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diff --git a/1053-h/1053-h.htm b/1053-h/1053-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..bb0fac9 --- /dev/null +++ b/1053-h/1053-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,7142 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=US-ASCII" /> +<title>Within the Tides, by Joseph Conrad</title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + P { margin-top: .75em; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + P.gutsumm { margin-left: 5%;} + P.poetry {margin-left: 3%; } + H1, H2 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + } + H3, H4, H5 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + } + BODY{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + table { border-collapse: collapse; } +table {margin-left:auto; margin-right:auto;} + td { vertical-align: top; border: 1px solid black;} + td p { margin: 0.2em; } + .blkquot {margin-left: 4em; margin-right: 4em;} /* block indent */ + + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + + .pagenum {position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: small; + text-align: right; + font-weight: normal; + color: gray; + } + img { border: none; } + img.dc { float: left; width: 50px; height: 50px; } + div.gapspace { height: 0.8em; } + div.gapline { height: 0.8em; width: 30%; } + div.gapshortdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 20%; + margin-left: 40%; border-top: 1px solid; + border-bottom: 1px solid; } + div.gapdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 50%; + margin-left: 25%; border-top: 1px solid; + border-bottom: 1px solid;} + div.gapshortline { height: 0.3em; width: 20%; margin-left:40%; + border-top: 1px solid; } + .citation {vertical-align: super; + font-size: .8em; + text-decoration: none;} + img.floatleft { float: left; + margin-right: 1em; + margin-top: 0.5em; margin-bottom: 0.5em; } + img.floatright { float: right; + margin-left: 1em; margin-top: 0.5em; + margin-bottom: 0.5em; } + img.clearcenter {display: block; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0.5em; + margin-bottom: 0.5em} + --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> +</head> +<body> +<pre> + +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: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WITHIN THE TIDES*** +</pre> +<p>Scanned and proofed by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org</p> +<h1>WITHIN THE<br /> +TIDES</h1> +<p style="text-align: center">TALES</p> +<blockquote><p>. . . Go, make you ready.</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Hamlet</span> +<i>to the</i> <span class="smcap">Players</span>.</p> +</blockquote> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p0b.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Decorative graphic" +title= +"Decorative graphic" +src="images/p0s.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">london & +toronto</span><br /> +J. M. DENT & SONS LTD.<br /> +PARIS: J. M. DENT ET. FILS</p> +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<table> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">First Edition</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><i>February</i> 1915</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Reprinted</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><i>April</i> 1915; <i>August</i> 1919</p> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center">To<br /> +<span class="smcap">Mr. and Mrs.</span> RALPH WEDGWOOD</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">this sheaf of +care-free ante-bellum pages</span><br /> +<span class="smcap">in gratitude for their charming +hospitality</span><br /> +<span class="smcap">in the last month of peace</span></p> +<h2>Contents</h2> +<table> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="smcap">page</span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Planter of Malata</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page3">3</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Partner</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page119">119</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Inn of the Two Witches</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page175">175</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Because of the Dollars</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page223">223</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +<h2><!-- page 3--><a name="page3"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +3</span>THE PLANTER OF MALATA</h2> +<h3>CHAPTER I</h3> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“And so you were dining yesterday at old +Dunster’s.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“Very touching. The old boy sentimentalises over +the past now and then.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“I was asked,” remarked the newspaper man. +“Only I couldn’t go. But when did you arrive +from Malata?”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“Here we don’t consider him a monster,” said +the newspaper man looking at his visitor thoughtfully.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“And not charming.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>The other hardly smiled and murmured the admission that true +enough it was a good eleven months since he had been in town +last.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“Well, and we here take the people in the streets for +granted. And that’s sanity.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“You very busy?” he asked.</p> +<p>The Editor making red marks on a long slip of printed paper +threw the pencil down.</p> +<p>“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?”</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“Oh, yes. About that assistant of yours. . . +.”</p> +<p>“What about him,” said Renouard, after waiting a +while, with a shadow of uneasiness on his face.</p> +<p>“Have you nothing to tell me of him?”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“You haven’t brought him along with you by +chance—for a change.”</p> +<p>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.”</p> +<p>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. . . .</p> +<p>“Still, that doesn’t tell me why I was invited +yesterday. For young Dunster never thought of this civility +before. . . .”</p> +<p>“Our Willie,” said the popular journalist, +“never does anything without a purpose, that’s a +fact.”</p> +<p>“And to his uncle’s house too!”</p> +<p>“He lives there.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>The Editor then, after expressing his regret that he had not +been able to come, wanted to know if the party had been +entertaining.</p> +<p>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. . . .</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“They looked to me like people under a spell.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“You omitted to tell me their name, but I can make a +guess. You mean Professor Moorsom, his daughter and +sister—don’t you?”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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. . . .</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“That young lady came and sat down by me. She +said: ‘Are you French, Mr. Renouard?’”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“. . . 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.”</p> +<p>“And you complain of her interest?”</p> +<p>The accent of the all-knowing journalist seemed to jar on the +Planter of Malata.