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<a href="#startoftext">Victory, by Joseph Conrad</a>
</h2>
<pre>
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Title: Victory
Author: Joseph Conrad
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<p><a name="startoftext"></a></p>
<p>Transcribed by Tracy Camp.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h1>VICTORY: AN ISLAND TALE</h1>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div>
<h2>NOTE TO THE FIRST EDITION</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>The last word of this novel was written on 29 May 1914. And
that last word was the single word of the title.</p>
<p>Those were the times of peace. Now that the moment of publication
approaches I have been considering the discretion of altering the title-page.
The word “Victory” the shining and tragic goal of noble
effort, appeared too great, too august, to stand at the head of a mere
novel. There was also the possibility of falling under the suspicion
of commercial astuteness deceiving the public into the belief that the
book had something to do with war.</p>
<p>Of that, however, I was not afraid very much. What influenced
my decision most were the obscure promptings of that pagan residuum
of awe and wonder which lurks still at the bottom of our old humanity.
“Victory” was the last word I had written in peace-time.
It was the last literary thought which had occurred to me before the
doors of the Temple of Janus flying open with a crash shook the minds,
the hearts, the consciences of men all over the world. Such coincidence
could not be treated lightly. And I made up my mind to let the
word stand, in the same hopeful spirit in which some simple citizen
of Old Rome would have “accepted the Omen.”</p>
<p>The second point on which I wish to offer a remark is the existence
(in the novel) of a person named Schomberg.</p>
<p>That I believe him to be true goes without saying. I am not
likely to offer pinchbeck wares to my public consciously. Schomberg
is an old member of my company. A very subordinate personage in
Lord Jim as far back as the year 1899, he became notably active in a
certain short story of mine published in 1902. Here he appears
in a still larger part, true to life (I hope), but also true to himself.
Only, in this instance, his deeper passions come into play, and thus
his grotesque psychology is completed at last.</p>
<p>I don’t pretend to say that this is the entire Teutonic psychology;
but it is indubitably the psychology of a Teuton. My object in
mentioning him here is to bring out the fact that, far from being the
incarnation of recent animosities, he is the creature of my old deep-seated,
and, as it were, impartial conviction.</p>
<p>J. C.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>AUTHOR’S NOTE</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>On approaching the task of writing this Note for Victory, the first
thing I am conscious of is the actual nearness of the book, its nearness
to me personally, to the vanished mood in which it was written, and
to the mixed feelings aroused by the critical notices the book obtained
when first published almost exactly a year after the beginning of the
war. The writing of it was finished in 1914 long before the murder
of an Austrian Archduke sounded the first note of warning for a world
already full of doubts and fears.</p>
<p>The contemporaneous very short Author’s Note which is preserved
in this edition bears sufficient witness to the feelings with which
I consented to the publication of the book. The fact of the book
having been published in the United States early in the year made it
difficult to delay its appearance in England any longer. It came
out in the thirteenth month of the war, and my conscience was troubled
by the awful incongruity of throwing this bit of imagined drama into
the welter of reality, tragic enough in all conscience, but even more
cruel than tragic and more inspiring than cruel. It seemed awfully
presumptuous to think there would be eyes to spare for those pages in
a community which in the crash of the big guns and in the din of brave
words expressing the truth of an indomitable faith could not but feel
the edge of a sharp knife at its throat.</p>
<p>The unchanging Man of history is wonderfully adaptable both by his
power of endurance and in his capacity for detachment. The fact
seems to be that the play of his destiny is too great for his fears
and too mysterious for his understanding. Were the trump of the
Last Judgement to sound suddenly on a working day the musician at his
piano would go on with his performance of Beethoven’s sonata and
the cobbler at his stall stick to his last in undisturbed confidence
in the virtues of the leather. And with perfect propriety.
For what are we to let ourselves be disturbed by an angel’s vengeful
music too mighty our ears and too awful for our terrors? Thus
it happens to us to be struck suddenly by the lightning of wrath.
