to it, and starts in a hurry +rummaging for more valuables. Did you ever? He told that East-End +parson that the devil tempted him. First God’s mercy—then devil’s work. +Turn and turn about. . . + +“Any squirming skunk can talk like that. He was so busy with the drawers +that the first thing he heard was a shout, Great Heavens. He looks up +and there was the door open (Cloete had left the key in the lock) and +Captain Harry holding on, well above him, very fierce in the light of the +burning papers. His eyes were starting out of his head. Thieving, he +thunders at him. A sailor! An officer! No! A wretch like you deserves +no better than to be left here to drown. + +“This Stafford—on his death-bed—told the parson that when he heard these +words he went crazy again. He snatched his hand with the revolver in it +out of the drawer, and fired without aiming. Captain Harry fell right in +with a crash like a stone on top of the burning papers, putting the blaze +out. All dark. Not a sound. He listened for a bit then dropped the +revolver and scrambled out on deck like mad.” + +The old fellow struck the table with his ponderous fist. + +“What makes me sick is to hear these silly boat-men telling people the +captain committed suicide. Pah! Captain Harry was a man that could face +his Maker any time up there, and here below, too. He wasn’t the sort to +slink out of life. Not he! He was a good man down to the ground. He +gave me my first job as stevedore only three days after I got married.” + +As the vindication of Captain Harry from the charge of suicide seemed to +be his only object, I did not thank him very effusively for his material. +And then it was not worth many thanks in any case. + +For it is too startling even to think of such things happening in our +respectable Channel in full view, so to speak, of the luxurious +continental traffic to Switzerland and Monte Carlo. This story to be +acceptable should have been transposed to somewhere in the South Seas. +But it would have been too much trouble to cook it for the consumption of +magazine readers. So here it is raw, so to speak—just as it was told to +me—but unfortunately robbed of the striking effect of the narrator; the +most imposing old ruffian that ever followed the unromantic trade of +master stevedore in the port of London. + + * * * * * + +_Oct._ 1910. + + + + +THE INN OF THE TWO WITCHES +A FIND + + +This tale, episode, experience—call it how you will—was related in the +fifties of the last century by a man who, by his own confession, was +sixty years old at the time. Sixty is not a bad age—unless in +perspective, when no doubt it is contemplated by the majority of us with +mixed feelings. It is a calm age; the game is practically over by then; +and standing aside one begins to remember with a certain vividness what a +fine fellow one used to be. I have observed that, by an amiable +attention of Providence, most people at sixty begin to take a romantic +view of themselves. Their very failures exhale a charm of peculiar +potency. And indeed the hopes of the future are a fine company to live +with, exquisite forms, fascinating if you like, but—so to speak—naked, +stripped for a run. The robes of glamour are luckily the property of the +immovable past which, without them, would sit, a shivery sort of thing, +under the gathering shadows. + +I suppose it was the romanticism of growing age which set our man to +relate his experience for his own satisfaction or for the wonder of his +posterity. It could not have been for his glory, because the experience +was simply that of an abominable fright—terror he calls it. You would +have guessed that the relation alluded to in the very first lines was in +writing. + +This writing constitutes the Find declared in the sub-title. The title +itself is my own contrivance, (can’t call it invention), and has the +merit of veracity. We will be concerned with an inn here. As to the +witches that’s merely a conventional expression, and we must take our +man’s word for it that it fits the case. + +The Find was made in a box of books bought in London, in a street which +no longer exists, from a second-hand bookseller in the last stage of +decay. As to the books themselves they were at least twentieth-hand, and +on inspection turned out not worth the very small sum of money I +disbursed. It might have been some premonition of that fact which made +me say: “But I must have the box too.” The decayed bookseller assented +by the careless, tragic gesture of a man already doomed to extinction. + +A litter of loose pages at the bottom of the box excited my curiosity but +faintly. The close, neat, regular handwriting was not attractive at +first sight. But in one place the statement that in A.D. 1813 the writer +was twenty-two years old caught my eye. Two and twenty is an interesting +age in which one is easily reckless and easily frightened; the faculty of +reflection being weak and the power of imagination strong. + +In another place the phrase: “At night we stood in again,” arrested my +languid attention, because it was a sea phrase. “Let’s see what it is +all about,” I thought, without excitement. + +Oh! but it was a dull-faced MS., each line resembling every other line in +their close-set and regular order. It was like the drone of a monotonous +voice. A treatise on sugar-refining (the dreariest subject I can think +of) could have been given a more lively appearance. “In A.D. 1813, I was +twenty-two years old,” he begins earnestly and goes on with every +appearance of calm, horrible industry. Don’t imagine, however, that +there is anything archaic in my find. Diabolic ingenuity in invention +though as old as the world is by no means a lost art. Look at the +telephones for shattering the little peace of mind given to us in this +world, or at the machine guns for letting with dispatch life out of our +bodies. Now-a-days any blear-eyed old witch if only strong enough to +turn an insignificant little handle could lay low a hundred young men of +twenty in the twinkling of an eye. + +If this isn’t progress! . . . Why immense! We have moved on, and so you +must expect to meet here a certain naiveness of contrivance and +simplicity of aim appertaining to the remote epoch. And of course no +motoring tourist can hope to find such an inn anywhere, now. This one, +the one of the title, was situated in Spain. That much I discovered only +from internal evidence, because a good many pages of that relation were +missing—perhaps not a great misfortune after all. The writer seemed to +have entered into a most elaborate detail of the why and wherefore of his +presence on that coast—presumably the north coast of Spain. His +experience has nothing to do with the sea, though. As far as I can make +it out, he was an officer on board a sloop-of-war. There’s nothing +strange in that. At all stages of the long Peninsular campaign many of +our men-of-war of the smaller kind were cruising off the north coast of +Spain—as risky and disagreeable a station as can be well imagined. + +It looks as though that ship of his had had some special service to +perform. A careful explanation of all the circumstances was to be +expected from our man, only, as I’ve said, some of his pages (good tough +paper too) were missing: gone in covers for jampots or in wadding for the +fowling-pieces of his irreverent posterity. But it is to be seen clearly +that communication with the shore and even the sending of messengers +inland was part of her service, either to obtain intelligence from or to +transmit orders or advice to patriotic Spaniards, guerilleros or secret +juntas of the province. Something of the sort. All this can be only +inferred from the preserved scraps of his conscientious writing. + +Next we come upon the panegyric of a very fine sailor, a member of the +ship’s company, having the rating of the captain’s coxswain. He was +known on board as Cuba Tom; not because he was Cuban however; he was +indeed the best type of a genuine British tar of that time, and a +man-of-war’s man for years. He came by the name on account of some +wonderful adventures he had in that island in his young days, adventures +which were the favourite subject of the yarns he was in the habit of +spinning to his shipmates of an evening on the forecastle head. He was +intelligent, very strong, and of proved courage. Incidentally we are +told, so exact is our narrator, that Tom had the finest pigtail for +thickness and length of any man in the Navy. This appendage, much cared +for and sheathed tightly in a porpoise skin, hung half way down his broad +back to the great admiration of all beholders and to the great envy of +some. + +Our young officer dwells on the manly qualities of Cuba Tom with +something like affection. This sort of relation between officer and man +was not then very rare. A youngster on joining the service was put under +the charge of a trustworthy seaman, who slung his first hammock for him +and often later on became a sort of humble friend to the junior officer. +The narrator on joining the sloop had found this man on board after some +years of separation. There is something touching in the warm pleasure he +remembers and records at this meeting with the professional mentor of his +boyhood. + +We discover then that, no Spaniard being forthcoming for the service, +this worthy seaman with the unique pigtail and a very high character for +courage and steadiness had been selected as messenger for one of these +missions inland which have been mentioned. His preparations were not +elaborate. One gloomy autumn morning the sloop ran close to a shallow +cove where a landing could be made on that iron-bound shore. A boat was +lowered, and pulled in with Tom Corbin (Cuba Tom) perched in the bow, and +our young man (Mr. Edgar Byrne was his name on this earth which knows him +no more) sitting in the stern sheets. + +A few inhabitants of a hamlet, whose grey stone houses could be seen a +hundred yards or so up a deep ravine, had come down to the shore and +watched the approach of the boat. The two Englishmen leaped ashore. +Either from dullness or astonishment the peasants gave no greeting, and +only fell back in silence. + +Mr. Byrne had made up his mind to see Tom Corbin started fairly on his +way. He looked round at the heavy surprised faces. + +“There isn’t much to get out of them,” he said. “Let us walk up to the +village. There will be a wine shop for sure where we may find somebody +more promising to talk to and get some information from.” + +“Aye, aye, sir,” said Tom falling into step behind his officer. “A bit +of palaver as to courses and distances can do no harm; I crossed the +broadest part of Cuba by the help of my tongue tho’ knowing far less +Spanish than I do now. As they say themselves it was ‘four words and no +more’ with me, that time when I got left behind on shore by the +_Blanche_, frigate.” + +He made light of what was before him, which was but a day’s journey into +the mountains. It is true that there was a full day’s journey before +striking the mountain path, but that was nothing for a man who had +crossed the island of Cuba on his two legs, and with no more than four +words of the language to begin with. + +The officer and the man were walking now on a thick sodden bed of dead +leaves, which the peasants thereabouts accumulate in the streets of their +villages to rot during the winter for field manure. Turning his head Mr. +Byrne perceived that the whole male population of the hamlet was +following them on the noiseless springy carpet. Women stared from the +doors of the houses and the children had apparently gone into hiding. +The village knew the ship by sight, afar off, but no stranger had landed +on that spot perhaps for a hundred years or more. The cocked hat of Mr. +Byrne, the bushy whiskers and the enormous pigtail of the sailor, filled +them with mute wonder. They pressed behind the two Englishmen staring +like those islanders discovered by Captain Cook in the South Seas. + +It was then that Byrne had his first glimpse of the little cloaked man in +a yellow hat. Faded and dingy as it was, this covering for his head made +him noticeable. + +The entrance to the wine shop was like a rough hole in a wall of flints. +The owner was the only person who was not in the street, for he came out +from the darkness at the back where the inflated forms of wine skins hung +on nails could be vaguely distinguished. He was a tall, one-eyed +Asturian with scrubby, hollow cheeks; a grave expression of countenance +contrasted enigmatically with the roaming restlessness of his solitary +eye. On learning that the matter in hand was the sending on his way of +that English mariner toward a certain Gonzales in the mountains, he +closed his good eye for a moment as if in meditation. Then opened it, +very lively again. + +“Possibly, possibly. It could be done.” + +A friendly murmur arose in the group in the doorway at the name of +Gonzales, the local leader against the French. Inquiring as to the +safety of the road Byrne was glad to learn that no troops of that nation +had been seen in the neighbourhood for months. Not the smallest little +detachment of these impious _polizones_. While giving these answers the +owner of the wine-shop busied himself in drawing into an earthenware jug +some wine which he set before the heretic English, pocketing with grave +abstraction the small piece of money the officer threw upon the table in +recognition of the unwritten law that none may enter a wine-shop without +buying drink. His eye was in constant motion as if it were trying to do +the work of the two; but when Byrne made inquiries as to the possibility +of hiring a mule, it became immovably fixed in the direction of the door +which was closely besieged by the curious. In front of them, just within +the threshold, the little man in the large cloak and yellow hat had taken +his stand. He was a diminutive person, a mere homunculus, Byrne +describes him, in a ridiculously mysterious, yet assertive attitude, a +corner of his cloak thrown cavalierly over his left shoulder, muffling +his chin and mouth; while the broad-brimmed yellow hat hung on a corner +of his square little head. He stood there taking snuff, repeatedly. + +“A mule,” repeated the wine-seller, his eyes fixed on that quaint and +snuffy figure. . . “No, señor officer! Decidedly no mule is to be got in +this poor place.” + +The coxswain, who stood by with the true sailor’s air of unconcern in +strange surroundings, struck in quietly— + +“If your honour will believe me Shank’s pony’s the best for this job. I +would have to leave the beast somewhere, anyhow, since the captain has +told me that half my way will be along paths fit only for goats.” + +The diminutive man made a step forward, and speaking through the folds of +the cloak which seemed to muffle a sarcastic intention— + +“Si, señor. They are too honest in this village to have a single mule +amongst them for your worship’s service. To that I can bear testimony. +In these times it’s only rogues or very clever men who can manage to have +mules or any other four-footed beasts and the wherewithal to keep them. +But what this valiant mariner wants is a guide; and here, señor, behold +my brother-in-law, Bernardino, wine-seller, and alcade of this most +Christian and hospitable village, who will find you one.” + +This, Mr. Byrne says in his relation, was the only thing to do. A youth +in a ragged coat and goat-skin breeches was produced after some more +talk. The English officer stood treat to the whole village, and while +the peasants drank he and Cuba Tom took their departure accompanied by +the guide. The diminutive man in the cloak had disappeared. + +Byrne went along with the coxswain out of the village. He wanted to see +him fairly on his way; and he would have gone a greater distance, if the +seaman had not suggested respectfully the advisability of return so as +not to keep the ship a moment longer than necessary so close in with the +shore on such an unpromising looking morning. A wild gloomy sky hung +over their heads when they took leave of each other, and their +surroundings of rank bushes and stony fields were dreary. + +“In four days’ time,” were Byrne’s last words, “the ship will stand in +and send a boat on shore if the weather permits. If not you’ll have to +make it out on shore the best you can till we come along to take you +off.” + +“Right you are, sir,” answered Tom, and strode on. Byrne watched him +step out on a narrow path. In a thick pea-jacket with a pair of pistols +in his belt, a cutlass by his side, and a stout cudgel in his hand, he +looked a sturdy figure and well able to take care of himself. He turned +round for a moment to wave his hand, giving to Byrne one more view of his +honest bronzed face with bushy whiskers. The lad in goatskin breeches +looking, Byrne says, like a faun or a young satyr leaping ahead, stopped +to wait for him, and then went off at a bound. Both