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“You know something,” the latter said +brusquely. The all-knowing man moved his head slightly and +said, “Yes. But go on.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>In the pause the Editor had changed his attitude, faced his +desk, and smiled a faint knowing smile.</p> +<p>“Striking girl—eh?” he said.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“I express myself very little,” interjected +Renouard seriously.</p> +<p>“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. . . .”</p> +<p>“What struck me most,” interrupted the other, +“is that she should pick me out for such a long +conversation.”</p> +<p>“That’s perhaps because you were the most +remarkable of the men there.”</p> +<p>Renouard shook his head.</p> +<p>“This shot doesn’t seem to me to hit the +mark,” he said calmly. “Try again.”</p> +<p>“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!”</p> +<p>He mused. After a time the Planter of Malata dropped a +negligent—</p> +<p>“And you know them.”</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“You have met those people?” he asked.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<h3>CHAPTER II</h3> +<p>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!”</p> +<p>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. . . +.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>Renouard listened with profoundly concealed attention. +“A charlatan,” he muttered languidly.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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 +<i>incog.</i>, 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.”</p> +<p>“Heavens!”</p> +<p>“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?”</p> +<p>“Yes.”</p> +<p>“Did you bring any fibre?”</p> +<p>“Schooner-full.”</p> +<p>“I see. To be transhipped to Liverpool for +experimental manufacture, eh? Eminent capitalists at home +very much interested, aren’t they?”</p> +<p>“They are.”</p> +<p>A silence fell. Then the Editor uttered +slowly—“You will be a rich man some day.”</p> +<p>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—</p> +<p>“You ought to interest Moorsom in the affair +too—since Willie has let you in.”</p> +<p>“A philosopher!”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“They always do,” remarked Renouard with +disgust. “He’s stupid.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>Renouard repeated: “Looking for a man.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>Renouard lounging aimlessly in the room turned round: +“And what the devil’s that?” he asked +faintly.</p> +<p>“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?”</p> +<p>“Ha! Ha! Excellent! Ha! Ha!” Renouard +laughed with stony eyes.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“Ha! Ha!” Renouard laughed again abruptly, staring +as before. “So there’s one more big F in the +tale.”</p> +<p>“What do you mean?” inquired the Editor quickly, +with an air as if his patent were being infringed.</p> +<p>“I mean—Fool.”</p> +<p>“No. I wouldn’t say that. I +wouldn’t say that.”</p> +<p>“Well—let him be a scoundrel then. What the +devil do I care.”</p> +<p>“But hold on! You haven’t heard the end of +the story.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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?”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER III</h3> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“Very quiet. Nobody there. It was much +better for the business. I say . . .”</p> +<p>Renouard, his hand grasping the back of a chair, stared down +at him dumbly.</p> +<p>“Phew! That’s a stunning girl. . . Why do +you want to sit on that chair? It’s +uncomfortable!”</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“Willie kept on gazing at her with tears in his boiled +eyes. You should have seen him bending sentimentally over +her at dinner.”</p> +<p>“Don’t,” said Renouard in such an anguished +tone that the Editor turned right round to look at his back.</p> +<p>“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?”</p> +<p>“Something easy,” muttered Renouard without +unclenching his teeth.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“Or lying dead drunk in a roadside pub. It’s +late enough in the day for that.”</p> +<p>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 . . . ”</p> +<p>“Or he may be passing at this very moment under this +very window.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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.”</p> +<p>“That’s very curious.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“Yes, thanks.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“You going to stay here some time?” asked the +Editor, after a longish silence.</p> +<p>Renouard, perfunctorily, did see no reason why he should make +a long stay.</p> +<p>“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?”</p> +<p>“There’s the half-caste too. The +Portuguese. He knows what’s to be done.”</p> +<p>“Aha!” The Editor looked sharply at his +friend. “What’s his name?”</p> +<p>“Who’s name?”</p> +<p>“The assistant’s you picked up on the sly behind +my back.”</p> +<p>Renouard made a slight movement of impatience.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“I don’t think you get on very well with +him.”</p> +<p>“Why? What makes you think so.”</p> +<p>“I don’t know. Something reluctant in your +manner when he’s in question.”</p> +<p>“Really. My manner! I don’t think +he’s a great subject for conversation, perhaps. Why +not drop him?”</p> +<p>“Of course! You wouldn’t confess to a +mistake. Not you. Nevertheless I have my suspicions +about it.”</p> +<p>Renouard got up to go, but hesitated, looking down at the +seated Editor.</p> +<p>“How funny,” he said at last with the utmost +seriousness, and was making for the door, when the voice of his +friend stopped him.</p> +<p>“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?”</p> +<p>“No,” said Renouard. “Did you print +that in your paper.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“Obituary notice?” Renouard dropped +negligently.</p> +<p>“Certain—some day.”</p> +<p>“Do you then regard yourself as immortal?”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER IV</h3> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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?</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER V</h3> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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?”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“What do you mean?” murmured Renouard.</p> +<p>“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 . . .”</p> +<p>“You want Miss Moorsom to give it up?” The +professor turned to the young man dismally.</p> +<p>“Heaven only knows what I want.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“This is the most troublesome time I ever had in my +life,” exclaimed the professor testily.</p> +<p>“Surely the man must be worth it,” muttered +Renouard with a pang of jealousy traversing his breast like a +self-inflicted stab.</p> +<p>Whether enervated by the heat or giving way to pent up +irritation the professor surrendered himself to the mood of +sincerity.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“He may be dead,” the professor murmured.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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—</p> +<p>“Oh! Don’t let us even suppose. . +.”</p> +<p>The professor struck in with a sadder accent than +before—</p> +<p>“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—<i>spe +lentus</i>, <i>timidus futuri</i>.”