The reader will go on reading if the book pleases him and the critic
will go on criticizing with that faculty of detachment born perhaps
from a sense of infinite littleness and which is yet the only faculty
that seems to assimilate man to the immortal gods.</p>
<p>It is only when the catastrophe matches the natural obscurity of
our fate that even the best representative of the race is liable to
lose his detachment. It is very obvious that on the arrival of
the gentlemanly Mr. Jones, the single-minded Ricardo, and the faithful
Pedro, Heyst, the man of universal detachment, loses his mental self-possession,
that fine attitude before the universally irremediable which wears the
name of stoicism. It is all a matter of proportion. There
should have been a remedy for that sort of thing. And yet there
is no remedy. Behind this minute instance of life’s hazards
Heyst sees the power of blind destiny. Besides, Heyst in his fine
detachment had lost the habit asserting himself. I don’t
mean the courage of self-assertion, either moral or physical, but the
mere way of it, the trick of the thing, the readiness of mind and the
turn of the hand that come without reflection and lead the man to excellence
in life, in art, in crime, in virtue, and, for the matter of that, even
in love. Thinking is the great enemy of perfection. The
habit of profound reflection, I am compelled to say, is the most pernicious
of all the habits formed by the civilized man.</p>
<p>But I wouldn’t be suspected even remotely of making fun of
Axel Heyst. I have always liked him. The flesh-and-blood
individual who stands behind the infinitely more familiar figure of
the book I remember as a mysterious Swede right enough. Whether
he was a baron, too, I am not so certain. He himself never laid
claim to that distinction. His detachment was too great to make
any claims, big or small, on one’s credulity. I will not
say where I met him because I fear to give my readers a wrong impression,
since a marked incongruity between a man and his surroundings is often
a very misleading circumstance. We became very friendly for a
time, and I would not like to expose him to unpleasant suspicions though,
personally, I am sure he would have been indifferent to suspicions as
he was indifferent to all the other disadvantages of life. He
was not the whole Heyst of course; he is only the physical and moral
foundation of my Heyst laid on the ground of a short acquaintance.
That it was short was certainly not my fault for he had charmed me by
the mere amenity of his detachment which, in this case, I cannot help
thinking he had carried to excess. He went away from his rooms
without leaving a trace. I wondered where he had gone to - but
now I know. He vanished from my ken only to drift into this adventure
that, unavoidable, waited for him in a world which he persisted in looking
upon as a malevolent shadow spinning in the sunlight. Often in
the course of years an expressed sentiment, the particular sense of
a phrase heard casually, would recall him to my mind so that I have
fastened on to him many words heard on other men’s lips and belonging
to other men’s less perfect, less pathetic moods.</p>
<p>The same observation will apply mutatis mutandis to Mr. Jones, who
is built on a much slenderer connection. Mr. Jones (or whatever
his name was) did not drift away from me. He turned his back on
me and walked out of the room. It was in a little hotel in the
island of St. Thomas in the West Indies (in the year ’75) where
we found him one hot afternoon extended on three chairs, all alone in
the loud buzzing of flies to which his immobility and his cadaverous
aspect gave a most gruesome significance. Our invasion must have
displeased him because he got off the chairs brusquely and walked out,
leaving with me an indelibly weird impression of his thin shanks.
One of the men with me said that the fellow was the most desperate gambler
he had ever come across. I said: “A professional sharper?”
and got for an answer: “He’s a terror; but I must say that
up to a certain point he will play fair. . . ” I wonder
what the point was. I never saw him again because I believe he
went straight on board a mail-boat which left within the hour for other
ports of call in the direction of Aspinall. Mr. Jones’s
characteristic insolence belongs to another man of a quite different
type. I will say nothing as to the origins of his mentality because
I don’t intend to make any damaging admissions.</p>
<p>It so happened that the very same year Ricardo - the physical Ricardo
- was a fellow passenger of mine on board an extremely small and extremely
dirty little schooner, during a four days’ passage between two
places in the Gulf of Mexico whose names don’t matter. For
the most part he lay on deck aft as it were at my feet, and raising
himself from time to time on his elbow would talk about himself and
go on talking, not exactly to me or even at me (he would not even look
up but kept his eyes fixed on the deck) but more as if communing in
a low voice with his familiar devil. Now and then he would give
me a glance and make the hairs of his stiff little moustache stir quaintly.