disappeared. + +Byrne turned back. The hamlet was hidden in a fold of the ground, and +the spot seemed the most lonely corner of the earth and as if accursed in +its uninhabited desolate barrenness. Before he had walked many yards, +there appeared very suddenly from behind a bush the muffled up diminutive +Spaniard. Naturally Byrne stopped short. + +The other made a mysterious gesture with a tiny hand peeping from under +his cloak. His hat hung very much at the side of his head. “Señor,” he +said without any preliminaries. “Caution! It is a positive fact that +one-eyed Bernardino, my brother-in-law, has at this moment a mule in his +stable. And why he who is not clever has a mule there? Because he is a +rogue; a man without conscience. Because I had to give up the _macho_ to +him to secure for myself a roof to sleep under and a mouthful of _olla_ +to keep my soul in this insignificant body of mine. Yet, señor, it +contains a heart many times bigger than the mean thing which beats in the +breast of that brute connection of mine of which I am ashamed, though I +opposed that marriage with all my power. Well, the misguided woman +suffered enough. She had her purgatory on this earth—God rest her soul.” + +Byrne says he was so astonished by the sudden appearance of that +sprite-like being, and by the sardonic bitterness of the speech, that he +was unable to disentangle the significant fact from what seemed but a +piece of family history fired out at him without rhyme or reason. Not at +first. He was confounded and at the same time he was impressed by the +rapid forcible delivery, quite different from the frothy excited +loquacity of an Italian. So he stared while the homunculus letting his +cloak fall about him, aspired an immense quantity of snuff out of the +hollow of his palm. + +“A mule,” exclaimed Byrne seizing at last the real aspect of the +discourse. “You say he has got a mule? That’s queer! Why did he refuse +to let me have it?” + +The diminutive Spaniard muffled himself up again with great dignity. + +“_Quien sabe_,” he said coldly, with a shrug of his draped shoulders. +“He is a great _politico_ in everything he does. But one thing your +worship may be certain of—that his intentions are always rascally. This +husband of my _defunta_ sister ought to have been married a long time ago +to the widow with the wooden legs.” {188} + +“I see. But remember that, whatever your motives, your worship +countenanced him in this lie.” + +The bright unhappy eyes on each side of a predatory nose confronted Byrne +without wincing, while with that testiness which lurks so often at the +bottom of Spanish dignity— + +“No doubt the señor officer would not lose an ounce of blood if I were +stuck under the fifth rib,” he retorted. “But what of this poor sinner +here?” Then changing his tone. “Señor, by the necessities of the times +I live here in exile, a Castilian and an old Christian, existing +miserably in the midst of these brute Asturians, and dependent on the +worst of them all, who has less conscience and scruples than a wolf. And +being a man of intelligence I govern myself accordingly. Yet I can +hardly contain my scorn. You have heard the way I spoke. A caballero of +parts like your worship might have guessed that there was a cat in +there.” + +“What cat?” said Byrne uneasily. “Oh, I see. Something suspicious. No, +señor. I guessed nothing. My nation are not good guessers at that sort +of thing; and, therefore, I ask you plainly whether that wine-seller has +spoken the truth in other particulars?” + +“There are certainly no Frenchmen anywhere about,” said the little man +with a return to his indifferent manner. + +“Or robbers—_ladrones_?” + +“_Ladrones en grande_—no! Assuredly not,” was the answer in a cold +philosophical tone. “What is there left for them to do after the French? +And nobody travels in these times. But who can say! Opportunity makes +the robber. Still that mariner of yours has a fierce aspect, and with +the son of a cat rats will have no play. But there is a saying, too, +that where honey is there will soon be flies.” + +This oracular discourse exasperated Byrne. “In the name of God,” he +cried, “tell me plainly if you think my man is reasonably safe on his +journey.” + +The homunculus, undergoing one of his rapid changes, seized the officer’s +arm. The grip of his little hand was astonishing. + +“Señor! Bernardino had taken notice of him. What more do you want? And +listen—men have disappeared on this road—on a certain portion of this +road, when Bernardino kept a _meson_, an inn, and I, his brother-in-law, +had coaches and mules for hire. Now there are no travellers, no coaches. +The French have ruined me. Bernardino has retired here for reasons of +his own after my sister died. They were three to torment the life out of +her, he and Erminia and Lucilla, two aunts of his—all affiliated to the +devil. And now he has robbed me of my last mule. You are an armed man. +Demand the _macho_ from him, with a pistol to his head, señor—it is not +his, I tell you—and ride after your man who is so precious to you. And +then you shall both be safe, for no two travellers have been ever known +to disappear together in these days. As to the beast, I, its owner, I +confide it to your honour.” + +They were staring hard at each other, and Byrne nearly burst into a laugh +at the ingenuity and transparency of the little man’s plot to regain +possession of his mule. But he had no difficulty to keep a straight face +because he felt deep within himself a strange inclination to do that very +extraordinary thing. He did not laugh, but his lip quivered; at which +the diminutive Spaniard, detaching his black glittering eyes from Byrne’s +face, turned his back on him brusquely with a gesture and a fling of the +cloak which somehow expressed contempt, bitterness, and discouragement +all at once. He turned away and stood still, his hat aslant, muffled up +to the ears. But he was not offended to the point of refusing the silver +_duro_ which Byrne offered him with a non-committal speech as if nothing +extraordinary had passed between them. + +“I must make haste on board now,” said Byrne, then. + +“_Vaya usted con Dios_,” muttered the gnome. And this interview ended +with a sarcastic low sweep of the hat which was replaced at the same +perilous angle as before. + +Directly the boat had been hoisted the ship’s sails were filled on the +off-shore tack, and Byrne imparted the whole story to his captain, who +was but a very few years older than himself. There was some amused +indignation at it—but while they laughed they looked gravely at each +other. A Spanish dwarf trying to beguile an officer of his majesty’s +navy into stealing a mule for him—that was too funny, too ridiculous, too +incredible. Those were the exclamations of the captain. He couldn’t get +over the grotesqueness of it. + +“Incredible. That’s just it,” murmured Byrne at last in a significant +tone. + +They exchanged a long stare. “It’s as clear as daylight,” affirmed the +captain impatiently, because in his heart he was not certain. And Tom +the best seaman in the ship for one, the good-humouredly deferential +friend of his boyhood for the other, was becoming endowed with a +compelling fascination, like a symbolic figure of loyalty appealing to +their feelings and their conscience, so that they could not detach their +thoughts from his safety. Several times they went up on deck, only to +look at the coast, as if it could tell them something of his fate. It +stretched away, lengthening in the distance, mute, naked, and savage, +veiled now and then by the slanting cold shafts of rain. The westerly +swell rolled its interminable angry lines of foam and big dark clouds +flew over the ship in a sinister procession. + +“I wish to goodness you had done what your little friend in the yellow +hat wanted you to do,” said the commander of the sloop late in the +afternoon with visible exasperation. + +“Do you, sir?” answered Byrne, bitter with positive anguish. “I wonder +what you would have said afterwards? Why! I might have been kicked out +of the service for looting a mule from a nation in alliance with His +Majesty. Or I might have been battered to a pulp with flails and +pitch-forks—a pretty tale to get abroad about one of your officers—while +trying to steal a mule. Or chased ignominiously to the boat—for you +would not have expected me to shoot down unoffending people for the sake +of a mangy mule. . . And yet,” he added in a low voice, “I almost wish +myself I had done it.” + +Before dark those two young men had worked themselves up into a highly +complex psychological state of scornful scepticism and alarmed credulity. +It tormented them exceedingly; and the thought that it would have to last +for six days at least, and possibly be prolonged further for an +indefinite time, was not to be borne. The ship was therefore put on the +inshore tack at dark. All through the gusty dark night she went towards +the land to look for her man, at times lying over in the heavy puffs, at +others rolling idle in the swell, nearly stationary, as if she too had a +mind of her own to swing perplexed between cool reason and warm impulse. + +Then just at daybreak a boat put off from her and went on tossed by the +seas towards the shallow cove where, with considerable difficulty, an +officer in a thick coat and a round hat managed to land on a strip of +shingle. + +“It was my wish,” writes Mr. Byrne, “a wish of which my captain approved, +to land secretly if possible. I did not want to be seen either by my +aggrieved friend in the yellow hat, whose motives were not clear, or by +the one-eyed wine-seller, who may or may not have been affiliated to the +devil, or indeed by any other dweller in that primitive village. But +unfortunately the cove was the only possible landing place for miles; and +from the steepness of the ravine I couldn’t make a circuit to avoid the +houses.” + +“Fortunately,” he goes on, “all the people were yet in their beds. It +was barely daylight when I found myself walking on the thick layer of +sodden leaves filling the only street. No soul was stirring abroad, no +dog barked. The silence was profound, and I had concluded with some +wonder that apparently no dogs were kept in the hamlet, when I heard a +low snarl, and from a noisome alley between two hovels emerged a vile cur +with its tail between its legs. He slunk off silently showing me his +teeth as he ran before me, and he disappeared so suddenly that he might +have been the unclean incarnation of the Evil One. There was, too, +something so weird in the manner of its coming and vanishing, that my +spirits, already by no means very high, became further depressed by the +revolting sight of this creature as if by an unlucky presage.” + +He got away from the coast unobserved, as far as he knew, then struggled +manfully to the west against wind and rain, on a barren dark upland, +under a sky of ashes. Far away the harsh and desolate mountains raising +their scarped and denuded ridges seemed to wait for him menacingly. The +evening found him fairly near to them, but, in sailor language, uncertain +of his position, hungry, wet, and tired out by a day of steady tramping +over broken ground during which he had seen very few people, and had been +unable to obtain the slightest intelligence of Tom Corbin’s passage. +“On! on! I must push on,” he had been saying to himself through the hours +of solitary effort, spurred more by incertitude than by any definite fear +or definite hope. + +The lowering daylight died out quickly, leaving him faced by a broken +bridge. He descended into the ravine, forded a narrow stream by the last +gleam of rapid water, and clambering out on the other side was met by the +night which fell like a bandage over his eyes. The wind sweeping in the +darkness the broadside of the sierra worried his ears by a continuous +roaring noise as of a maddened sea. He suspected that he had lost the +road. Even in daylight, with its ruts and mud-holes and ledges of +outcropping stone, it was difficult to distinguish from the dreary waste +of the moor interspersed with boulders and clumps of naked bushes. But, +as he says, “he steered his course by the feel of the wind,” his hat +rammed low on his brow, his head down, stopping now and again from mere +weariness of mind rather than of body—as if not his strength but his +resolution were being overtaxed by the strain of endeavour half suspected +to be vain, and by the unrest of his feelings. + +In one of these pauses borne in the wind faintly as if from very far away +he heard a sound of knocking, just knocking on wood. He noticed that the +wind had lulled suddenly. + +His heart started beating tumultuously because in himself he carried the +impression of the desert solitudes he had been traversing for the last +six hours—the oppressive sense of an uninhabited world. When he raised +his head a gleam of light, illusory as it often happens in dense +darkness, swam before his eyes. While he peered, the sound of feeble +knocking was repeated—and suddenly he felt rather than saw the existence +of a massive obstacle in his path. What was it? The spur of a hill? Or +was it a house! Yes. It was a house right close, as though it had risen +from the ground or had come gliding to meet him, dumb and pallid; from +some dark recess of the night. It towered loftily. He had come up under +its lee; another three steps and he could have touched the wall with his +hand. It was no doubt a _posada_ and some other traveller was trying for +admittance. He heard again the sound of cautious knocking. + +Next moment a broad band of light fell into the night through the opened +door. Byrne stepped eagerly into it, whereupon the person outside leaped +with a stifled cry away into the night. An exclamation of surprise was +heard too, from within. Byrne, flinging himself against the half closed +door, forced his way in against some considerable resistance. + +A miserable candle, a mere rushlight, burned at the end of a long deal +table. And in its light Byrne saw, staggering yet, the girl he had +driven from the door. She had a short black skirt, an orange shawl, a +dark complexion—and the escaped single hairs from the mass, sombre and +thick like a forest and held up by a comb, made a black mist about her +low forehead. A shrill lamentable howl of: “Misericordia!” came in two +voices from the further end of the long room, where the fire-light of an +open hearth played between heavy shadows. The girl recovering herself +drew a hissing breath through her set teeth. + +It is unnecessary to report the long process of questions and answers by +which he soothed the fears of two old women who sat on each side of the +fire, on which stood a large earthenware pot. Byrne thought at once of +two witches watching the brewing of some deadly potion. But all the +same, when one of them raising forward painfully her broken form lifted +the cover of the pot, the escaping steam had an appetising smell. The +other did not budge, but sat hunched up, her head trembling all the time. + +They were horrible. There was something grotesque in their decrepitude. +Their toothless mouths, their hooked noses, the meagreness of the active +one, and the hanging yellow cheeks of the other (the still one, whose +head trembled) would have been laughable if the sight of their dreadful +physical degradation had not been appalling to one’s eyes, had not +gripped one’s heart with poignant amazement at the unspeakable misery of +age, at the awful persistency of life becoming at last an object of +disgust and dread. + +To get over it Byrne began to talk, saying that he was an Englishman, and +that he was in search of a countryman who ought to have passed this way. +Directly he had spoken the recollection of his parting with Tom came up +in his mind with amazing vividness: the silent villagers, the angry +gnome, the one-eyed wine-seller, Bernardino. Why! These two unspeakable +frights must be that man’s aunts—affiliated to the devil. + +Whatever they had been once it was impossible to imagine what use such +feeble creatures could be to the devil, now, in the world of the living. +Which was Lucilla and which was Erminia? They were now things without a +name. A moment of suspended animation followed Byrne’s words. The +sorceress with the spoon ceased stirring the mess in the iron pot, the +very trembling of the other’s head stopped for the space of breath. In +this infinitesimal fraction of a second Byrne had the sense of being +really on his quest, of having reached the turn of the path, almost +within hail of Tom. + +“They have seen him,” he thought with conviction. Here was at last +somebody who had seen him. He made sure they would deny all knowledge of +the Ingles; but on the contrary they were eager to tell him that he had +eaten and slept the night in the house. They both started talking +together, describing his appearance and behaviour. An