</p> +<p>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—</p> +<p>“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. . . . +”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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.”</p> +<p>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 . . . ”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“You had better come back to-night and dine with us +quietly.”</p> +<p>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—</p> +<p>“. . . the leading man here some day. . . . Like +me.”</p> +<p>Renouard let the thin summer portière of the doorway +fall behind him. The voice of Professor Moorsom +said—</p> +<p>“I am told that he has made an enemy of almost every man +who had to work with him.”</p> +<p>“That’s nothing. He did his work. . . . Like +me.”</p> +<p>“He never counted the cost they say. Not even of +lives.”</p> +<p>Renouard understood that they were talking of him. +Before he could move away, Mrs. Dunster struck in +placidly—</p> +<p>“Don’t let yourself be shocked by the tales you +may hear of him, my dear. Most of it is envy.”</p> +<p>Then he heard Miss Moorsom’s voice replying to the old +lady—</p> +<p>“Oh! I am not easily deceived. I think I may +say I have an instinct for truth.”</p> +<p>He hastened away from that house with his heart full of +dread.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER VI</h3> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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!</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.”</p> +<p>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!</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.”</p> +<p>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.”</p> +<p>Renouard disengaged himself from that most perfidious of men +under the pretence of astonishment, and stepping back a +pace—</p> +<p>“Surely you are making fun of me, Professor +Moorsom,” he said with a low laugh, which was really a +sound of rage.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“Humbug!” thought Renouard, standing still and +looking after him. “And yet! And yet! +What if it were true?”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“I hope you will go and tell them something of me. +Something seen,” he said pressingly.</p> +<p>By this miserable subterfuge, like a man about to part with +his life, he hoped to make her remember him a little longer.</p> +<p>“Certainly,” she said. “I’ll be +glad to call when I get back. But that ‘when’ +may be a long time.”</p> +<p>He heard a light sigh. A cruel jealous curiosity made +him ask—</p> +<p>“Are you growing weary, Miss Moorsom?”</p> +<p>A silence fell on his low spoken question.</p> +<p>“Do you mean heart-weary?” sounded Miss +Moorsom’s voice. “You don’t know me, I +see.”</p> +<p>“Ah! Never despair,” he muttered.</p> +<p>“This, Mr. Renouard, is a work of reparation. I +stand for truth here. I can’t think of +myself.”</p> +<p>He could have taken her by the throat for every word seemed an +insult to his passion; but he only said—</p> +<p>“I never doubted the—the—nobility of your +purpose.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“From hearsay—a little.”</p> +<p>“Well, I assure you they are like the others, subject to +suffering, victims of spells. . . .”</p> +<p>“One of them, at least, speaks very +strangely.”</p> +<p>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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>They burst out on the terrace babbling noisily, and then +pulling themselves together stood still, surprising—and as +if themselves surprised.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER VII</h3> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“I tell you—he—is—found,” the +patron of letters shouted emphatically.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“The innocent Arthur . . . Yes. We’ve got +him,” the Editor became very business-like. +“Yes, this letter has done it.”</p> +<p>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.”</p> +<p>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:</p> +<p>“What—you here!” in a quite shrill +voice.</p> +<p>There came a dead pause. All the faces had in them +something dismayed and cruel.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“Miss Moorsom, allow me to congratulate you from the +bottom of my heart on the happy—er—issue. . . +”</p> +<p>“Wait,” muttered Renouard irresolutely.</p> +<p>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.”</p> +<p>She turned her back on him.</p> +<p>“I hope to goodness you haven’t been leading him a +dog’s life, Geoffrey,” the Editor addressed his +friend in a whispered aside.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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?”</p> +<p>“Oh, yes: I have him there,” said Renouard, +without looking up.</p> +<p>“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—</p> +<p>“Aha! But you haven’t got him here—not +yet!” he sneered. “No! You haven’t +got him yet.”</p> +<p>This outrageous exhibition was to the Editor like the lash to +a jaded horse. He positively jumped.</p> +<p>“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. . +.”</p> +<p>With a gallant flourish of his arm he looked for Miss +Moorsom. She had disappeared. He was taken aback +somewhat.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>On deck he stumbled and stood still.</p> +<p>Wherefore this haste? To what end, since he knew well +before he started that he had a pursuer from whom there was no +escape.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>And now he contemplated the noose of consequences drawing +tight around him.</p> +<p>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—</p> +<p>“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?”</p> +<p>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!</p> +<p>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.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER VIII</h3> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“Most excellent advice.”</p> +<p>Next to him Miss Moorsom assented by a long silence. +Then in a voice as of one coming out of a dream—</p> +<p>“And so this is Malata,” she said. “I +have often wondered . . .”</p> +<p>A shiver passed through Renouard. She had +wondered! What about? Malata was himself. He +and Malata were one. And she had wondered! She had . +. .</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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—</p> +<p>“No one in the world knows what to-morrow may hold in +store.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“It’s late—and since we are going to sleep +on board to-night . . .” she said. “But it does +seem so cruel.”</p> +<p>The professor started up eagerly, knocking the ashes out of +his pipe. “Infinitely more sensible, my dear +Emma.”</p> +<p>Renouard waited behind Miss Moorsom’s chair.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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?</p> +<p>The lights on the deck had gone out one after the other. +The schooner slept.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“Tse! Tse! The master!”</p> +<p>“Be quiet, Luiz, and listen to what I say.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“Yes, master.”</p> +<p>“No mistakes—mind!”</p> +<p>“No, master.”</p> +<p>Renouard walked back towards the sea. Luiz, following +him, proposed to call out half a dozen boys and man the +canoe.</p> +<p>“Imbecile!”</p> +<p>“Tse! Tse! Tse!”</p> +<p>“Don’t you understand that you haven’t seen +me?”</p> +<p>“Yes, master. But what a long swim. Suppose +you drown.”</p> +<p>“Then you can say of me and of Mr. Walter what you +like. The dead don’t mind.