His eyes were green and every cat I see to this day reminds me of the
exact contour of his face. What he was travelling for or what
was his business in life he never confided to me. Truth to say,
the only passenger on board that schooner who could have talked openly
about his activities and purposes was a very snuffy and conversationally
delightful friar, the superior of a convent, attended by a very young
lay brother, of a particularly ferocious countenance. We had with
us also, lying prostrate in the dark and unspeakable cuddy of that schooner,
an old Spanish gentleman, owner of much luggage and, as Ricardo assured
me, very ill indeed. Ricardo seemed to be either a servant or
the confidant of that aged and distinguished-looking invalid, who early
on the passage held a long murmured conversation with the friar, and
after that did nothing but groan feebly, smoke cigarettes, and now and
then call for Martin in a voice full of pain. Then he who had
become Ricardo in the book would go below into that beastly and noisome
hole, remain there mysteriously, and coming up on deck again with a
face on which nothing could be read, would as likely as not resume for
my edification the exposition of his moral attitude towards life illustrated
by striking particular instances of the most atrocious complexion.
Did he mean to frighten me? Or seduce me? Or astonish me?
Or arouse my admiration? All he did was to arouse my amused incredulity.
As scoundrels go he was far from being a bore. For the rest my
innocence was so great then that I could not take his philosophy seriously.
All the time he kept one ear turned to the cuddy in the manner of a
devoted servant, but I had the idea that in some way or other he had
imposed the connection on the invalid for some end of his own.
The reader, therefore, won’t be surprised to hear that one morning
I was told without any particular emotion by the padrone of the schooner
that the “rich man” down there was dead: He had died in
the night. I don’t remember ever being so moved by the desolate
end of a complete stranger. I looked down the skylight, and there
was the devoted Martin busy cording cowhide trunks belonging to the
deceased whose white beard and hooked nose were the only parts I could
make out in the dark depths of a horrible stuffy bunk.</p>
<p>As it fell calm in the course of the afternoon and continued calm
during all that night and the terrible, flaming day, the late “rich
man” had to be thrown overboard at sunset, though as a matter
of fact we were in sight of the low pestilential mangrove-lined coast
of our destination. The excellent Father Superior mentioned to
me with an air of immense commiseration: “The poor man has left
a young daughter.” Who was to look after her I don’t
know, but I saw the devoted Martin taking the trunks ashore with great
care just before I landed myself. I would perhaps have tracked
the ways of that man of immense sincerity for a little while, but I
had some of my own very pressing business to attend to, which in the
end got mixed up with an earthquake and so I had no time to give to
Ricardo. The reader need not be told that I have not forgotten
him, though.</p>
<p>My contact with the faithful Pedro was much shorter and my observation
of him was less complete but incomparably more anxious. It ended
in a sudden inspiration to get out of his way. It was in a hovel
of sticks and mats by the side of a path. As I went in there only
to ask for a bottle of lemonade I have not to this day the slightest
idea what in my appearance or actions could have roused his terrible
ire. It became manifest to me less than two minutes after I had
set eyes on him for the first time, and though immensely surprised of
course I didn’t stop to think it out I took the nearest short
cut - through the wall. This bestial apparition and a certain
enormous buck nigger encountered in Haiti only a couple of months afterwards,
have fixed my conception of blind, furious, unreasoning rage, as manifested
in the human animal, to the end of my days. Of the nigger I used
to dream for years afterwards. Of Pedro never. The impression
was less vivid. I got away from him too quickly.</p>
<p>It seems to me but natural that those three buried in a corner of
my memory should suddenly get out into the light of the world - so natural
that I offer no excuse for their existence, They were there, they had
to come out; and this is a sufficient excuse for a writer of tales who
had taken to his trade without preparation, or premeditation, and without
any moral intention but that which pervades the whole scheme of this
world of senses.</p>
<p>Since this Note is mostly concerned with personal contacts and the
origins of the persons in the tale, I am bound also to speak of Lena,
because if I were to leave her out it would look like a slight; and
nothing would be further from my thoughts than putting a slight on Lena.