excitement quite +fierce in its feebleness possessed them. The doubled-up sorceress +flourished aloft her wooden spoon, the puffy monster got off her stool +and screeched, stepping from one foot to the other, while the trembling +of her head was accelerated to positive vibration. Byrne was quite +disconcerted by their excited behaviour. . . Yes! The big, fierce Ingles +went away in the morning, after eating a piece of bread and drinking some +wine. And if the caballero wished to follow the same path nothing could +be easier—in the morning. + +“You will give me somebody to show me the way?” said Byrne. + +“Si, señor. A proper youth. The man the caballero saw going out.” + +“But he was knocking at the door,” protested Byrne. “He only bolted when +he saw me. He was coming in.” + +“No! No!” the two horrid witches screamed out together. “Going out. +Going out!” + +After all it may have been true. The sound of knocking had been faint, +elusive, reflected Byrne. Perhaps only the effect of his fancy. He +asked— + +“Who is that man?” + +“Her _novio_.” They screamed pointing to the girl. “He is gone home to +a village far away from here. But he will return in the morning. Her +_novio_! And she is an orphan—the child of poor Christian people. She +lives with us for the love of God, for the love of God.” + +The orphan crouching on the corner of the hearth had been looking at +Byrne. He thought that she was more like a child of Satan kept there by +these two weird harridans for the love of the Devil. Her eyes were a +little oblique, her mouth rather thick, but admirably formed; her dark +face had a wild beauty, voluptuous and untamed. As to the character of +her steadfast gaze attached upon him with a sensuously savage attention, +“to know what it was like,” says Mr. Byrne, “you have only to observe a +hungry cat watching a bird in a cage or a mouse inside a trap.” + +It was she who served him the food, of which he was glad; though with +those big slanting black eyes examining him at close range, as if he had +something curious written on his face, she gave him an uncomfortable +sensation. But anything was better than being approached by these +blear-eyed nightmarish witches. His apprehensions somehow had been +soothed; perhaps by the sensation of warmth after severe exposure and the +ease of resting after the exertion of fighting the gale inch by inch all +the way. He had no doubt of Tom’s safety. He was now sleeping in the +mountain camp having been met by Gonzales’ men. + +Byrne rose, filled a tin goblet with wine out of a skin hanging on the +wall, and sat down again. The witch with the mummy face began to talk to +him, ramblingly of old times; she boasted of the inn’s fame in those +better days. Great people in their own coaches stopped there. An +archbishop slept once in the _casa_, a long, long time ago. + +The witch with the puffy face seemed to be listening from her stool, +motionless, except for the trembling of her head. The girl (Byrne was +certain she was a casual gipsy admitted there for some reason or other) +sat on the hearth stone in the glow of the embers. She hummed a tune to +herself, rattling a pair of castanets slightly now and then. At the +mention of the archbishop she chuckled impiously and turned her head to +look at Byrne, so that the red glow of the fire flashed in her black eyes +and on her white teeth under the dark cowl of the enormous overmantel. +And he smiled at her. + +He rested now in the ease of security. His advent not having been +expected there could be no plot against him in existence. Drowsiness +stole upon his senses. He enjoyed it, but keeping a hold, so he thought +at least, on his wits; but he must have been gone further than he thought +because he was startled beyond measure by a fiendish uproar. He had +never heard anything so pitilessly strident in his life. The witches had +started a fierce quarrel about something or other. Whatever its origin +they were now only abusing each other violently, without arguments; their +senile screams expressed nothing but wicked anger and ferocious dismay. +The gipsy girl’s black eyes flew from one to the other. Never before had +Byrne felt himself so removed from fellowship with human beings. Before +he had really time to understand the subject of the quarrel, the girl +jumped up rattling her castanets loudly. A silence fell. She came up to +the table and bending over, her eyes in his— + +“Señor,” she said with decision, “You shall sleep in the archbishop’s +room.” + +Neither of the witches objected. The dried-up one bent double was +propped on a stick. The puffy faced one had now a crutch. + +Byrne got up, walked to the door, and turning the key in the enormous +lock put it coolly in his pocket. This was clearly the only entrance, +and he did not mean to be taken unawares by whatever danger there might +have been lurking outside. + +When he turned from the door he saw the two witches “affiliated to the +Devil” and the Satanic girl looking at him in silence. He wondered if +Tom Corbin took the same precaution last might. And thinking of him he +had again that queer impression of his nearness. The world was perfectly +dumb. And in this stillness he heard the blood beating in his ears with +a confused rushing noise, in which there seemed to be a voice uttering +the words: “Mr. Byrne, look out, sir.” Tom’s voice. He shuddered; for +the delusions of the senses of hearing are the most vivid of all, and +from their nature have a compelling character. + +It seemed impossible that Tom should not be there. Again a slight chill +as of stealthy draught penetrated through his very clothes and passed +over all his body. He shook off the impression with an effort. + +It was the girl who preceded him upstairs carrying an iron lamp from the +naked flame of which ascended a thin thread of smoke. Her soiled white +stockings were full of holes. + +With the same quiet resolution with which he had locked the door below, +Byrne threw open one after another the doors in the corridor. All the +rooms were empty except for some nondescript lumber in one or two. And +the girl seeing what he would be at stopped every time, raising the smoky +light in each doorway patiently. Meantime she observed him with +sustained attention. The last door of all she threw open herself. + +“You sleep here, señor,” she murmured in a voice light like a child’s +breath, offering him the lamp. + +“_Buenos noches_, _senorita_,” he said politely, taking it from her. + +She didn’t return the wish audibly, though her lips did move a little, +while her gaze black like a starless night never for a moment wavered +before him. He stepped in, and as he turned to close the door she was +still there motionless and disturbing, with her voluptuous mouth and +slanting eyes, with the expression of expectant sensual ferocity of a +baffled cat. He hesitated for a moment, and in the dumb house he heard +again the blood pulsating ponderously in his ears, while once more the +illusion of Tom’s voice speaking earnestly somewhere near by was +specially terrifying, because this time he could not make out the words. + +He slammed the door in the girl’s face at last, leaving her in the dark; +and he opened it again almost on the instant. Nobody. She had vanished +without the slightest sound. He closed the door quickly and bolted it +with two heavy bolts. + +A profound mistrust possessed him suddenly. Why did the witches quarrel +about letting him sleep here? And what meant that stare of the girl as +if she wanted to impress his features for ever in her mind? His own +nervousness alarmed him. He seemed to himself to be removed very far +from mankind. + +He examined his room. It was not very high, just high enough to take the +bed which stood under an enormous baldaquin-like canopy from which fell +heavy curtains at foot and head; a bed certainly worthy of an archbishop. +There was a heavy table carved all round the edges, some arm-chairs of +enormous weight like the spoils of a grandee’s palace; a tall shallow +wardrobe placed against the wall and with double doors. He tried them. +Locked. A suspicion came into his mind, and he snatched the lamp to make +a closer examination. No, it was not a disguised entrance. That heavy, +tall piece of furniture stood clear of the wall by quite an inch. He +glanced at the bolts of his room door. No! No one could get at him +treacherously while he slept. But would he be able to sleep? he asked +himself anxiously. If only he had Tom there—the trusty seaman who had +fought at his right hand in a cutting out affair or two, and had always +preached to him the necessity to take care of himself. “For it’s no +great trick,” he used to say, “to get yourself killed in a hot fight. +Any fool can do that. The proper pastime is to fight the Frenchies and +then live to fight another day.” + +Byrne found it a hard matter not to fall into listening to the silence. +Somehow he had the conviction that nothing would break it unless he heard +again the haunting sound of Tom’s voice. He had heard it twice before. +Odd! And yet no wonder, he argued with himself reasonably, since he had +been thinking of the man for over thirty hours continuously and, what’s +more, inconclusively. For his anxiety for Tom had never taken a definite +shape. “Disappear,” was the only word connected with the idea of Tom’s +danger. It was very vague and awful. “Disappear!” What did that mean? + +Byrne shuddered, and then said to himself that he must be a little +feverish. But Tom had not disappeared. Byrne had just heard of him. +And again the young man felt the blood beating in his ears. He sat still +expecting every moment to hear through the pulsating strokes the sound of +Tom’s voice. He waited straining his ears, but nothing came. Suddenly +the thought occurred to him: “He has not disappeared, but he cannot make +himself heard.” + +He jumped up from the arm-chair. How absurd! Laying his pistol and his +hanger on the table he took off his boots and, feeling suddenly too tired +to stand, flung himself on the bed which he found soft and comfortable +beyond his hopes. + +He had felt very wakeful, but he must have dozed off after all, because +the next thing he knew he was sitting up in bed and trying to recollect +what it was that Tom’s voice had said. Oh! He remembered it now. It +had said: “Mr. Byrne! Look out, sir!” A warning this. But against +what? + +He landed with one leap in the middle of the floor, gasped once, then +looked all round the room. The window was shuttered and barred with an +iron bar. Again he ran his eyes slowly all round the bare walls, and +even looked up at the ceiling, which was rather high. Afterwards he went +to the door to examine the fastenings. They consisted of two enormous +iron bolts sliding into holes made in the wall; and as the corridor +outside was too narrow to admit of any battering arrangement or even to +permit an axe to be swung, nothing could burst the door open—unless +gunpowder. But while he was still making sure that the lower bolt was +pushed well home, he received the impression of somebody’s presence in +the room. It was so strong that he spun round quicker than lightning. +There was no one. Who could there be? And yet . . . + +It was then that he lost the decorum and restraint a man keeps up for his +own sake. He got down on his hands and knees, with the lamp on the +floor, to look under the bed, like a silly girl. He saw a lot of dust +and nothing else. He got up, his cheeks burning, and walked about +discontented with his own behaviour and unreasonably angry with Tom for +not leaving him alone. The words: “Mr. Byrne! Look out, sir,” kept on +repeating themselves in his head in a tone of warning. + +“Hadn’t I better just throw myself on the bed and try to go to sleep,” he +asked himself. But his eyes fell on the tall wardrobe, and he went +towards it feeling irritated with himself and yet unable to desist. How +he could explain to-morrow the burglarious misdeed to the two odious +witches he had no idea. Nevertheless he inserted the point of his hanger +between the two halves of the door and tried to prize them open. They +resisted. He swore, sticking now hotly to his purpose. His mutter: “I +hope you will be satisfied, confound you,” was addressed to the absent +Tom. Just then the doors gave way and flew open. + +He was there. + +He—the trusty, sagacious, and courageous Tom was there, drawn up shadowy +and stiff, in a prudent silence, which his wide-open eyes by their fixed +gleam seemed to command Byrne to respect. But Byrne was too startled to +make a sound. Amazed, he stepped back a little—and on the instant the +seaman flung himself forward headlong as if to clasp his officer round +the neck. Instinctively Byrne put out his faltering arms; he felt the +horrible rigidity of the body and then the coldness of death as their +heads knocked together and their faces came into contact. They reeled, +Byrne hugging Tom close to his breast in order not to let him fall with a +crash. He had just strength enough to lower the awful burden gently to +the floor—then his head swam, his legs gave way, and he sank on his +knees, leaning over the body with his hands resting on the breast of that +man once full of generous life, and now as insensible as a stone. + +“Dead! my poor Tom, dead,” he repeated mentally. The light of the lamp +standing near the edge of the table fell from above straight on the stony +empty stare of these eyes which naturally had a mobile and merry +expression. + +Byrne turned his own away from them. Tom’s black silk neckerchief was +not knotted on his breast. It was gone. The murderers had also taken +off his shoes and stockings. And noticing this spoliation, the exposed +throat, the bare up-turned feet, Byrne felt his eyes run full of tears. +In other respects the seaman was fully dressed; neither was his clothing +disarranged as it must have been in a violent struggle. Only his checked +shirt had been pulled a little out the waistband in one place, just +enough to ascertain whether he had a money belt fastened round his body. +Byrne began to sob into his handkerchief. + +It was a nervous outburst which passed off quickly. Remaining on his +knees he contemplated sadly the athletic body of as fine a seaman as ever +had drawn a cutlass, laid a gun, or passed the weather earring in a gale, +lying stiff and cold, his cheery, fearless spirit departed—perhaps +turning to him, his boy chum, to his ship out there rolling on the grey +seas off an iron-bound coast, at the very moment of its flight. + +He perceived that the six brass buttons of Tom’s jacket had been cut off. +He shuddered at the notion of the two miserable and repulsive witches +busying themselves ghoulishly about the defenceless body of his friend. +Cut off. Perhaps with the same knife which . . . The head of one +trembled; the other was bent double, and their eyes were red and bleared, +their infamous claws unsteady. . . It must have been in this very room +too, for Tom could not have been killed in the open and brought in here +afterwards. Of that Byrne was certain. Yet those devilish crones could +not have killed him themselves even by taking him unawares—and Tom would +be always on his guard of course. Tom was a very wide awake wary man +when engaged on any service. . . And in fact how did they murder him? +Who did? In what way? + +Byrne jumped up, snatched the lamp off the table, and stooped swiftly +over the body. The light revealed on the clothing no stain, no trace, no +spot of blood anywhere. Byrne’s hands began to shake so that he had to +set the lamp on the floor and turn away his head in order to recover from +this agitation. + +Then he began to explore that cold, still, and rigid body for a stab, a +gunshot wound, for the trace of some killing blow. He felt all over the +skull anxiously. It was whole. He slipped his hand under the neck. It +was unbroken. With terrified eyes he peered close under the chin and saw +no marks of strangulation on the throat. + +There were no signs anywhere. He was just dead. + +Impulsively Byrne got away from the body as if the mystery of an +incomprehensible death had changed his pity into suspicion and dread. +The lamp on the floor near the set, still face of the seaman showed it +staring at the ceiling as if despairingly. In the circle of light Byrne +saw by the undisturbed patches of thick dust on the floor that there had +been no struggle in that room. “He has died outside,” he thought. Yes, +outside in that narrow corridor, where there was hardly room to turn, the +mysterious death had come to his poor dear Tom. The impulse of snatching +up his pistols and rushing out of the room abandoned Byrne suddenly. For +Tom, too, had been armed—with just such powerless weapons as he himself +possessed—pistols, a cutlass! And Tom had died a nameless death, by +incomprehensible means. + +A new thought came to Byrne. That stranger knocking at the door and +fleeing so swiftly