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER IX</h3> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“Very good,” assented Renouard in an even +undertone. “And remember what you have to say of +him.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“Send the boys down to bring up the luggage.”</p> +<p>“Yes, master.”</p> +<p>Renouard turned to his distinguished guests who, like a +personally conducted party of tourists, had stopped and were +looking about them.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>This communication was received in profound silence.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“All I can do is to beg you to make yourselves at home . +. . with what patience you may.”</p> +<p>This was so obviously the only thing to do that everybody +moved on at once. The professor walked alongside Renouard, +behind the two ladies.</p> +<p>“Rather unexpected—this absence.”</p> +<p>“Not exactly,” muttered Renouard. “A +trip has to be made every year to engage labour.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>She leaned forward then, confidentially.</p> +<p>“Oh! Mr. Renouard! Haven’t you +something comforting to say?”</p> +<p>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.”</p> +<p>“Why speak to me about it,” he muttered feeling +half choked suddenly.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“Have you ever seen a ghost?” asked Renouard, in a +dull voice.</p> +<p>She shifted her hands a little. Her pose was perfect in +its ease and middle-aged grace.</p> +<p>“Not actually. Only in a photograph. But we +have many friends who had the experience of +apparitions.”</p> +<p>“Ah! They see ghosts in London,” mumbled +Renouard, not looking at her.</p> +<p>“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. . .”</p> +<p>“Those plantation boys of mine see ghosts too,” +said Renouard grimly.</p> +<p>The sister of the philosopher sat up stiffly. What +crudeness! It was always so with this strange young +man.</p> +<p>“Mr. Renouard! How can you compare the +superstitious fancies of your horrible savages with the +manifestations . . . ”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“What’s the matter?”</p> +<p>“Tse! Tse! Tse!”</p> +<p>“Well, what now? Trouble with the boys?”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>The half-caste’s teeth chattered slightly. +Renouard got out of the hammock.</p> +<p>“And he is here all the time—eh?”</p> +<p>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!”</p> +<p>He clapped his teeth on another short rattle, and stood there, +shrunk, blighted, like a man in a freezing blast.</p> +<p>“And what did you say to the gentleman?”</p> +<p>“I say I don’t know—and I clear out. +I—I don’t like to speak of him.”</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER X</h3> +<p>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.</p> +<p>After lunch, being left alone with Renouard, he talked a +little of cultivation and such matters. Then suddenly:</p> +<p>“By the way, is it true what my sister tells me, that +your plantation boys have been disturbed by a ghost?”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“My foreman had some trouble with them during my +absence. They funk working in a certain field on the slope +of the hill.”</p> +<p>“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?”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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. . . .</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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?”</p> +<p>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.”</p> +<p>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.”</p> +<p>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.”</p> +<p>“I see.”</p> +<p>She never turned her head. After a while she observed: +“This path looks as if it had been made +recently.”</p> +<p>“Quite recently,” he assented very low.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>Renouard broke the silence in low tones.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“Mr. Renouard! There is something strange in all +this. Tell me where he is?”</p> +<p>He answered deliberately.</p> +<p>“On the other side of this rock. I buried him +there myself.”</p> +<p>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 +. . .”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“Ah! It’s now that you are trying to murder +him,” she cried.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“This is tragic!” Felicia Moorsom whispered with +feeling. Renouard’s lips twitched, but his level +voice continued mercilessly.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“On a woman,” cried Miss Moorsom +indignantly. “What woman?”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“It only wanted this. Why! Oh! Why is +it that ugliness, ridicule, and baseness must fall across my +path.”</p> +<p>On that height, alone with the sky, they spoke to each other +as if the earth had fallen away from under their feet.</p> +<p>“Are you grieving for your dignity? He was a +mediocre soul and could have given you but an unworthy +existence.”</p> +<p>She did not even smile at those words, but, superb, as if +lifting a corner of the veil, she turned on him slowly.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“Yes. Your father was right. You are one of +these aristocrats . . .”</p> +<p>She drew herself up haughtily.</p> +<p>“What do you say? My father! . . . I an +aristocrat.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“What’s the meaning of this?” she said, +outraged but calm in a scornful way.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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!”</p> +<p>All ecstasy, all expression went out of his face.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“<i>Assez</i>! <i>J’ai horreur de tout +cela</i>,” she said.</p> +<p>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:</p> +<p>“And your dream is to influence a human +destiny?”</p> +<p>“Yes!” she answered curtly, unabashed, with a +woman’s complete assurance.</p> +<p>“Then you may rest content. You have done +it.”</p> +<p>She shrugged her shoulders slightly. But just before +reaching the end of the path she relented, stopped, and went back +to him.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“Yes,” said Renouard in a lifeless voice. +“He is dead. His very ghost shall be done with +presently.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER XI</h3> +<p>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.</p> +<p>The hesitating shadow of Luiz approached him unnoticed till it +spoke timidly. Renouard started.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>Renouard’s set lips moved.</p> +<p>“Why are you grateful to me?”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>When she came abreast of him Renouard raised his head.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“This is a strange request for you to make,” she +said, exaggerating the coldness of her tone.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>Unexpectedly, with a tightening grip, he pulled her nearer to +him, and looking into her eyes with fearless despair—</p> +<p>“You’ll have to. I shall haunt you,” +he said firmly.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>He wanted the master to know that the trader <i>Janet</i> was +just entering the cove.</p> +<p>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 +<i>Janet</i> 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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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:</p> +<p>“Do I go too, master?”