If of all the personages involved in the “mystery of Samburan”
I have lived longest with Heyst (or with him I call Heyst) it was at
her, whom I call Lena, that I have looked the longest and with a most
sustained attention. This attention originated in idleness for
which I have a natural talent. One evening I wandered into a cafe,
in a town not of the tropics but of the South of France. It was
filled with tobacco smoke, the hum of voices, the rattling of dominoes,
and the sounds of strident music. The orchestra was rather smaller
than the one that performed at Schomberg’s hotel, had the air
more of a family party than of an enlisted band, and, I must confess,
seemed rather more respectable than the Zangiacomo musical enterprise.
It was less pretentious also, more homely and familiar, so to speak,
insomuch that in the intervals when all the performers left the platform
one of them went amongst the marble tables collecting offerings of sous
and francs in a battered tin receptacle recalling the shape of a sauceboat.
It was a girl. Her detachment from her task seems to me now to
have equalled or even surpassed Heyst’s aloofness from all the
mental degradations to which a man’s intelligence is exposed in
its way through life. Silent and wide-eyed she went from table
to table with the air of a sleep-walker and with no other sound but
the slight rattle of the coins to attract attention. It was long
after the sea-chapter of my life had been closed but it is difficult
to discard completely the characteristics of half a lifetime, and it
was in something of the Jack-ashore spirit that I dropped a five-franc
piece into the sauceboat; whereupon the sleep-walker turned her head
to gaze at me and said “Merci, Monsieur” in a tone in which
there was no gratitude but only surprise. I must have been idle
indeed to take the trouble to remark on such slight evidence that the
voice was very charming and when the performers resumed their seats
I shifted my position slightly in order not to have that particular
performer hidden from me by the little man with the beard who conducted,
and who might for all I know have been her father, but whose real mission
in life was to be a model for the Zangiacomo of Victory. Having
got a clear line of sight I naturally (being idle) continued to look
at the girl through all the second part of the programme. The
shape of her dark head inclined over the violin was fascinating, and,
while resting between the pieces of that interminable programme she
was, in her white dress and with her brown hands reposing in her lap,
the very image of dreamy innocence. The mature, bad-tempered woman
at the piano might have been her mother, though there was not the slightest
resemblance between them. All I am certain of in their personal
relation to each other is that cruel pinch on the upper part of the
arm. That I am sure I have seen! There could be no mistake.
I was in too idle a mood to imagine such a gratuitous barbarity.
It may have been playfulness, yet the girl jumped up as if she had been
stung by a wasp. It may have been playfulness. Yet I saw
plainly poor “dreamy innocence” rub gently the affected
place as she filed off with the other performers down the middle aisle
between the marble tables in the uproar of voices, the rattling of dominoes
through a blue atmosphere of tobacco smoke. I believe that those
people left the town next day.</p>
<p>Or perhaps they had only migrated to the other big cafe, on the other
side of the Place de la Comedie. It is very possible. I
did not go across to find out. It was my perfect idleness that
had invested the girl with a peculiar charm, and I did not want to destroy
it by any superfluous exertion. The receptivity of my indolence
made the impression so permanent that when the moment came for her meeting
with Heyst I felt that she would be heroically equal to every demand
of the risky and uncertain future. I was so convinced of it that
I let her go with Heyst, I won’t say without a pang but certainly
without misgivings. And in view of her triumphant end what more
could I have done for her rehabilitation and her happiness?</p>
<p>1920.<br />J. C.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div>
<h2>PART ONE</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div>
<h3>CHAPTER ONE</h3>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>There is, as every schoolboy knows in this scientific age, a very
close chemical relation between coal and diamonds. It is the reason,
I believe, why some people allude to coal as “black diamonds.”