at his appearance had come there to remove the body. +Aha! That was the guide the withered witch had promised would show the +English officer the shortest way of rejoining his man. A promise, he saw +it now, of dreadful import. He who had knocked would have two bodies to +deal with. Man and officer would go forth from the house together. For +Byrne was certain now that he would have to die before the morning—and in +the same mysterious manner, leaving behind him an unmarked body. + +The sight of a smashed head, of a throat cut, of a gaping gunshot wound, +would have been an inexpressible relief. It would have soothed all his +fears. His soul cried within him to that dead man whom he had never +found wanting in danger. “Why don’t you tell me what I am to look for, +Tom? Why don’t you?” But in rigid immobility, extended on his back, he +seemed to preserve an austere silence, as if disdaining in the finality +of his awful knowledge to hold converse with the living. + +Suddenly Byrne flung himself on his knees by the side of the body, and +dry-eyed, fierce, opened the shirt wide on the breast, as if to tear the +secret forcibly from that cold heart which had been so loyal to him in +life! Nothing! Nothing! He raised the lamp, and all the sign +vouchsafed to him by that face which used to be so kindly in expression +was a small bruise on the forehead—the least thing, a mere mark. The +skin even was not broken. He stared at it a long time as if lost in a +dreadful dream. Then he observed that Tom’s hands were clenched as +though he had fallen facing somebody in a fight with fists. His +knuckles, on closer view, appeared somewhat abraded. Both hands. + +The discovery of these slight signs was more appalling to Byrne than the +absolute absence of every mark would have been. So Tom had died striking +against something which could be hit, and yet could kill one without +leaving a wound—by a breath. + +Terror, hot terror, began to play about Byrne’s heart like a tongue of +flame that touches and withdraws before it turns a thing to ashes. He +backed away from the body as far as he could, then came forward +stealthily casting fearful glances to steal another look at the bruised +forehead. There would perhaps be such a faint bruise on his own +forehead—before the morning. + +“I can’t bear it,” he whispered to himself. Tom was for him now an +object of horror, a sight at once tempting and revolting to his fear. He +couldn’t bear to look at him. + +At last, desperation getting the better of his increasing horror, he +stepped forward from the wall against which he had been leaning, seized +the corpse under the armpits, and began to lug it over to the bed. The +bare heels of the seaman trailed on the floor noiselessly. He was heavy +with the dead weight of inanimate objects. With a last effort Byrne +landed him face downwards on the edge of the bed, rolled him over, +snatched from under this stiff passive thing a sheet with which he +covered it over. Then he spread the curtains at head and foot so that +joining together as he shook their folds they hid the bed altogether from +his sight. + +He stumbled towards a chair, and fell on it. The perspiration poured +from his face for a moment, and then his veins seemed to carry for a +while a thin stream of half, frozen blood. Complete terror had +possession of him now, a nameless terror which had turned his heart to +ashes. + +He sat upright in the straight-backed chair, the lamp burning at his +feet, his pistols and his hanger at his left elbow on the end of the +table, his eyes turning incessantly in their sockets round the walls, +over the ceiling, over the floor, in the expectation of a mysterious and +appalling vision. The thing which could deal death in a breath was +outside that bolted door. But Byrne believed neither in walls nor bolts +now. Unreasoning terror turning everything to account, his old time +boyish admiration of the athletic Tom, the undaunted Tom (he had seemed +to him invincible), helped to paralyse his faculties, added to his +despair. + +He was no longer Edgar Byrne. He was a tortured soul suffering more +anguish than any sinner’s body had ever suffered from rack or boot. The +depth of his torment may be measured when I say that this young man, as +brave at least as the average of his kind, contemplated seizing a pistol +and firing into his own head. But a deadly, chilly, langour was +spreading over his limbs. It was as if his flesh had been wet plaster +stiffening slowly about his ribs. Presently, he thought, the two witches +will be coming in, with crutch and stick—horrible, grotesque, +monstrous—affiliated to the devil—to put a mark on his forehead, the tiny +little bruise of death. And he wouldn’t be able to do anything. Tom had +struck out at something, but he was not like Tom. His limbs were dead +already. He sat still, dying the death over and over again; and the only +part of him which moved were his eyes, turning round and round in their +sockets, running over the walls, the floor, the ceiling, again and again +till suddenly they became motionless and stony—starting out of his head +fixed in the direction of the bed. + +He had seen the heavy curtains stir and shake as if the dead body they +concealed had turned over and sat up. Byrne, who thought the world could +hold no more terrors in store, felt his hair stir at the roots. He +gripped the arms of the chair, his jaw fell, and the sweat broke out on +his brow while his dry tongue clove suddenly to the roof of his mouth. +Again the curtains stirred, but did not open. “Don’t, Tom!” Byrne made +effort to shout, but all he heard was a slight moan such as an uneasy +sleeper may make. He felt that his brain was going, for, now, it seemed +to him that the ceiling over the bed had moved, had slanted, and came +level again—and once more the closed curtains swayed gently as if about +to part. + +Byrne closed his eyes not to see the awful apparition of the seaman’s +corpse coming out animated by an evil spirit. In the profound silence of +the room he endured a moment of frightful agony, then opened his eyes +again. And he saw at once that the curtains remained closed still, but +that the ceiling over the bed had risen quite a foot. With the last +gleam of reason left to him he understood that it was the enormous +baldaquin over the bed which was coming down, while the curtains attached +to it swayed softly, sinking gradually to the floor. His drooping jaw +snapped to—and half rising in his chair he watched mutely the noiseless +descent of the monstrous canopy. It came down in short smooth rushes +till lowered half way or more, when it took a run and settled swiftly its +turtle-back shape with the deep border piece fitting exactly the edge of +the bedstead. A slight crack or two of wood were heard, and the +overpowering stillness of the room resumed its sway. + +Byrne stood up, gasped for breath, and let out a cry of rage and dismay, +the first sound which he is perfectly certain did make its way past his +lips on this night of terrors. This then was the death he had escaped! +This was the devilish artifice of murder poor Tom’s soul had perhaps +tried from beyond the border to warn him of. For this was how he had +died. Byrne was certain he had heard the voice of the seaman, faintly +distinct in his familiar phrase, “Mr. Byrne! Look out, sir!” and again +uttering words he could not make out. But then the distance separating +the living from the dead is so great! Poor Tom had tried. Byrne ran to +the bed and attempted to lift up, to push off the horrible lid smothering +the body. It resisted his efforts, heavy as lead, immovable like a +tombstone. The rage of vengeance made him desist; his head buzzed with +chaotic thoughts of extermination, he turned round the room as if he +could find neither his weapons nor the way out; and all the time he +stammered awful menaces. . . + +A violent battering at the door of the inn recalled him to his soberer +senses. He flew to the window pulled the shutters open, and looked out. +In the faint dawn he saw below him a mob of men. Ha! He would go and +face at once this murderous lot collected no doubt for his undoing. +After his struggle with nameless terrors he yearned for an open fray with +armed enemies. But he must have remained yet bereft of his reason, +because forgetting his weapons he rushed downstairs with a wild cry, +unbarred the door while blows were raining on it outside, and flinging it +open flew with his bare hands at the throat of the first man he saw +before him. They rolled over together. Byrne’s hazy intention was to +break through, to fly up the mountain path, and come back presently with +Gonzales’ men to exact an exemplary vengeance. He fought furiously till +a tree, a house, a mountain, seemed to crash down upon his head—and he +knew no more. + + * * * * * + +Here Mr. Byrne describes in detail the skilful manner in which he found +his broken head bandaged, informs us that he had lost a great deal of +blood, and ascribes the preservation of his sanity to that circumstance. +He sets down Gonzales’ profuse apologies in full too. For it was +Gonzales who, tired of waiting for news from the English, had come down +to the inn with half his band, on his way to the sea. “His excellency,” +he explained, “rushed out with fierce impetuosity, and, moreover, was not +known to us for a friend, and so we . . . etc., etc. When asked what had +become of the witches, he only pointed his finger silently to the ground, +then voiced calmly a moral reflection: “The passion for gold is pitiless +in the very old, señor,” he said. “No doubt in former days they have put +many a solitary traveller to sleep in the archbishop’s bed.” + +“There was also a gipsy girl there,” said Byrne feebly from the +improvised litter on which he was being carried to the coast by a squad +of guerilleros. + +“It was she who winched up that infernal machine, and it was she too who +lowered it that night,” was the answer. + +“But why? Why?” exclaimed Byrne. “Why should she wish for my death?” + +“No doubt for the sake of your excellency’s coat buttons,” said politely +the saturnine Gonzales. “We found those of the dead mariner concealed on +her person. But your excellency may rest assured that everything that is +fitting has been done on this occasion.” + +Byrne asked no more questions. There was still another death which was +considered by Gonzales as “fitting to the occasion.” The one-eyed +Bernardino stuck against the wall of his wine-shop received the charge of +six escopettas into his breast. As the shots rang out the rough bier +with Tom’s body on it went past carried by a bandit-like gang of Spanish +patriots down the ravine to the shore, where two boats from the ship were +waiting for what was left on earth of her best seaman. + +Mr. Byrne, very pale and weak, stepped into the boat which carried the +body of his humble friend. For it was decided that Tom Corbin should +rest far out in the bay of Biscay. The officer took the tiller and, +turning his head for the last look at the shore, saw on the grey hillside +something moving, which he made out to be a little man in a yellow hat +mounted on a mule—that mule without which the fate of Tom Corbin would +have remained mysterious for ever. + + * * * * * + +_June_, 1913. + + + + +BECAUSE OF THE DOLLARS + + +CHAPTER I + + +While we were hanging about near the water’s edge, as sailors idling +ashore will do (it was in the open space before the Harbour Office of a +great Eastern port), a man came towards us from the “front” of business +houses, aiming obliquely at the landing steps. He attracted my attention +because in the movement of figures in white drill suits on the pavement +from which he stepped, his costume, the usual tunic and trousers, being +made of light grey flannel, made him noticeable. + +I had time to observe him. He was stout, but he was not grotesque. His +face was round and smooth, his complexion very fair. On his nearer +approach I saw a little moustache made all the fairer by a good many +white hairs. And he had, for a stout man, quite a good chin. In passing +us he exchanged nods with the friend I was with and smiled. + +My friend was Hollis, the fellow who had so many adventures and had known +so many queer people in that part of the (more or less) gorgeous East in +the days of his youth. He said: “That’s a good man. I don’t mean good +in the sense of smart or skilful in his trade. I mean a really _good_ +man.” + +I turned round at once to look at the phenomenon. The “really _good_ +man” had a very broad back. I saw him signal a sampan to come alongside, +get into it, and go off in the direction of a cluster of local steamers +anchored close inshore. + +I said: “He’s a seaman, isn’t he?” + +“Yes. Commands that biggish dark-green steamer: ‘_Sissie_—Glasgow.’ He +has never commanded anything else but the ‘_Sissie_—Glasgow,’ only it +wasn’t always the same _Sissie_. The first he had was about half the +length of this one, and we used to tell poor Davidson that she was a size +too small for him. Even at that time Davidson had bulk. We warned him +he would get callosities on his shoulders and elbows because of the tight +fit of his command. And Davidson could well afford the smiles he gave us +for our chaff. He made lots of money in her. She belonged to a portly +Chinaman resembling a mandarin in a picture-book, with goggles and thin +drooping moustaches, and as dignified as only a Celestial knows how to +be. + +“The best of Chinamen as employers is that they have such gentlemanly +instincts. Once they become convinced that you are a straight man, they +give you their unbounded confidence. You simply can’t do wrong, then. +And they are pretty quick judges of character, too. Davidson’s Chinaman +was the first to find out his worth, on some theoretical principle. One +day in his counting-house, before several white men he was heard to +declare: ‘Captain Davidson is a good man.’ And that settled it. After +that you couldn’t tell if it was Davidson who belonged to the Chinaman or +the Chinaman who belonged to Davidson. It was he who, shortly before he +died, ordered in Glasgow the new _Sissie_ for Davidson to command.” + +We walked into the shade of the Harbour Office and leaned our elbows on +the parapet of the quay. + +“She was really meant to comfort poor Davidson,” continued Hollis. “Can +you fancy anything more naïvely touching than this old mandarin spending +several thousand pounds to console his white man? Well, there she is. +The old mandarin’s sons have inherited her, and Davidson with her; and he +commands her; and what with his salary and trading privileges he makes a +lot of money; and everything is as before; and Davidson even smiles—you +have seen it? Well, the smile’s the only thing which isn’t as before.” + +“Tell me, Hollis,” I asked, “what do you mean by good in this +connection?” + +“Well, there are men who are born good just as others are born witty. +What I mean is his nature. No simpler, more scrupulously delicate soul +had ever lived in such a—a—comfortable envelope. How we used to laugh at +Davidson’s fine scruples! In short, he’s thoroughly humane, and I don’t +imagine there can be much of any other sort of goodness that counts on +this earth. And as he’s that with a shade of particular refinement, I +may well call him a ‘_really_ good man.’” + +I knew from old that Hollis was a firm believer in the final value of +shades. And I said: “I see”—because I really did see Hollis’s Davidson +in the sympathetic stout man who had passed us a little while before. +But I remembered that at the very moment he smiled his placid face +appeared veiled in melancholy—a sort of spiritual shadow. I went on. + +“Who on earth has paid him off for being so fine by spoiling his smile?” + +“That’s quite a story, and I will tell it to you if you like. Confound +it! It’s quite a surprising one, too. Surprising in every way, but +mostly in the way it knocked over poor Davidson—and apparently only +because he is such a good sort. He was telling me all about it only a +few days ago. He said that when he saw these four fellows with their +heads in a bunch over the table, he at once didn’t like it. He didn’t +like it at all. You mustn’t suppose that Davidson is a soft fool. These +men— + +“But I had better begin at the beginning. We must go back to the first +time the old dollars had been called in by our Government in exchange for +a new issue. Just about the time when I left these parts to go home for +a long stay. Every trader in the islands was thinking of getting his old +dollars sent up here in time, and the demand for empty French wine +cases—you know the dozen of vermouth or claret size—was something +unprecedented. The custom was to pack the dollars in little bags of a +hundred each. I don’t know how many bags each case would hold. A good +lot. Pretty tidy sums must have been moving afloat just then. But let +us get away from here. Won’t do to