</p> +<p>“Yes. You too. Everybody.”</p> +<p>“Master stop here alone?”</p> +<p>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—</p> +<p>“Tse! Tse! Tse!”</p> +<h3>CHAPTER XII</h3> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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—</p> +<p>“Birds have been hovering over this for many a +day.”</p> +<p>“He’s gone bathing and got drowned,” cried +the Editor in dismay.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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!</p> +<p>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.</p> +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p><i>Dec.</i> 1913.</p> +<h2><!-- page 119--><a name="page119"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 119</span>THE PARTNER</h2> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“And so you make these tales up on your own. How +do they ever come into your head?” he rumbled.</p> +<p>I explained that one generally got a hint for a tale.</p> +<p>“What sort of hint?”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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?”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“Indeed!” I exclaimed. “Well, but even +if untrue it <i>is</i> 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—”</p> +<p>He interrupted me by an aggressive—</p> +<p>“Would truth be any good to you?”</p> +<p>“I shouldn’t like to say,” I answered, +cautiously. “It’s said that truth is stranger +than fiction.”</p> +<p>“Who says that?” he mouthed.</p> +<p>“Oh! Nobody in particular.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“Did you ever see such a silly lot of rocks? Like +plums in a slice of cold pudding.”</p> +<p>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—</p> +<p>“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. . . +”</p> +<p>He was very deliberate; not jerky, only fragmentary; at times +profane.</p> +<p>“That’s a rather remote connection,” I +observed, approaching him.</p> +<p>“Connection? To Hades with your connections. +It was an accident.”</p> +<p>“Still,” I said, “an accident has its +backward and forward connections, which, if they could be set +forth—”</p> +<p>Without moving he seemed to lend an attentive ear.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“That’s the captain of the <i>Sagamore</i> +you’re talking about,” I said, confidently.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.”</p> +<p>“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?”</p> +<p>I nodded, but he was not looking at me.</p> +<p>“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, +<i>that</i> 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?”</p> +<p>“Aha!” I said. “The few hundred +pounds.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“A plausible fellow,” I suggested.</p> +<p>“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 <i>Sagamore</i>? 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!”</p> +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“So, already at that +time—note—already,” he growled.</p> +<p>“But hold on,” I interrupted. “The +<i>Sagamore</i> belonged to Mundy and Rogers, I’ve been +told.”</p> +<p>He snorted contemptuously. “Damn +boatmen—know no better. Flew the firm’s +<i>house-flag</i>. 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 <i>Sagamore</i> +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.”</p> +<p>The turning of his head slightly toward me at this point was +like a sign of strong feeling in any other man.</p> +<p>“You’ll mind that this was long before Cloete came +into it at all,” he muttered, warningly.</p> +<p>“Yes. I will mind,” I said. “We +generally say: some years passed. That’s soon +done.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“Cloete looks at him hard—Never thought of +<i>selling</i> 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.</p> +<p>“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 <i>Sagamore</i> wants. The blamed thing wants +tomahawking (seems the name <i>Sagamore</i> 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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“George nearly chokes. . . So you think I am of that +sort—you think <i>me</i> 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. . .</p> +<p>“I am not frightened. I am indignant,” says +George Dunbar.</p> +<p>“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. . .</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“Yes, some do,” I assented. “Even when +the man is the husband.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“Leave all that to me,” I said.</p> +<p>“H’m!” he grunted, doubtfully, then going +back to his scornful tone: “A month or so afterwards the +<i>Sagamore</i> 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.</p> +<p>“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 <i>Sagamore</i> 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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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 +<i>Sagamore</i>. . .</p> +<p>“Ah!” I cried. “Now I +understand.”</p> +<p>“No, you don’t,” he growled, his black, +contemptuous stare turning on me crushingly.</p> +<p>“I beg your pardon,” I murmured.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“That’s almost incredible,” I ventured to +interrupt. “A man with a master’s certificate, +do you mean?”</p> +<p>“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. . .</p> +<p>“It was the fellow being a sailor that put into +Cloete’s mind the first notion of doing away with the +<i>Sagamore</i>. 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.</p> +<p>“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 <i>Sagamore</i>. And Cloete waits to see +what George can do.</p> +<p>“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. . .</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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. . .</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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. +<i>That</i> 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. . .</p> +<p>“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 <i>Sagamore</i>. 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?</p> +<p>“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. . .</p> +<p>“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. . .</p> +<p>“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. . . +”</p> +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p>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—</p> +<p>“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 +<i>Sagamore</i> 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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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?</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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. . .</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“Cloete thinks that as long as the +<i>Sagamore’s</i> 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. . .</p> +<p>“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 . . . ?</p> +<p>“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. . .</p> +<p>“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. . .</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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. . .</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“By Jove!” I murmured.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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 <i>Sagamore</i> 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. . .