Both these commodities represent wealth; but coal is a much less portable
form of property. There is, from that point of view, a deplorable
lack of concentration in coal. Now, if a coal-mine could be put
into one’s waistcoat pocket - but it can’t! At the
same time, there is a fascination in coal, the supreme commodity of
the age in which we are camped like bewildered travellers in a garish,
unrestful hotel. And I suppose those two considerations, the practical
and the mystical, prevented Heyst - Axel Heyst - from going away.</p>
<p>The Tropical Belt Coal Company went into liquidation. The world
of finance is a mysterious world in which, incredible as the fact may
appear, evaporation precedes liquidation. First the capital evaporates,
and then the company goes into liquidation. These are very unnatural
physics, but they account for the persistent inertia of Heyst, at which
we “out there” used to laugh among ourselves - but not inimically.
An inert body can do no harm to anyone, provokes no hostility, is scarcely
worth derision. It may, indeed, be in the way sometimes; but this
could not be said of Axel Heyst. He was out of everybody’s
way, as if he were perched on the highest peak of the Himalayas, and
in a sense as conspicuous. Everyone in that part of the world
knew of him, dwelling on his little island. An island is but the
top of a mountain. Axel Heyst, perched on it immovably, was surrounded,
instead of the imponderable stormy and transparent ocean of air merging
into infinity, by a tepid, shallow sea; a passionless offshoot of the
great waters which embrace the continents of this globe. His most
frequent visitors were shadows, the shadows of clouds, relieving the
monotony of the inanimate, brooding sunshine of the tropics. His
nearest neighbour - I am speaking now of things showing some sort of
animation - was an indolent volcano which smoked faintly all day with
its head just above the northern horizon, and at night levelled at him,
from amongst the clear stars, a dull red glow, expanding and collapsing
spasmodically like the end of a gigantic cigar puffed at intermittently
in the dark. Axel Heyst was also a smoker; and when he lounged
out on his veranda with his cheroot, the last thing before going to
bed, he made in the night the same sort of glow and of the same size
as that other one so many miles away.</p>
<p>In a sense, the volcano was company to him in the shades of the night
- which were often too thick, one would think, to let a breath of air
through. There was seldom enough wind to blow a feather along.
On most evenings of the year Heyst could have sat outside with a naked
candle to read one of the books left him by his late father. It
was not a mean store. But he never did that. Afraid of mosquitoes,
very likely. Neither was he ever tempted by the silence to address
any casual remarks to the companion glow of the volcano. He was
not mad. Queer chap - yes, that may have been said, and in fact
was said; but there is a tremendous difference between the two, you
will allow.</p>
<p>On the nights of full moon the silence around Samburan - the “Round
Island” of the charts - was dazzling; and in the flood of cold
light Heyst could see his immediate surroundings, which had the aspect
of an abandoned settlement invaded by the jungle: vague roofs above
low vegetation, broken shadows of bamboo fences in the sheen of long
grass, something like an overgrown bit of road slanting among ragged
thickets towards the shore only a couple of hundred yards away, with
a black jetty and a mound of some sort, quite inky on its unlighted
side. But the most conspicuous object was a gigantic blackboard
raised on two posts and presenting to Heyst, when the moon got over
that side, the white letters “T. B. C. Co.” in a row at
least two feet high. These were the initials of the Tropical Belt
Coal Company, his employers - his late employers, to be precise.</p>
<p>According to the unnatural mysteries of the financial world, the
T. B. C. Company’s capital having evaporated in the course of
two years, the company went into liquidation - forced, I believe, not
voluntary. There was nothing forcible in the process, however.
It was slow; and while the liquidation - in London and Amsterdam - pursued
its languid course, Axel Heyst, styled in the prospectus “manager
in the tropics,” remained at his post on Samburan, the No. 1 coaling-station
of the company.</p>
<p>And it was not merely a coaling-station. There was a coal-mine
there, with an outcrop in the hillside less than five hundred yards
from the rickety wharf and the imposing blackboard. The company’s
object had been to get hold of all the outcrops on tropical islands
and exploit them locally. And, Lord knows, there were any amount
of outcrops. It was Heyst who had located most of them in this
part of the tropical belt during his rather aimless wanderings, and
being a ready letter-writer had written pages and pages about them to
his friends in Europe. At least, so it was said.</p>
<p>We doubted whether he had any visions of wealth - for himself, at
any rate. What he seemed mostly concerned for was the “stride
forward,” as he expressed it, in the general organization of the
universe, apparently. He was heard by more than a hundred persons
in the islands talking of a “great stride forward for these regions.”