stay in the sun. Where could we—? I +know! let us go to those tiffin-rooms over there.” + +We moved over accordingly. Our appearance in the long empty room at that +early hour caused visible consternation amongst the China boys. But +Hollis led the way to one of the tables between the windows screened by +rattan blinds. A brilliant half-light trembled on the ceiling, on the +whitewashed walls, bathed the multitude of vacant chairs and tables in a +peculiar, stealthy glow. + +“All right. We will get something to eat when it’s ready,” he said, +waving the anxious Chinaman waiter aside. He took his temples touched +with grey between his hands, leaning over the table to bring his face, +his dark, keen eyes, closer to mine. + +“Davidson then was commanding the steamer _Sissie_—the little one which +we used to chaff him about. He ran her alone, with only the Malay serang +for a deck officer. The nearest approach to another white man on board +of her was the engineer, a Portuguese half-caste, as thin as a lath and +quite a youngster at that. For all practical purposes Davidson was +managing that command of his single-handed; and of course this was known +in the port. I am telling you of it because the fact had its influence +on the developments you shall hear of presently. + +“His steamer, being so small, could go up tiny creeks and into shallow +bays and through reefs and over sand-banks, collecting produce, where no +other vessel but a native craft would think of venturing. It is a paying +game, often. Davidson was known to visit in her places that no one else +could find and that hardly anybody had ever heard of. + +“The old dollars being called in, Davidson’s Chinaman thought that the +_Sissie_ would be just the thing to collect them from small traders in +the less frequented parts of the Archipelago. It’s a good business. +Such cases of dollars are dumped aft in the ship’s lazarette, and you get +good freight for very little trouble and space. + +“Davidson, too, thought it was a good idea; and together they made up a +list of his calls on his next trip. Then Davidson (he had naturally the +chart of his voyages in his head) remarked that on his way back he might +look in at a certain settlement up a mere creek, where a poor sort of +white man lived in a native village. Davidson pointed out to his +Chinaman that the fellow was certain to have some rattans to ship. + +“‘Probably enough to fill her forward,’ said Davidson. ‘And that’ll be +better than bringing her back with empty holds. A day more or less +doesn’t matter.’ + +“This was sound talk, and the Chinaman owner could not but agree. But if +it hadn’t been sound it would have been just the same. Davidson did what +he liked. He was a man that could do no wrong. However, this suggestion +of his was not merely a business matter. There was in it a touch of +Davidsonian kindness. For you must know that the man could not have +continued to live quietly up that creek if it had not been for Davidson’s +willingness to call there from time to time. And Davidson’s Chinaman +knew this perfectly well, too. So he only smiled his dignified, bland +smile, and said: ‘All right, Captain. You do what you like.’ + +“I will explain presently how this connection between Davidson and that +fellow came about. Now I want to tell you about the part of this affair +which happened here—the preliminaries of it. + +“You know as well as I do that these tiffin-rooms where we are sitting +now have been in existence for many years. Well, next day about twelve +o’clock, Davidson dropped in here to get something to eat. + +“And here comes the only moment in this story where accident—mere +accident—plays a part. If Davidson had gone home that day for tiffin, +there would be now, after twelve years or more, nothing changed in his +kindly, placid smile. + +“But he came in here; and perhaps it was sitting at this very table that +he remarked to a friend of mine that his next trip was to be a +dollar-collecting trip. He added, laughing, that his wife was making +rather a fuss about it. She had begged him to stay ashore and get +somebody else to take his place for a voyage. She thought there was some +danger on account of the dollars. He told her, he said, that there were +no Java-sea pirates nowadays except in boys’ books. He had laughed at +her fears, but he was very sorry, too; for when she took any notion in +her head it was impossible to argue her out of it. She would be worrying +herself all the time he was away. Well, he couldn’t help it. There was +no one ashore fit to take his place for the trip. + +“This friend of mine and I went home together in the same mail-boat, and +he mentioned that conversation one evening in the Red Sea while we were +talking over the things and people we had just left, with more or less +regret. + +“I can’t say that Davidson occupied a very prominent place. Moral +excellence seldom does. He was quietly appreciated by those who knew him +well; but his more obvious distinction consisted in this, that he was +married. Ours, as you remember, was a bachelor crowd; in spirit anyhow, +if not absolutely in fact. There might have been a few wives in +existence, but if so they were invisible, distant, never alluded to. For +what would have been the good? Davidson alone was visibly married. + +“Being married suited him exactly. It fitted him so well that the +wildest of us did not resent the fact when it was disclosed. Directly he +had felt his feet out here, Davidson sent for his wife. She came out +(from West Australia) in the _Somerset_, under the care of Captain +Ritchie—you know, Monkey-face Ritchie—who couldn’t praise enough her +sweetness, her gentleness, and her charm. She seemed to be the +heaven-born mate for Davidson. She found on arrival a very pretty +bungalow on the hill, ready for her and the little girl they had. Very +soon he got for her a two-wheeled trap and a Burmah pony, and she used to +drive down of an evening to pick up Davidson, on the quay. When +Davidson, beaming, got into the trap, it would become very full all at +once. + +“We used to admire Mrs. Davidson from a distance. It was a girlish head +out of a keepsake. From a distance. We had not many opportunities for a +closer view, because she did not care to give them to us. We would have +been glad to drop in at the Davidson bungalow, but we were made to feel +somehow that we were not very welcome there. Not that she ever said +anything ungracious. She never had much to say for herself. I was +perhaps the one who saw most of the Davidsons at home. What I noticed +under the superficial aspect of vapid sweetness was her convex, obstinate +forehead, and her small, red, pretty, ungenerous mouth. But then I am an +observer with strong prejudices. Most of us were fetched by her white, +swan-like neck, by that drooping, innocent profile. There was a lot of +latent devotion to Davidson’s wife hereabouts, at that time, I can tell +you. But my idea was that she repaid it by a profound suspicion of the +sort of men we were; a mistrust which extended—I fancied—to her very +husband at times. And I thought then she was jealous of him in a way; +though there were no women that she could be jealous about. She had no +women’s society. It’s difficult for a shipmaster’s wife unless there are +other shipmasters’ wives about, and there were none here then. I know +that the dock manager’s wife called on her; but that was all. The +fellows here formed the opinion that Mrs. Davidson was a meek, shy little +thing. She looked it, I must say. And this opinion was so universal +that the friend I have been telling you of remembered his conversation +with Davidson simply because of the statement about Davidson’s wife. He +even wondered to me: ‘Fancy Mrs. Davidson making a fuss to that extent. +She didn’t seem to me the sort of woman that would know how to make a +fuss about anything.’ + +“I wondered, too—but not so much. That bumpy forehead—eh? I had always +suspected her of being silly. And I observed that Davidson must have +been vexed by this display of wifely anxiety. + +“My friend said: ‘No. He seemed rather touched and distressed. There +really was no one he could ask to relieve him; mainly because he intended +to make a call in some God-forsaken creek, to look up a fellow of the +name of Bamtz who apparently had settled there.’ + +“And again my friend wondered. ‘Tell me,’ he cried, ‘what connection can +there be between Davidson and such a creature as Bamtz?’ + +“I don’t remember now what answer I made. A sufficient one could have +been given in two words: ‘Davidson’s goodness.’ _That_ never boggled at +unworthiness if there was the slightest reason for compassion. I don’t +want you to think that Davidson had no discrimination at all. Bamtz +could not have imposed on him. Moreover, everybody knew what Bamtz was. +He was a loafer with a beard. When I think of Bamtz, the first thing I +see is that long black beard and a lot of propitiatory wrinkles at the +corners of two little eyes. There was no such beard from here to +Polynesia, where a beard is a valuable property in itself. Bamtz’s beard +was valuable to him in another way. You know how impressed Orientals are +by a fine beard. Years and years ago, I remember, the grave Abdullah, +the great trader of Sambir, unable to repress signs of astonishment and +admiration at the first sight of that imposing beard. And it’s very well +known that Bamtz lived on Abdullah off and on for several years. It was +a unique beard, and so was the bearer of the same. A unique loafer. He +made a fine art of it, or rather a sort of craft and mystery. One can +understand a fellow living by cadging and small swindles in towns, in +large communities of people; but Bamtz managed to do that trick in the +wilderness, to loaf on the outskirts of the virgin forest. + +“He understood how to ingratiate himself with the natives. He would +arrive in some settlement up a river, make a present of a cheap carbine +or a pair of shoddy binoculars, or something of that sort, to the Rajah, +or the head-man, or the principal trader; and on the strength of that +gift, ask for a house, posing mysteriously as a very special trader. He +would spin them no end of yarns, live on the fat of the land, for a +while, and then do some mean swindle or other—or else they would get +tired of him and ask him to quit. And he would go off meekly with an air +of injured innocence. Funny life. Yet, he never got hurt somehow. I’ve +heard of the Rajah of Dongala giving him fifty dollars’ worth of trade +goods and paying his passage in a prau only to get rid of him. Fact. +And observe that nothing prevented the old fellow having Bamtz’s throat +cut and the carcase thrown into deep water outside the reefs; for who on +earth would have inquired after Bamtz? + +“He had been known to loaf up and down the wilderness as far north as the +Gulf of Tonkin. Neither did he disdain a spell of civilisation from time +to time. And it was while loafing and cadging in Saigon, bearded and +dignified (he gave himself out there as a bookkeeper), that he came +across Laughing Anne. + +“The less said of her early history the better, but something must be +said. We may safely suppose there was very little heart left in her +famous laugh when Bamtz spoke first to her in some low café. She was +stranded in Saigon with precious little money and in great trouble about +a kid she had, a boy of five or six. + +“A fellow I just remember, whom they called Pearler Harry, brought her +out first into these parts—from Australia, I believe. He brought her out +and then dropped her, and she remained knocking about here and there, +known to most of us by sight, at any rate. Everybody in the Archipelago +had heard of Laughing Anne. She had really a pleasant silvery laugh +always at her disposal, so to speak, but it wasn’t enough apparently to +make her fortune. The poor creature was ready to stick to any +half-decent man if he would only let her, but she always got dropped, as +it might have been expected. + +“She had been left in Saigon by the skipper of a German ship with whom +she had been going up and down the China coast as far as Vladivostok for +near upon two years. The German said to her: ‘This is all over, _mein +Taubchen_. I am going home now to get married to the girl I got engaged +to before coming out here.’ And Anne said: ‘All right, I’m ready to go. +We part friends, don’t we?’ + +“She was always anxious to part friends. The German told her that of +course they were parting friends. He looked rather glum at the moment of +parting. She laughed and went ashore. + +“But it was no laughing matter for her. She had some notion that this +would be her last chance. What frightened her most was the future of her +child. She had left her boy in Saigon before going off with the German, +in the care of an elderly French couple. The husband was a doorkeeper in +some Government office, but his time was up, and they were returning to +France. She had to take the boy back from them; and after she had got +him back, she did not like to part with him any more. + +“That was the situation when she and Bamtz got acquainted casually. She +could not have had any illusions about that fellow. To pick up with +Bamtz was coming down pretty low in the world, even from a material point +of view. She had always been decent, in her way; whereas Bamtz was, not +to mince words, an abject sort of creature. On the other hand, that +bearded loafer, who looked much more like a pirate than a bookkeeper, was +not a brute. He was gentle—rather—even in his cups. And then, despair, +like misfortune, makes us acquainted with strange bed-fellows. For she +may well have despaired. She was no longer young—you know. + +“On the man’s side this conjunction is more difficult to explain, +perhaps. One thing, however, must be said of Bamtz; he had always kept +clear of native women. As one can’t suspect him of moral delicacy, I +surmise that it must have been from prudence. And he, too, was no longer +young. There were many white hairs in his valuable black beard by then. +He may have simply longed for some kind of companionship in his queer, +degraded existence. Whatever their motives, they vanished from Saigon +together. And of course nobody cared what had become of them. + +“Six months later Davidson came into the Mirrah Settlement. It was the +very first time he had been up that creek, where no European vessel had +ever been seen before. A Javanese passenger he had on board offered him +fifty dollars to call in there—it must have been some very particular +business—and Davidson consented to try. Fifty dollars, he told me, were +neither here nor there; but he was curious to see the place, and the +little _Sissie_ could go anywhere where there was water enough to float a +soup-plate. + +“Davidson landed his Javanese plutocrat, and, as he had to wait a couple +of hours for the tide, he went ashore himself to stretch his legs. + +“It was a small settlement. Some sixty houses, most of them built on +piles over the river, the rest scattered in the long grass; the usual +pathway at the back; the forest hemming in the clearing and smothering +what there might have been of air into a dead, hot stagnation. + +“All the population was on the river-bank staring silently, as Malays +will do, at the _Sissie_ anchored in the stream. She was almost as +wonderful to them as an angel’s visit. Many of the old people had only +heard vaguely of fire-ships, and not many of the younger generation had +seen one. On the back path Davidson strolled in perfect solitude. But +he became aware of a bad smell and concluded he would go no farther. + +“While he stood wiping his forehead, he heard from somewhere the +exclamation: ‘My God! It’s Davy!’ + +“Davidson’s lower jaw, as he expressed it, came unhooked at the crying of +this excited voice. Davy was the name used by the associates of his +young days; he hadn’t heard it for many years. He stared about with his +mouth open and saw a white woman issue from the long grass in which a +small hut stood buried nearly up to the roof. + +“Try to imagine the shock: in that wild place that you couldn’t find on a +map, and more squalid than the most poverty-stricken Malay settlement had +a right to be, this European woman coming swishing out of the long grass +in a fanciful tea-gown thing, dingy pink satin, with a long train and +frayed lace trimmings; her eyes like black coals in a pasty-white face. +Davidson thought that he was asleep, that he was delirious. From the +offensive village mudhole (it was what Davidson had sniffed just before) +a couple of filthy buffaloes uprose with loud snorts and lumbered off +crashing through the bushes, panic-struck by this apparition. + +“The woman came forward, her arms extended, and laid her hands on +Davidson’s shoulders, exclaiming: ‘Why! You have hardly changed at all. +The same good Davy.’ And she laughed a little wildly. + +“This sound was to Davidson like a galvanic shock to a corpse. He +started in every muscle. ‘Laughing Anne,’ he said in an awe-struck +voice. + +“‘All that’s left of her, Davy. All that’s left of her.’ + +“Davidson looked up at the sky; but there was to be seen no balloon from +which she could have fallen on that spot. When he brought his distracted +gaze down, it rested on a child holding on with a brown little paw to the +pink satin gown. He had run out of the grass after her. Had Davidson +seen a real hobgoblin his eyes could not have bulged more than at this +small boy in a dirty white blouse and ragged knickers. He had a round +head of tight chestnut curls, very sunburnt legs, a freckled face, and +merry eyes. Admonished by his mother to greet the gentleman, he finished +off Davidson by addressing him in French. + +“‘_Bonjour_.’ + +“Davidson, overcome, looked up at the woman in silence. She sent the +child back to the hut, and when he had disappeared in the grass, she +turned to Davidson, tried to speak, but after getting out the words, +‘That’s my Tony,’ burst into a long fit of crying. She had to lean on +Davidson’s shoulder. He, distressed in the goodness of his heart, stood +rooted to the spot where she had come upon him. + +“What a meeting—eh? Bamtz had sent her out to see what white man it was +who had landed. And she had recognised him from that time when Davidson, +who had been pearling himself in his youth, had been associating with +Harry the Pearler and others, the quietest of a rather rowdy set. + +“Before Davidson retraced his steps to go on board the steamer, he had +heard much of Laughing Anne’s story, and had even had an interview, on +the path, with Bamtz himself. She ran back to the hut to fetch him, and +he came out lounging, with his hands in his pockets, with the detached, +casual manner under which he concealed his propensity to cringe. +Ya-a-as-as. He thought he would settle here permanently—with her. This +with a nod at Laughing Anne, who stood by, a haggard, tragically anxious +figure, her black hair hanging over her shoulders. + +“‘No more paint and dyes for me, Davy,’ she struck in, ‘if only you will +do what he wants you to do. You know that I was always ready to stand by +my men—if they had only let me.’ + +“Davidson had no doubt of her earnestness. It was of Bamtz’s good faith +that he was not at all sure. Bamtz wanted Davidson to promise to call at +Mirrah more or less regularly. He thought he saw an opening to do +business with rattans there, if only he could depend on some craft to +bring out trading goods and take away his produce. + +“‘I have a few dollars to make a start on. The people are all right.’ + +“He had come there, where he was not known, in a native prau, and had +managed, with his sedate manner and the exactly right kind of yarn he +knew how to tell to the natives, to ingratiate himself with the chief +man. + +“‘The Orang Kaya has given me that empty house there to live in as long +as I will stay,’ added Bamtz. + +“‘Do it, Davy,’ cried the woman suddenly. ‘Think of that poor kid.’ + +“‘Seen him? ’Cute little customer,’ said the reformed loafer in such a +tone of interest as to surprise Davidson into a kindly glance. + +“‘I certainly can do it,’ he declared. He thought of at first making +some stipulation as to Bamtz behaving decently to the woman, but his +exaggerated delicacy and also the conviction that such a fellow’s +promises were worth nothing restrained him. Anne went a little distance +down the path with him talking anxiously. + +“‘It’s for the kid. How could I have kept him with me if I had to knock +about in towns? Here he will never know that his mother was a painted +woman. And this Bamtz likes him. He’s real fond of him. I suppose I +ought to thank God for that.’ + +“Davidson shuddered at any human creature being brought so low as to have +to thank God for the favours or affection of a Bamtz. + +“‘And do you think that you can make out to live here?’ he asked gently. + +“‘Can’t I? You know I have always stuck to men through thick and thin +till they had enough of me. And now look at me! But inside I am as I +always was. I have acted on the square to them all one after another. +Only they do get tired somehow. Oh, Davy! Harry ought not to have cast +me off. It was he that led me astray.’ + +“Davidson mentioned to her that Harry the Pearler had been dead now for +some years. Perhaps she had heard? + +“She made a sign that she had heard; and walked by the side of Davidson +in silence nearly to the bank. Then she told him that her meeting with +him had brought back the old times to her mind. She had not cried for +years. She was not a crying woman either. It was hearing herself called +Laughing Anne that had started her sobbing like a fool. Harry was the +only man she had loved. The others— + +“She shrugged her shoulders. But she prided herself on her loyalty to +the successive partners of her dismal adventures. She had never played +any tricks in her life. She was a pal worth having. But men did get +tired. They did not understand women. She supposed it had to be. + +“Davidson was attempting a veiled warning as to Bamtz, but she +interrupted him. She knew what men were. She knew what this man was +like. But he had taken wonderfully to the kid. And Davidson desisted +willingly, saying to himself that surely poor Laughing Anne could have no +illusions by this time. She wrung his hand hard at parting. + +“‘It’s for the kid, Davy—it’s for the kid. Isn’t he a bright little +chap?’ + + + +CHAPTER II + + +“All this happened about two years before the day when Davidson, sitting +in this very room, talked to my friend. You will see presently how this +room can get full. Every seat’ll be occupied, and as you notice, the +tables are set close, so that the backs of the chairs are almost +touching. There is also a good deal of noisy talk here about one +o’clock. + +“I don’t suppose Davidson was talking very loudly; but very likely he had +to raise his voice across the table to my friend. And here accident, +mere accident, put in its work by providing a pair of fine ears close +behind Davidson’s chair. It was ten to one against, the owner of the +same having enough change in his pockets to get his tiffin here. But he +had. Most likely had rooked somebody of a few dollars at cards +overnight. He was a bright creature of the name of Fector, a spare, +short, jumpy fellow with a red face and muddy eyes. He described himself +as a journalist, as certain kind of women give themselves out as +actresses in the dock of a police-court. + +“He used to introduce himself to strangers as a man with a mission to +track out abuses and fight them whenever found. He would also hint that +he was a martyr. And it’s a fact that he had been kicked, horsewhipped, +imprisoned, and hounded with ignominy out of pretty well every place +between Ceylon and Shanghai, for a professional blackmailer. + +“I suppose, in that trade, you’ve got to have active wits and sharp ears. +It’s not likely that he overheard every word Davidson said about his +dollar collecting trip, but he heard enough to set his wits at work. + +“He let Davidson go out, and then hastened away down to the native slums +to a sort of lodging-house kept in partnership by the usual sort of +Portuguese and a very disreputable Chinaman. Macao Hotel, it was called, +but it was mostly a gambling den that one used to warn fellows against. +Perhaps you remember? + +“There, the evening before, Fector had met a precious couple, a +partnership even more queer than the Portuguese and the Chinaman. One of +the two was Niclaus—you know. Why! the fellow with a Tartar moustache +and a yellow complexion, like a Mongolian, only that his eyes were set +straight and his face was not so flat. One couldn’t tell what breed he +was. A nondescript beggar. From a certain angle you would think a very +bilious white man. And I daresay he was. He owned a Malay prau and +called himself The Nakhoda, as one would say: The Captain. Aha! Now you +remember. He couldn’t, apparently, speak any other European language +than English, but he flew the Dutch flag on his prau. + +“The other was the Frenchman without hands. Yes. The very same we used +to know in ’79 in Sydney, keeping a little tobacco shop at the lower end +of George Street. You remember the huge carcase hunched up behind the +counter, the big white face and the long black hair brushed back off a +high forehead like a bard’s. He was always trying to roll cigarettes on +his knee with his stumps, telling endless yarns of Polynesia and whining +and cursing in turn about ‘_mon malheur_.’ His hands had been blown away +by a dynamite cartridge while fishing in some lagoon. This accident, I +believe, had made him more wicked than before, which is saying a good +deal. + +“He was always talking about ‘resuming his activities’ some day, whatever +they were, if he could only get an intelligent companion. It was evident +that the little shop was no field for his activities, and the sickly +woman with her face tied up, who used to look in sometimes through the +back door, was no companion for him. + +“And, true enough, he vanished from Sydney before long, after some +trouble with the Excise fellows about his stock. Goods stolen out of a +warehouse or something similar. He left the woman behind, but he must +have secured some sort of companion—he could not have shifted for +himself; but whom he went away with, and where, and what other companions +he might have picked up afterwards, it is impossible to make the remotest +guess about. + +“Why exactly he came this way I can’t tell. Towards the end of my time +here we began to hear talk of a maimed Frenchman who had been seen here +and there. But no one knew then that he had foregathered with Niclaus +and lived in his prau. I daresay he put Niclaus up to a thing or two. +Anyhow, it was a partnership. Niclaus was somewhat afraid of the +Frenchman on account of his tempers, which were awful. He looked then +like a devil; but a man without hands, unable to load or handle a weapon, +can at best go for one only with his teeth. From that danger Niclaus +felt certain he could always defend himself. + +“The couple were alone together loafing in the common-room of that +infamous hotel when Fector turned up. After some beating about the bush, +for he was doubtful how far he could trust these two, he repeated what he +had overheard in the tiffin-rooms. + +“His tale did not have much success till he came to mention the creek and +Bamtz’s name. Niclaus, sailing about like a native in a prau, was, in +his own words, ‘familiar with the locality.’ The huge Frenchman, walking +up and down the room with his stumps in the pockets of his jacket, +stopped short in surprise. ‘_Comment_? _Bamtz_! _Bamtz_!’ + +“He had run across him several times in his life. He exclaimed: +‘_Bamtz_! _Mais je ne connais que ca_!’ And he applied such a +contemptuously indecent epithet to Bamtz that when, later, he alluded to +him as ‘_une chiffe_’ (a mere rag) it sounded quite complimentary. ‘We +can do with him what we like,’ he asserted confidently. ‘Oh, yes. +Certainly we must hasten to pay a visit to that—’ (another awful +descriptive epithet quite unfit for repetition). ‘Devil take me if we +don’t pull off a coup that will set us all up for a long time.’ + +“He saw all that lot of dollars melted into bars and disposed of +somewhere on the China coast. Of the escape after the _coup_ he never +doubted. There was Niclaus’s prau to manage that in. + +“In his enthusiasm he pulled his stumps out of his pockets and waved them +about. Then, catching sight of them, as it were, he held them in front +of his eyes, cursing and blaspheming and bewailing his misfortune and his +helplessness, till Niclaus quieted him down. + +“But it was his mind that planned out the affair and it was his spirit +which carried the other two on. Neither of them was of the bold +buccaneer type; and Fector, especially, had never in his adventurous life +used other weapons than slander and lies. + +“That very evening they departed on a visit to Bamtz in Niclaus’s prau, +which had been lying, emptied of her cargo of cocoanuts, for a day or two +under the canal bridge. They must have crossed the bows of the anchored +_Sissie_, and no doubt looked at her with interest as the scene of their +future exploit, the great haul, _le grand coup_! + +“Davidson’s wife, to his great surprise, sulked with him for several days +before he left. I don’t know whether it occurred to him that, for all +her angelic profile, she was a very stupidly obstinate girl. She didn’t +like the tropics. He had brought her out there, where she had no +friends, and now, she said, he was becoming inconsiderate. She had a +presentiment of some misfortune, and notwithstanding Davidson’s +painstaking explanations, she could not see why her presentiments were to +be disregarded. On the very last evening before Davidson went away she +asked him in a suspicious manner: + +“‘Why is it that you are so anxious to go this time?’ + +“‘I am not anxious,’ protested the good Davidson. ‘I simply can’t help +myself. There’s no one else to go in my place.’ + +“‘Oh! There’s no one,’ she said, turning away slowly. + +“She was so distant with him that evening that Davidson from a sense of +delicacy made up his mind to say good-bye to her at once and go and sleep +on board. He felt very miserable and, strangely enough, more on his own +account than on account of his wife. She seemed to him much more +offended than grieved. + +“Three weeks later, having collected a good many cases of old dollars +(they were stowed aft in the lazarette with an iron bar and a padlock +securing the hatch under his cabin-table), yes, with a bigger lot than he +had expected to collect, he found himself homeward bound and off the +entrance of the creek where Bamtz lived and even, in a sense, flourished. + +“It was so late in the day that Davidson actually hesitated whether he +should not pass by this time. He had no regard for Bamtz, who was a +degraded but not a really unhappy man. His pity for Laughing Anne was no +more than her case deserved. But his goodness was of a particularly +delicate sort. He realised how these people were dependent on him, and +how they would feel their dependence (if he failed to turn up) through a +long month of anxious waiting. Prompted by his sensitive humanity, +Davidson, in the gathering dusk, turned the _Sissie’s_ head towards the +hardly discernible coast, and navigated her safety through a maze of +shallow patches. But by the time he got to the mouth of the creek the +night had come. + +“The narrow waterway lay like a black cutting through the forest. And as +there were always grounded snaggs in the channel which it would be +impossible to make out, Davidson very prudently turned the _Sissie_ +round, and with only enough steam on the boilers to give her a touch +ahead if necessary, let her drift up stern first with the tide, silent +and invisible in the impenetrable darkness and in the dumb stillness. + +“It was a long job, and when at the end of two hours Davidson thought he +must be up to the clearing, the settlement slept already, the whole land +of forests and rivers was asleep. + +“Davidson, seeing a solitary light in the massed darkness of the shore, +knew that it was burning in Bamtz’s house. This was unexpected at this +time of the night, but convenient as a guide. By a turn of the screw and +a touch of the helm he sheered the _Sissie_ alongside Bamtz’s wharf—a +miserable structure of a dozen piles and a few planks, of which the +ex-vagabond was very proud. A couple of Kalashes jumped down on it, took +a turn with the ropes thrown to them round the posts, and the _Sissie_ +came to rest without a single loud word or the slightest noise. And just +in time too, for the tide turned even before she was properly moored. + +“Davidson had something to eat, and then, coming on deck for a last look +round, noticed that the light was still burning in the house. + +“This was very unusual, but since they were awake so late, Davidson +thought that he would go up to say that he was in a hurry to be off and +to ask that what rattans there were in store should be sent on board with +the first sign of dawn. + +“He stepped carefully over the shaky planks, not being anxious to get a +sprained ankle, and picked his way across the waste ground to the foot of +the house ladder. The house was but a glorified hut on piles, unfenced +and lonely. + +“Like many a stout man, Davidson is very lightfooted. He climbed the +seven steps or so, stepped across the bamboo platform quietly, but what +he saw through the doorway stopped him short. + +“Four men were sitting by the light of a solitary candle. There was a +bottle, a jug and glasses on the table, but they were not engaged in +drinking. Two packs of cards were lying there too, but they were not +preparing to play. They were talking together in whispers, and remained +quite unaware of him. He himself was too astonished to make a sound for +some time. The world was still, except for the sibilation of the +whispering heads bunched together over the table. + +“And Davidson, as I have quoted him to you before, didn’t like it. He +didn’t like it at all. + +“The situation ended with a scream proceeding from the dark, interior +part of the room. ‘O Davy! you’ve given me a turn.’ + +“Davidson made out beyond the table Anne’s very pale face. She laughed a +little hysterically, out of the deep shadows between the gloomy mat +walls. ‘Ha! ha! ha!’ + +“The four heads sprang apart at the first sound, and four pairs of eyes +became fixed stonily on Davidson. The woman came forward, having little +more on her than a loose chintz wrapper and straw slippers on her bare +feet. Her head was tied up Malay fashion in a red handkerchief, with a +mass of loose hair hanging under it behind. Her professional, gay, +European feathers had literally dropped off her in the course of these +two years, but a long necklace of amber beads hung round her uncovered +neck. It was the only ornament she had left; Bamtz had sold all her +poor-enough trinkets during the flight from Saigon—when their association +began. + +“She came forward, past the table, into the light, with her usual groping +gesture of extended arms, as though her soul, poor thing! had gone blind +long ago, her white cheeks hollow, her eyes darkly wild, distracted, as +Davidson thought. She came on swiftly, grabbed him by the arm, dragged +him in. ‘It’s heaven itself that sends you to-night. My Tony’s so +bad—come and see him. Come along—do!’ + +“Davidson submitted. The only one of the men to move was Bamtz, who made +as if to get up but dropped back in his chair again. Davidson in passing +heard him mutter confusedly something that sounded like ‘poor little +beggar.’ + +“The child, lying very flushed in a miserable cot knocked up out of +gin-cases, stared at Davidson with wide, drowsy eyes. It was a bad bout +of fever clearly. But while Davidson was promising to go on board and +fetch some medicines, and generally trying to say reassuring things, he +could not help being struck by the extraordinary manner of the woman +standing by his side. Gazing with despairing expression down at the cot, +she would suddenly throw a quick, startled glance at Davidson and then +towards the other room. + +“‘Yes, my poor girl,’ he whispered, interpreting her distraction in his +own way, though he had nothing precise in his mind. ‘I’m afraid this +bodes no good to you. How is it they are here?’ + +“She seized his forearm and breathed out forcibly: ‘No good to me! Oh, +no! But what about you! They are after the dollars you have on board.’ + +“Davidson let out an astonished ‘How do they know there are any dollars?’ + +“She clapped her hands lightly, in distress. ‘So it’s true! You have +them on board? Then look out for yourself.’ + +“They stood gazing down at the boy in the cot, aware that they might be +observed from the other room. + +“‘We must get him to perspire as soon as possible,’ said Davidson in his +ordinary voice. ‘You’ll have to give him hot drink of some kind. I will +go on board and bring you a spirit-kettle amongst other things.’ And he +added under his breath: ‘Do they actually mean murder?’ + +“She made no sign, she had returned to her desolate contemplation of the +boy. Davidson thought she had not heard him even, when with an unchanged +expression she spoke under her breath. + +“‘The Frenchman would, in a minute. The others shirk it—unless you +resist. He’s a devil. He keeps them going. Without him they would have +done nothing but talk. I’ve got chummy with him. What can you do when +you are with a man like the fellow I am with now. Bamtz is terrified of +them, and they know it. He’s in it from funk. Oh, Davy! take your ship +away—quick!’ + +“‘Too late,’ said Davidson. ‘She’s on the mud already.’ + +“If the kid hadn’t been in this state I would have run off with him—to +you—into the woods—anywhere. Oh, Davy! will he die?’ she cried aloud +suddenly. + +“Davidson met three men in the doorway. They made way for him without +actually daring to face his glance. But Bamtz was the only one who +looked down with an air of guilt. The big Frenchman had remained lolling +in his chair; he kept his stumps in his pockets and addressed Davidson. + +“‘Isn’t it unfortunate about that child! The distress of that woman +there upsets me, but I am of no use in the world. I couldn’t smooth the +sick pillow of my dearest friend. I have no hands. Would you mind +sticking one of those cigarettes there into the mouth of a poor, harmless +cripple? My nerves want soothing—upon my honour, they do.’ + +“Davidson complied with his naturally kind smile. As his outward +placidity becomes only more pronounced, if possible, the more reason +there is for excitement; and as Davidson’s eyes, when his wits are hard +at work, get very still and as if sleepy, the huge Frenchman might have +been justified in concluding that the man there was a mere sheep—a sheep +ready for slaughter. With a ‘_merci bien_’ he uplifted his huge carcase +to reach the light of the candle with his cigarette, and Davidson left +the house. + +“Going down to the ship and returning, he had time to consider his +position. At first he was inclined to believe that these men +(Niclaus—the white Nakhoda—was the only one he knew by sight before, +besides Bamtz) were not of the stamp to proceed to extremities. This was +partly the reason why he never attempted to take any measures on board. +His pacific Kalashes were not to be thought of as against white men. His +wretched engineer would have had a fit from fright at the mere idea of +any sort of combat. Davidson knew that he would have to depend on +himself in this affair if it ever came off. + +“Davidson underestimated naturally the driving power of the Frenchman’s +character and the force of the actuating motive. To that man so +hopelessly crippled these dollars were an enormous opportunity. With his +share of the robbery he would open another shop in Vladivostok, Haïphong, +Manila—somewhere far away. + +“Neither did it occur to Davidson, who is a man of courage, if ever there +was one, that his psychology was not known to the world at large, and +that to this particular lot of ruffians, who judged him by his +appearance, he appeared an unsuspicious, inoffensive, soft creature, as +he passed again through the room, his hands full of various objects and +parcels destined for the sick boy. + +“All the four were sitting again round the table. Bamtz not having the +pluck to open his mouth, it was Niclaus who, as a collective voice, +called out to him thickly to come out soon and join in a drink. + +“‘I think I’ll have to stay some little time in there, to help her look +after the boy,’ Davidson answered without stopping. + +“This was a good thing to say to allay a possible suspicion. And, as it +was, Davidson felt he must not stay very long. + +“He sat down on an old empty nail-keg near the improvised cot and looked +at the child; while Laughing Anne, moving to and fro, preparing the hot +drink, giving it to the boy in spoonfuls, or stopping to gaze motionless +at the flushed face, whispered disjointed bits of information. She had +succeeded in making friends with that French devil. Davy would +understand that she knew how to make herself pleasant to a man. + +“And Davidson nodded without looking at her. + +“The big beast had got to be quite confidential with her. She held his +cards for him when they were having a game. Bamtz! Oh! Bamtz in his +funk was only too glad to see the Frenchman humoured. And the Frenchman +had come to believe that she was a woman who didn’t care what she did. +That’s how it came about they got to talk before her openly. For a long +time she could not make out what game they were up to. The new arrivals, +not expecting to find a woman with Bamtz, had been very startled and +annoyed at first, she explained. + +“She busied herself in attending to the boy; and nobody looking into that +room would have seen anything suspicious in those two people exchanging +murmurs by the sick-bedside. + +“‘But now they think I am a better man than Bamtz ever was,’ she said +with a faint laugh. + +“The child moaned. She went down on her knees, and, bending low, +contemplated him mournfully. Then raising her head, she asked Davidson +whether he thought the child would get better. Davidson was sure of it. +She murmured sadly: ‘Poor kid. There’s nothing in life for such as he. +Not a dog’s chance. But I couldn’t let him go, Davy! I couldn’t.’ + +“Davidson felt a profound pity for the child. She laid her hand on his +knee and whispered an earnest warning against the Frenchman. Davy must +never let him come to close quarters. Naturally Davidson wanted to know +the reason, for a man without hands did not strike him as very formidable +under any circumstances. + +“‘Mind you don’t let him—that’s all,’ she insisted anxiously, hesitated, +and then confessed that the Frenchman had got her away from the others +that afternoon and had ordered her to tie a seven-pound iron weight (out +of the set of weights Bamtz used in business) to his right stump. She +had to do it for him. She had been afraid of his savage temper. Bamtz +was such a craven, and neither of the other men would have cared what +happened to her. The Frenchman, however, with many awful threats had +warned her not to let the others know what she had done for him. +Afterwards he had been trying to cajole her. He had promised her that if +she stood by him faithfully in this business he would take her with him +to Haïphong or some other place. A poor cripple needed somebody to take +care of him—always. + +“Davidson asked her again if they really meant mischief. It was, he told +me, the hardest thing to believe he had run up against, as yet, in his +life. Anne nodded. The Frenchman’s heart was set on this robbery. Davy +might expect them, about midnight, creeping on board his ship, to steal +anyhow—to murder, perhaps. Her voice sounded weary, and her eyes +remained fastened on her child. + +“And still Davidson could not accept it somehow; his contempt for these +men was too great. + +“‘Look here, Davy,’ she said. ‘I’ll go outside with them when they +start, and it will be hard luck if I don’t find something to laugh at. +They are used to that from me. Laugh or cry—what’s the odds. You will +be able to hear me on board on this quiet night. Dark it is too. Oh! +it’s dark, Davy!—it’s dark!’ + +“‘Don’t you run any risks,’ said Davidson. Presently he called her +attention to the boy, who, less flushed now, had dropped into a sound +sleep. ‘Look. He’ll be all right.’ + +“She made as if to snatch the child up to her breast, but restrained +herself. Davidson prepared to go. She whispered hurriedly: + +“‘Mind, Davy! I’ve told them that you generally sleep aft in the hammock +under the awning over the cabin. They have been asking me about your +ways and about your ship, too. I told them all I knew. I had to keep in +with them. And Bamtz would have told them if I hadn’t—you understand?’ + +“He made a friendly sign and went out. The men about the table (except +Bamtz) looked at him. This time it was Fector who spoke. ‘Won’t you +join us in a quiet game, Captain?’ + +“Davidson said that now the child was better he thought he would go on +board and turn in. Fector was the only one of the four whom he had, so +to speak, never seen, for he had had a good look at the Frenchman +already. He observed Fector’s muddy eyes, his mean, bitter mouth. +Davidson’s contempt for those men rose in his gorge, while his placid +smile, his gentle tones and general air of innocence put heart into them. +They exchanged meaning glances. + +“‘We shall be sitting late over the cards,’ Fector said in his harsh, low +voice. + +“‘Don’t make more noise than you can help.’ + +“‘Oh! we are a quiet lot. And if the invalid shouldn’t be so well, she +will be sure to send one of us down to call you, so that you may play the +doctor again. So don’t shoot at sight.’ + +“‘He isn’t a shooting man,’ struck in Niclaus. + +“‘I never shoot before making sure there’s a reason for it—at any rate,’ +said Davidson. + +“Bamtz let out a sickly snigger. The Frenchman alone got up to make a +bow to Davidson’s careless nod. His stumps were stuck immovably in his +pockets. Davidson understood now the reason. + +“He went down to the ship. His wits were working actively, and he was +thoroughly angry. He smiled, he says (it must have been the first grim +smile of his life), at the thought of the seven-pound weight lashed to +the end of the Frenchman’s stump. The ruffian had taken that precaution +in case of a quarrel that might arise over the division of the spoil. A +man with an unsuspected power to deal killing blows could take his own +part in a sudden scrimmage round a heap of money, even against +adversaries armed with revolvers, especially if he himself started the +row. + +“‘He’s ready to face any of his friends with that thing. But he will +have no use for it. There will be no occasion to quarrel about these +dollars here,’ thought Davidson, getting on board quietly. He never +paused to look if there was anybody about the decks. As a matter of +fact, most of his crew were on shore, and the rest slept, stowed away in +dark corners. + +“He had his plan, and he went to work methodically. + +“He fetched a lot of clothing from below and disposed it in his hammock +in such a way as to distend it to the shape of a human body; then he +threw over all the light cotton sheet he used to draw over himself when +sleeping on deck. Having done this, he loaded his two revolvers and +clambered into one of the boats the _Sissie_ carried right aft, swung out +on their davits. Then he waited. + +“And again the doubt of such a thing happening to him crept into his +mind. He was almost ashamed of this ridiculous vigil in a boat. He +became bored. And then he became drowsy. The stillness of the black +universe wearied him. There was not even the lapping of the water to +keep him company, for the tide was out and the _Sissie_ was lying on soft +mud. Suddenly in the breathless, soundless, hot night an argus pheasant +screamed in the woods across the stream. Davidson started violently, all +his senses on the alert at once. + +“The candle was still burning in the house. Everything was quiet again, +but Davidson felt drowsy no longer. An uneasy premonition of evil +oppressed him. + +“‘Surely I am not afraid,’ he argued with himself. + +“The silence was like a seal on his ears, and his nervous inward +impatience grew intolerable. He commanded himself to keep still. But +all the same he was just going to jump out of the boat when a faint +ripple on the immensity of silence, a mere tremor in the air, the ghost +of a silvery laugh, reached his ears. + +“Illusion! + +“He kept very still. He had no difficulty now in emulating the stillness +of the mouse—a grimly determined mouse. But he could not shake off that +premonition of evil unrelated to the mere danger of the situation. +Nothing happened. It had been an illusion! + +“A curiosity came to him to learn how they would go to work. He wondered +and wondered, till the whole thing seemed more absurd than ever. + +“He had left the hanging lamp in the cabin burning as usual. It was part +of his plan that everything should be as usual. Suddenly in the dim glow +of the skylight panes a bulky shadow came up the ladder without a sound, +made two steps towards the hammock (it hung right over the skylight), and +stood motionless. The Frenchman! + +“The minutes began to slip away. Davidson guessed that the Frenchman’s +part (the poor cripple) was to watch his (Davidson’s) slumbers while the +others were no doubt in the cabin busy forcing off the lazarette hatch. + +“What was the course they meant to pursue once they got hold of the +silver (there were ten cases, and each could be carried easily by two +men) nobody can tell now. But so far, Davidson was right. They were in +the cabin. He expected to hear the sounds of breaking-in every moment. +But the fact was that one of them (perhaps Fector, who had stolen papers +out of desks in his time) knew how to pick a lock, and apparently was +provided with the tools. Thus while Davidson expected every moment to +hear them begin down there, they had the bar off already and two cases +actually up in the cabin out of the lazarette. + +“In the diffused faint glow of the skylight the Frenchman moved no more +than a statue. Davidson could have shot him with the greatest ease—but +he was not homicidally inclined. Moreover, he wanted to make sure before +opening fire that the others had gone to work. Not hearing the sounds he +expected to hear, he felt uncertain whether they all were on board yet. + +“While he listened, the Frenchman, whose immobility might have but +cloaked an internal struggle; moved forward a pace, then another. +Davidson, entranced, watched him advance one leg, withdraw his right +stump, the armed one, out of his pocket, and swinging his body to put +greater force into the blow, bring the seven-pound weight down on the +hammock where the head of the sleeper ought to have been. + +“Davidson admitted to me that his hair stirred at the roots then. But +for Anne, his unsuspecting head would have been there. The Frenchman’s +surprise must have been simply overwhelming. He staggered away from the +lightly swinging hammock, and before Davidson could make a movement he +had vanished, bounding down the ladder to warn and alarm the other +fellows. + +“Davidson sprang instantly out of the boat, threw up the skylight flap, +and had a glimpse of the men down there crouching round the hatch. They +looked up scared, and at that moment the Frenchman outside the door +bellowed out ‘_Trahison_—_trahison_!’ They bolted out of the cabin, +falling over each other and swearing awfully. The shot Davidson let off +down the skylight had hit no one; but he ran to the edge of the cabin-top +and at once opened fire at the dark shapes rushing about the deck. These +shots were returned, and a rapid fusillade burst out, reports and +flashes, Davidson dodging behind a ventilator and pulling the trigger +till his revolver clicked, and then throwing it down to take the other in +his right hand. + +“He had been hearing in the din the Frenchman’s infuriated yells +‘_Tuez-le_! _tuez-le_!’ above the fierce cursing of the others. But +though they fired at him they were only thinking of clearing out. In the +flashes of the last shots Davidson saw them scrambling over the rail. +That he had hit more than one he was certain. Two different voices had +cried out in pain. But apparently none of them were disabled. + +“Davidson leaned against the bulwark reloading his revolver without +haste. He had not the slightest apprehension of their coming back. On +the other hand, he had no intention of pursuing them on shore in the +dark. What they were doing he had no idea. Looking to their hurts +probably. Not very far from the bank the invisible Frenchman was +blaspheming and cursing his associates, his luck, and all the world. He +ceased; then with a sudden, vengeful yell, ‘It’s that woman!—it’s that +woman that has sold us,’ was heard running off in the night. + +“Davidson caught his breath in a sudden pang of remorse. He perceived +with dismay that the stratagem of his defence had given Anne away. He +did not hesitate a moment. It was for him to save her now. He leaped +ashore. But even as he landed on the wharf he heard a shrill shriek +which pierced his very soul. + +“The light was still burning in the house. Davidson, revolver in hand, +was making for it when another shriek, away to his left, made him change +his direction. + +“He changed his direction—but very soon he stopped. It was then that he +hesitated in cruel perplexity. He guessed what had happened. The woman +had managed to escape from the house in some way, and now was being +chased in the open by the infuriated Frenchman. He trusted she would try +to run on board for protection. + +“All was still around Davidson. Whether she had run on board or not, +this silence meant that the Frenchman had lost her in the dark. + +“Davidson, relieved, but still very anxious, turned towards the +river-side. He had not made two steps in that direction when another +shriek burst out behind him, again close to the house. + +“He thinks that the Frenchman had lost sight of the poor woman right +enough. Then came that period of silence. But the horrible ruffian had +not given up his murderous purpose. He reasoned that she would try to +steal back to her child, and went to lie in wait for her near the house. + +“It must have been something like that. As she entered the light falling +about the house-ladder, he had rushed at her too soon, impatient for +vengeance. She had let out that second scream of mortal fear when she +caught sight of him, and turned to run for life again. + +“This time she was making for the river, but not in a straight line. Her +shrieks circled about Davidson. He turned on his heels, following the +horrible trail of sound in the darkness. He wanted to shout ‘This way, +Anne! I am here!’ but he couldn’t. At the horror of this chase, more +ghastly in his imagination than if he could have seen it, the +perspiration broke out on his forehead, while his throat was as dry as +tinder. A last supreme scream was cut short suddenly. + +“The silence which ensued was even more dreadful. Davidson felt sick. +He tore his feet from the spot and walked straight before him, gripping +the revolver and peering into the obscurity fearfully. Suddenly a bulky +shape sprang from the ground within a few yards of him and bounded away. +Instinctively he fired at it, started to run in pursuit, and stumbled +against something soft which threw him down headlong. + +“Even as he pitched forward on his head he knew it could be nothing else +but Laughing Anne’s body. He picked himself up and, remaining on his +knees, tried to lift her in his arms. He felt her so limp that he gave +it up. She was lying on her face, her long hair scattered on the ground. +Some of it was wet. Davidson, feeling about her head, came to a place +where the crushed bone gave way under his fingers. But even before that +discovery he knew that she was dead. The pursuing Frenchman had flung +her down with a kick from behind, and, squatting on her back, was +battering in her skull with the weight she herself had fastened to his +stump, when the totally unexpected Davidson loomed up in the night and +scared him away. + +“Davidson, kneeling by the side of that woman done so miserably to death, +was overcome by remorse. She had died for him. His manhood was as if +stunned. For the first time he felt afraid. He might have been pounced +upon in the dark at any moment by the murderer of Laughing Anne. He +confesses to the impulse of creeping away from that pitiful corpse on his +hands and knees to the refuge of the ship. He even says that he actually +began to do so. . . + +“One can hardly picture to oneself Davidson crawling away on all fours +from the murdered woman—Davidson unmanned and crushed by the idea that +she had died for him in a sense. But he could not have gone very far. +What stopped him was the thought of the boy, Laughing Anne’s child, that +(Davidson remembered her very words) would not have a dog’s chance. + +“This life the woman had left behind her appeared to Davidson’s +conscience in the light of a sacred trust. He assumed an erect attitude +and, quaking inwardly still, turned about and walked towards the house. + +“For all his tremors he was very determined; but that smashed skull had +affected his imagination, and he felt very defenceless in the darkness, +in which he seemed to hear faintly now here, now there, the prowling +footsteps of the murderer without hands. But he never faltered in his +purpose. He got away with the boy safely after all. The house he found +empty. A profound silence encompassed him all the time, except once, +just as he got down the ladder with Tony in his arms, when a faint groan +reached his ears. It seemed to come from the pitch-black space between +the posts on which the house was built, but he did not stop to +investigate. + +“It’s no use telling you in detail how Davidson got on board with the +burden Anne’s miserably cruel fate had thrust into his arms; how next +morning his scared crew, after observing from a distance the state of +affairs on board, rejoined with alacrity; how Davidson went ashore and, +aided by his engineer (still half dead with fright), rolled up Laughing +Anne’s body in a cotton sheet and brought it on board for burial at sea +later. While busy with this pious task, Davidson, glancing about, +perceived a huge heap of white clothes huddled up against the corner-post +of the house. That it was the Frenchman lying there he could not doubt. +Taking it in connection with the dismal groan he had heard in the night, +Davidson is pretty sure that his random shot gave a mortal hurt to the +murderer of poor Anne. + +“As to the others, Davidson never set eyes on a single one of them. +Whether they had concealed themselves in the scared settlement, or bolted +into the forest, or were hiding on board Niclaus’s prau, which could be +seen lying on the mud a hundred yards or so higher up the creek, the fact +is that they vanished; and Davidson did not trouble his head about them. +He lost no time in getting out of the creek directly the _Sissie_ +floated. After steaming some twenty miles clear of the coast, he (in his +own words) ‘committed the body to the deep.’ He did everything himself. +He weighted her down with a few fire-bars, he read the service, he lifted +the plank, he was the only mourner. And while he was rendering these +last services to the dead, the desolation of that life and the atrocious +wretchedness of its end cried aloud to his compassion, whispered to him +in tones of self-reproach. + +“He ought to have handled the warning she had given him in another way. +He was convinced now that a simple display of watchfulness would have +been enough to restrain that vile and cowardly crew. But the fact was +that he had not quite believed that anything would be attempted. + +“The body of Laughing Anne having been ‘committed to the deep’ some +twenty miles S.S.W. from Cape Selatan, the task before Davidson was to +commit Laughing Anne’s child to the care of his wife. And there poor, +good Davidson made a fatal move. He didn’t want to tell her the whole +awful story, since it involved the knowledge of the danger from which he, +Davidson, had escaped. And this, too, after he had been laughing at her +unreasonable fears only a short time before. + +“‘I thought that if I told her everything,’ Davidson explained to me, +‘she would never have a moment’s peace while I was away on my trips.’ + +“He simply stated that the boy was an orphan, the child of some people to +whom he, Davidson, was under the greatest obligation, and that he felt +morally bound to look after him. Some day he would tell her more, he +said, and meantime he trusted in the goodness and warmth of her heart, in +her woman’s natural compassion. + +“He did not know that her heart was about the size of a parched pea, and +had the proportional amount of warmth; and that her faculty of compassion +was mainly directed to herself. He was only startled and disappointed at +the air of cold surprise and the suspicious look with which she received +his imperfect tale. But she did not say much. She never had much to +say. She was a fool of the silent, hopeless kind. + +“What story Davidson’s crew thought fit to set afloat in Malay town is +neither here nor there. Davidson himself took some of his friends into +his confidence, besides giving the full story officially to the Harbour +Master. + +“The Harbour Master was considerably astonished. He didn’t think, +however, that a formal complaint should be made to the Dutch Government. +They would probably do nothing in the end, after a lot of trouble and +correspondence. The robbery had not come off, after all. Those +vagabonds could be trusted to go to the devil in their own way. No +amount of fuss would bring the poor woman to life again, and the actual +murderer had been done justice to by a chance shot from Davidson. Better +let the matter drop. + +“This was good common sense. But he was impressed. + +“‘Sounds a terrible affair, Captain Davidson.’ + +“‘Aye, terrible enough,’ agreed the remorseful Davidson. But the most +terrible thing for him, though he didn’t know it yet then, was that his +wife’s silly brain was slowly coming to the conclusion that Tony was +Davidson’s child, and that he had invented that lame story to introduce +him into her pure home in defiance of decency, of virtue—of her most +sacred feelings. + +“Davidson was aware of some constraint in his domestic relations. But at +the best of times she was not demonstrative; and perhaps that very +coldness was part of her charm in the placid Davidson’s eyes. Women are +loved for all sorts of reasons and even for characteristics which one +would think repellent. She was watching him and nursing her suspicions. + +“Then, one day, Monkey-faced Ritchie called on that sweet, shy Mrs. +Davidson. She had come out under his care, and he considered himself a +privileged person—her oldest friend in the tropics. He posed for a great +admirer of hers. He was always a great chatterer. He had got hold of +the story rather vaguely, and he started chattering on that subject, +thinking she knew all about it. And in due course he let out something +about Laughing Anne. + +“‘Laughing Anne,’ says Mrs. Davidson with a start. ‘What’s that?’ + +“Ritchie plunged into circumlocution at once, but she very soon stopped +him. ‘Is that creature dead?’ she asks. + +“‘I believe so,’ stammered Ritchie. ‘Your husband says so.’ + +“‘But you don’t know for certain?’ + +“‘No! How could I, Mrs. Davidson!’ + +“‘That’s all wanted to know,’ says she, and goes out of the room. + +“When Davidson came home she was ready to go for him, not with common +voluble indignation, but as if trickling a stream of cold clear water +down his back. She talked of his base intrigue with a vile woman, of +being made a fool of, of the insult to her dignity. + +“Davidson begged her to listen to him and told her all the story, +thinking that it would move a heart of stone. He tried to make her +understand his remorse. She heard him to the end, said ‘Indeed!’ and +turned her back on him. + +“‘Don’t you believe me?’ he asked, appalled. + +“She didn’t say yes or no. All she said was, ‘Send that brat away at +once.’ + +“‘I can’t throw him out into the street,’ cried Davidson. ‘You don’t +mean it.’ + +“‘I don’t care. There are charitable institutions for such children, I +suppose.’ + +“‘That I will never do,’ said Davidson. + +“‘Very well. That’s enough for me.’ + +“Davidson’s home after this was like a silent, frozen hell for him. A +stupid woman with a sense of grievance is worse than an unchained devil. +He sent the boy to the White Fathers in Malacca. This was not a very +expensive sort of education, but she could not forgive him for not +casting the offensive child away utterly. She worked up her sense of her +wifely wrongs and of her injured purity to such a pitch that one day, +when poor Davidson was pleading with her to be reasonable and not to make +an impossible existence for them both, she turned on him in a chill +passion and told him that his very sight was odious to her. + +“Davidson, with his scrupulous delicacy of feeling, was not the man to +assert his rights over a woman who could not bear the sight of him. He +bowed his head; and shortly afterwards arranged for her to go back to her +parents. That was exactly what she wanted in her outraged dignity. And +then she had always disliked the tropics and had detested secretly the +people she had to live amongst as Davidson’s wife. She took her pure, +sensitive, mean little soul away to Fremantle or somewhere in that +direction. And of course the little girl went away with her too. What +could poor Davidson have done with a little girl on his hands, even if +she had consented to leave her with him—which is unthinkable. + +“This is the story that has spoiled Davidson’s smile for him—which +perhaps it wouldn’t have done so thoroughly had he been less of a good +fellow.” + +Hollis ceased. But before we rose from the table I asked him if he knew +what had become of Laughing Anne’s boy. + +He counted carefully the change handed him by the Chinaman waiter, and +raised his head. + +“Oh! that’s the finishing touch. He was a bright, taking little chap, as +you know, and the Fathers took very special pains in his bringing up. +Davidson expected in his heart to have some comfort out of him. In his +placid way he’s a man who needs affection. Well, Tony has grown into a +fine youth—but there you are! He wants to be a priest; his one dream is +to be a missionary. The Fathers assure Davidson that it is a serious +vocation. They tell him he has a special disposition for mission work, +too. So Laughing Anne’s boy will lead a saintly life in China somewhere; +he may even become a martyr; but poor Davidson is left out in the cold. +He will have to go downhill without a single human affection near him +because of these old dollars.” + + * * * * * + +_Jan._ 1914 + + [Picture: Decorative graphic] + + * * * * * + + * * * * * + + THE LONDON AND NORWICH PRESS LIMITED, LONDON AND NORWICH, ENGLAND + + + + +Footnotes + + +{188} The gallows, supposed to be widowed of the last executed criminal +and waiting for another. + + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WITHIN THE TIDES*** + + +******* This file should be named 1053-0.txt or 1053-0.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/0/5/1053 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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