</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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? . . .</p> +<p>“Just then the coxswain cries out: I’m going on +board to see. . . Cloete tears his arm away: I am going with you. +. .</p> +<p>“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. . .</p> +<p>“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 <i>H. Dunbar</i> 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? . . .</p> +<p>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. +. .</p> +<p>“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. . .</p> +<p>“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. . .</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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. . .</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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. . .</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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. . .</p> +<p>“He looks up at Cloete then, who smiles at him and comes +quite close to the table.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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. . .</p> +<p>“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. . +.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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—</p> +<p>“You low Yankee fiend—I’ll pay you off some +day.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p>My impressive ruffian drank what remained of his beer, while +his black, sunken eyes looked at me over the rim.</p> +<p>“I don’t quite understand this,” I +said. “In what way?”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“I am curious,” I said, “to learn what the +motive force of this tragic affair was—I mean the patent +medicine. Do you know?”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“Why!” I cried, “they missed an immense +fortune.”</p> +<p>“Yes,” he mumbled, “by the price of a +revolver-shot.”</p> +<p>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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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. . .</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>The old fellow struck the table with his ponderous fist.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p><i>Oct.</i> 1910.</p> +<h2><!-- page 175--><a name="page175"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 175</span>THE INN OF THE TWO WITCHES<br /> +<span class="smcap">a find</span></h2> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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 <span class="smcap">a.d.</span> 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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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 <span +class="smcap">a.d.</span> 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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>Mr. Byrne had made up his mind to see Tom Corbin started +fairly on his way. He looked round at the heavy surprised +faces.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“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 <i>Blanche</i>, frigate.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“Possibly, possibly. It could be done.”</p> +<p>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 <i>polizones</i>. 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.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>The coxswain, who stood by with the true sailor’s air of +unconcern in strange surroundings, struck in quietly—</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>The diminutive man made a step forward, and speaking through +the folds of the cloak which seemed to muffle a sarcastic +intention—</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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 <i>macho</i> to +him to secure for myself a roof to sleep under and a mouthful of +<i>olla</i> 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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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?”</p> +<p>The diminutive Spaniard muffled himself up again with great +dignity.</p> +<p>“<i>Quien sabe</i>,” he said coldly, with a shrug +of his draped shoulders. “He is a great +<i>politico</i> in everything he does. But one thing your +worship may be certain of—that his intentions are always +rascally. This husband of my <i>defunta</i> sister ought to +have been married a long time ago to the widow with the wooden +legs.” <a name="citation188"></a><a href="#footnote188" +class="citation">[188]</a></p> +<p>“I see. But remember that, whatever your motives, +your worship countenanced him in this lie.”</p> +<p>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—</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“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?”</p> +<p>“There are certainly no Frenchmen anywhere about,” +said the little man with a return to his indifferent manner.</p> +<p>“Or robbers—<i>ladrones</i>?”</p> +<p>“<i>Ladrones en grande</i>—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.”</p> +<p>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.”</p> +<p>The homunculus, undergoing one of his rapid changes, seized +the officer’s arm. The grip of his little hand was +astonishing.</p> +<p>“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 <i>meson</i>, 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 <i>macho</i> 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.”</p> +<p>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 <i>duro</i> which Byrne offered him +with a non-committal speech as if nothing extraordinary had +passed between them.</p> +<p>“I must make haste on board now,” said Byrne, +then.</p> +<p>“<i>Vaya usted con Dios</i>,” 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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“Incredible. That’s just it,” murmured +Byrne at last in a significant tone.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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 <i>posada</i> and some other traveller was trying for +admittance. He heard again the sound of cautious +knocking.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“You will give me somebody to show me the way?” +said Byrne.</p> +<p>“Si, señor. A proper youth. The man +the caballero saw going out.”</p> +<p>“But he was knocking at the door,” protested +Byrne. “He only bolted when he saw me. He was +coming in.”</p> +<p>“No! No!” the two horrid witches screamed +out together. “Going out. Going out!”</p> +<p>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—</p> +<p>“Who is that man?”</p> +<p>“Her <i>novio</i>.” 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 +<i>novio</i>! 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.”</p> +<p>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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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 <i>casa</i>, a long, long time ago.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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—</p> +<p>“Señor,” she said with decision, “You +shall sleep in the archbishop’s room.”</p> +<p>Neither of the witches objected. The dried-up one bent +double was propped on a stick. The puffy faced one had now +a crutch.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“You sleep here, señor,” she murmured in a +voice light like a child’s breath, offering him the +lamp.