The convinced wave of the hand which accompanied the phrase suggested
tropical distances being impelled onward. In connection with the
finished courtesy of his manner, it was persuasive, or at any rate silencing
- for a time, at least. Nobody cared to argue with him when he
talked in this strain. His earnestness could do no harm to anybody.
There was no danger of anyone taking seriously his dream of tropical
coal, so what was the use of hurting his feelings?</p>
<p>Thus reasoned men in reputable business offices where he had his
entrée as a person who came out East with letters of introduction
- and modest letters of credit, too - some years before these coal-outcrops
began to crop up in his playfully courteous talk. From the first
there was some difficulty in making him out. He was not a traveller.
A traveller arrives and departs, goes on somewhere. Heyst did
not depart. I met a man once - the manager of the branch of the
Oriental Banking Corporation in Malacca - to whom Heyst exclaimed, in
no connection with anything in particular (it was in the billiard-room
of the club):</p>
<p>“I am enchanted with these islands!”</p>
<p>He shot it out suddenly, <i>à propos des bottes</i>, as the
French say, and while chalking his cue. And perhaps it was some
sort of enchantment. There are more spells than your commonplace
magicians ever dreamed of.</p>
<p>Roughly speaking, a circle with a radius of eight hundred miles drawn
round a point in North Borneo was in Heyst’s case a magic circle.
It just touched Manila, and he had been seen there. It just touched
Saigon, and he was likewise seen there once. Perhaps these were
his attempts to break out. If so, they were failures. The
enchantment must have been an unbreakable one. The manager - the
man who heard the exclamation - had been so impressed by the tone, fervour,
rapture, what you will, or perhaps by the incongruity of it that he
had related the experience to more than one person.</p>
<p>“Queer chap, that Swede,” was his only comment; but this
is the origin of the name “Enchanted Heyst” which some fellows
fastened on our man.</p>
<p>He also had other names. In his early years, long before he
got so becomingly bald on the top, he went to present a letter of introduction
to Mr. Tesman of Tesman Brothers, a Sourabaya firm - tip-top house.
Well, Mr. Tesman was a kindly, benevolent old gentleman. He did
not know what to make of that caller. After telling him that they
wished to render his stay among the islands as pleasant as possible,
and that they were ready to assist him in his plans, and so on, and
after receiving Heyst’s thanks - you know the usual kind of conversation
- he proceeded to query in a slow, paternal tone:</p>
<p>“And you are interested in - ?”</p>
<p>“Facts,” broke in Heyst in his courtly voice. “There’s
nothing worth knowing but facts. Hard facts! Facts alone,
Mr. Tesman.”</p>
<p>I don’t know if old Tesman agreed with him or not, but he must
have spoken about it, because, for a time, our man got the name of “Hard
Facts.” He had the singular good fortune that his sayings
stuck to him and became part of his name. Thereafter he mooned
about the Java Sea in some of the Tesmans’ trading schooners,
and then vanished, on board an Arab ship, in the direction of New Guinea.
He remained so long in that outlying part of his enchanted circle that
he was nearly forgotten before he swam into view again in a native proa
full of Goram vagabonds, burnt black by the sun, very lean, his hair
much thinned, and a portfolio of sketches under his arm. He showed
these willingly, but was very reserved as to anything else. He
had had an “amusing time,” he said. A man who will
go to New Guinea for fun - well!</p>
<p>Later, years afterwards, when the last vestiges of youth had gone
off his face and all the hair off the top of his head, and his red-gold
pair of horizontal moustaches had grown to really noble proportions,
a certain disreputable white man fastened upon him an epithet.