</p> +<p>“<i>Buenos noches</i>, <i>senorita</i>,” he said +politely, taking it from her.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.”</p> +<p>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?</p> +<p>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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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?</p> +<p>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 . . .</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>He was there.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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?</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>There were no signs anywhere. He was just dead.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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. . .</p> +<p>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.</p> +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p>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.”</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“It was she who winched up that infernal machine, and it +was she too who lowered it that night,” was the answer.</p> +<p>“But why? Why?” exclaimed Byrne. +“Why should she wish for my death?”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p><i>June</i>, 1913.</p> +<h2><!-- page 223--><a name="page223"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 223</span>BECAUSE OF THE DOLLARS</h2> +<h3>CHAPTER I</h3> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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 +<i>good</i> man.”</p> +<p>I turned round at once to look at the phenomenon. The +“really <i>good</i> 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.</p> +<p>I said: “He’s a seaman, isn’t he?”</p> +<p>“Yes. Commands that biggish dark-green steamer: +‘<i>Sissie</i>—Glasgow.’ He has never +commanded anything else but the +‘<i>Sissie</i>—Glasgow,’ only it wasn’t +always the same <i>Sissie</i>. 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.</p> +<p>“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 <i>Sissie</i> for Davidson to command.”</p> +<p>We walked into the shade of the Harbour Office and leaned our +elbows on the parapet of the quay.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“Tell me, Hollis,” I asked, “what do you +mean by good in this connection?”</p> +<p>“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 ‘<i>really</i> good man.’”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“Who on earth has paid him off for being so fine by +spoiling his smile?”</p> +<p>“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—</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“Davidson then was commanding the steamer +<i>Sissie</i>—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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“The old dollars being called in, Davidson’s +Chinaman thought that the <i>Sissie</i> 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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“‘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.’</p> +<p>“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.’</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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 <i>Somerset</i>, 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.</p> +<p>“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.’</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.’</p> +<p>“And again my friend wondered. ‘Tell +me,’ he cried, ‘what connection can there be between +Davidson and such a creature as Bamtz?’</p> +<p>“I don’t remember now what answer I made. A +sufficient one could have been given in two words: +‘Davidson’s goodness.’ <i>That</i> 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.</p> +<p>“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?</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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, <i>mein Taubchen</i>. 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?’</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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 <i>Sissie</i> could go +anywhere where there was water enough to float a soup-plate.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“All the population was on the river-bank staring +silently, as Malays will do, at the <i>Sissie</i> 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.</p> +<p>“While he stood wiping his forehead, he heard from +somewhere the exclamation: ‘My God! It’s +Davy!’</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“‘All that’s left of her, Davy. All +that’s left of her.’</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“‘<i>Bonjour</i>.’</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“‘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.’</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“‘I have a few dollars to make a start on. +The people are all right.’</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“‘The Orang Kaya has given me that empty house +there to live in as long as I will stay,’ added Bamtz.</p> +<p>“‘Do it, Davy,’ cried the woman +suddenly. ‘Think of that poor kid.’</p> +<p>“‘Seen him? ’Cute little +customer,’ said the reformed loafer in such a tone of +interest as to surprise Davidson into a kindly glance.</p> +<p>“‘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.</p> +<p>“‘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.’</p> +<p>“Davidson shuddered at any human creature being brought +so low as to have to thank God for the favours or affection of a +Bamtz.</p> +<p>“‘And do you think that you can make out to live +here?’ he asked gently.</p> +<p>“‘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.’</p> +<p>“Davidson mentioned to her that Harry the Pearler had +been dead now for some years. Perhaps she had heard?</p> +<p>“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—</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“‘It’s for the kid, Davy—it’s +for the kid. Isn’t he a bright little +chap?’</p> +<h3>CHAPTER II</h3> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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?</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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 +‘<i>mon malheur</i>.’ 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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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. +‘<i>Comment</i>? <i>Bamtz</i>! +<i>Bamtz</i>!’</p> +<p>“He had run across him several times in his life. +He exclaimed: ‘<i>Bamtz</i>! <i>Mais je ne connais +que ca</i>!’ And he applied such a contemptuously +indecent epithet to Bamtz that when, later, he alluded to him as +‘<i>une chiffe</i>’ (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.’</p> +<p>“He saw all that lot of dollars melted into bars and +disposed of somewhere on the China coast. Of the escape +after the <i>coup</i> he never doubted. There was +Niclaus’s prau to manage that in.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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 <i>Sissie</i>, and no +doubt looked at her with interest as the scene of their future +exploit, the great haul, <i>le grand coup</i>!</p> +<p>“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:</p> +<p>“‘Why is it that you are so anxious to go this +time?’</p> +<p>“‘I am not anxious,’ protested the good +Davidson. ‘I simply can’t help myself. +There’s no one else to go in my place.’</p> +<p>“‘Oh! There’s no one,’ she said, +turning away slowly.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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 <i>Sissie’s</i> 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.</p> +<p>“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 <i>Sissie</i> 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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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 <i>Sissie</i> 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 <i>Sissie</i> 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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“And Davidson, as I have quoted him to you before, +didn’t like it. He didn’t like it at all.</p> +<p>“The situation ended with a scream proceeding from the +dark, interior part of the room. ‘O Davy! +you’ve given me a turn.’</p> +<p>“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!’</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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!’</p> +<p>“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.’</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“‘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?’</p> +<p>“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.’</p> +<p>“Davidson let out an astonished ‘How do they know +there are any dollars?’</p> +<p>“She clapped her hands lightly, in distress. +‘So it’s true! You have them on board? +Then look out for yourself.’</p> +<p>“They stood gazing down at the boy in the cot, aware +that they might be observed from the other room.</p> +<p>“‘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?’</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“‘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!’</p> +<p>“‘Too late,’ said Davidson. +‘She’s on the mud already.’</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“‘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.’</p> +<p>“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 +‘<i>merci bien</i>’ he uplifted his huge carcase to +reach the light of the candle with his cigarette, and Davidson +left the house.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“‘I think I’ll have to stay some little time +in there, to help her look after the boy,’ Davidson +answered without stopping.</p> +<p>“This was a good thing to say to allay a possible +suspicion. And, as it was, Davidson felt he must not stay +very long.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“And Davidson nodded without looking at her.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“‘But now they think I am a better man than Bamtz +ever was,’ she said with a faint laugh.</p> +<p>“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.’</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“‘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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“And still Davidson could not accept it somehow; his +contempt for these men was too great.</p> +<p>“‘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!’</p> +<p>“‘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.’</p> +<p>“She made as if to snatch the child up to her breast, +but restrained herself. Davidson prepared to go. She +whispered hurriedly:</p> +<p>“‘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?’</p> +<p>“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?’</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“‘We shall be sitting late over the cards,’ +Fector said in his harsh, low voice.</p> +<p>“‘Don’t make more noise than you can +help.’</p> +<p>“‘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.’</p> +<p>“‘He isn’t a shooting man,’ struck in +Niclaus.</p> +<p>“‘I never shoot before making sure there’s a +reason for it—at any rate,’ said Davidson.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“‘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.</p> +<p>“He had his plan, and he went to work methodically.</p> +<p>“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 <i>Sissie</i> carried right aft, swung out on their +davits. Then he waited.</p> +<p>“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 <i>Sissie</i> 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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“‘Surely I am not afraid,’ he argued with +himself.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“Illusion!</p> +<p>“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!</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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!</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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 +‘<i>Trahison</i>—<i>trahison</i>!’ 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.</p> +<p>“He had been hearing in the din the Frenchman’s +infuriated yells ‘<i>Tuez-le</i>! <i>tuez-le</i>!’ +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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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. . .</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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 +<i>Sissie</i> 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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“‘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.’</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“This was good common sense. But he was +impressed.</p> +<p>“‘Sounds a terrible affair, Captain +Davidson.’</p> +<p>“‘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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“‘Laughing Anne,’ says Mrs. Davidson with a +start. ‘What’s that?’</p> +<p>“Ritchie plunged into circumlocution at once, but she +very soon stopped him. ‘Is that creature dead?’ +she asks.</p> +<p>“‘I believe so,’ stammered Ritchie. +‘Your husband says so.’</p> +<p>“‘But you don’t know for certain?’</p> +<p>“‘No! How could I, Mrs. Davidson!’</p> +<p>“‘That’s all wanted to know,’ says +she, and goes out of the room.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“‘Don’t you believe me?’ he asked, +appalled.</p> +<p>“She didn’t say yes or no. All she said was, +‘Send that brat away at once.’</p> +<p>“‘I can’t throw him out into the +street,’ cried Davidson. ‘You don’t mean +it.’</p> +<p>“‘I don’t care. There are charitable +institutions for such children, I suppose.’</p> +<p>“‘That I will never do,’ said Davidson.</p> +<p>“‘Very well. That’s enough for +me.’</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>Hollis ceased. But before we rose from the table I asked +him if he knew what had become of Laughing Anne’s boy.</p> +<p>He counted carefully the change handed him by the Chinaman +waiter, and raised his head.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p><i>Jan.</i> 1914</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p280b.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Decorative graphic" +title= +"Decorative graphic" +src="images/p280s.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<div class="gapline"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">the london and +norwich press limited</span>, <span class="smcap">london and +norwich</span>, <span class="smcap">england</span></p> +<h2>Footnotes</h2> +<p><a name="footnote188"></a><a href="#citation188" +class="footnote">[188]</a> The gallows, supposed to be +widowed of the last executed criminal and waiting for +another.</p> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WITHIN THE TIDES***</p> +<pre> + + +***** This file should be named 1053-h.htm or 1053-h.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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