Putting down with a shaking hand a long glass emptied of its contents
- paid for by Heyst - he said, with that deliberate sagacity which no
mere water-drinker ever attained:</p>
<p>“Heyst’s a puffect g’n’lman. Puffect!
But he’s a ut-uto-utopist.”</p>
<p>Heyst had just gone out of the place of public refreshment where
this pronouncement was voiced. Utopist, eh? Upon my word,
the only thing I heard him say which might have had a bearing on the
point was his invitation to old McNab himself. Turning with that
finished courtesy of attitude, movement voice, which was his obvious
characteristic, he had said with delicate playfulness:</p>
<p>“Come along and quench your thirst with us, Mr. McNab!”</p>
<p>Perhaps that was it. A man who could propose, even playfully,
to quench old McNab’s thirst must have been a utopist, a pursuer
of chimeras; for of downright irony Heyst was not prodigal. And,
may be, this was the reason why he was generally liked. At that
epoch in his life, in the fulness of his physical development, of a
broad, martial presence, with his bald head and long moustaches, he
resembled the portraits of Charles XII, of adventurous memory.
However, there was no reason to think that Heyst was in any way a fighting
man.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h3>CHAPTER TWO</h3>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>It was about this time that Heyst became associated with Morrison
on terms about which people were in doubt. Some said he was a
partner, others said he was a sort of paying guest, but the real truth
of the matter was more complex. One day Heyst turned up in Timor.
Why in Timor, of all places in the world, no one knows. Well,
he was mooning about Delli, that highly pestilential place, possibly
in search of some undiscovered facts, when he came in the street upon
Morrison, who, in his way, was also an “enchanted” man.
When you spoke to Morrison of going home - he was from Dorsetshire -
he shuddered. He said it was dark and wet there; that it was like
living with your head and shoulders in a moist gunny-bag. That
was only his exaggerated style of talking. Morrison was “one
of us.” He was owner and master of the <i>Capricorn</i>,
trading brig, and was understood to be doing well with her, except for
the drawback of too much altruism. He was the dearly beloved friend
of a quantity of God-forsaken villages up dark creeks and obscure bays,
where he traded for produce. He would often sail , through awfully
dangerous channels up to some miserable settlement, only to find a very
hungry population clamorous for rice, and without so much “produce”
between them as would have filled Morrison’s suitcase. Amid
general rejoicings, he would land the rice all the same, explain to
the people that it was an advance, that they were in debt to him now;
would preach to them energy and industry, and make an elaborate note
in a pocket-diary which he always carried; and this would be the end
of that transaction. I don’t know if Morrison thought so,
but the villagers had no doubt whatever about it. Whenever a coast
village sighted the brig it would begin to beat all its gongs and hoist
all its streamers, and all its girls would put flowers in their hair
and the crowd would line the river bank, and Morrison would beam and
glitter at all this excitement through his single eyeglass with an air
of intense gratification. He was tall and lantern-jawed, and clean-shaven,
and looked like a barrister who had thrown his wig to the dogs.</p>
<p>We used to remonstrate with him:</p>
<p>“You will never see any of your advances if you go on like
this, Morrison.”</p>
<p>He would put on a knowing air.</p>
<p>“I shall squeeze them yet some day - never you fear.
And that reminds me” - pulling out his inseparable pocketbook
- “there’s that So-and-So village. They are pretty
well off again; I may just as well squeeze them to begin with.”</p>
<p>He would make a ferocious entry in the pocketbook.</p>
<p><i>Memo</i>: Squeeze the So-and-So village at the first time of calling.</p>
<p>Then he would stick the pencil back and snap the elastic on with
inflexible finality; but he never began the squeezing. Some men
grumbled at him. He was spoiling the trade. Well, perhaps
to a certain extent; not much. Most of the places he traded with
were unknown not only to geography but also to the traders’ special
lore which is transmitted by word of mouth, without ostentation, and
forms the stock of mysterious local knowledge. It was hinted also
that Morrison had a wife in each and every one of them, but the majority
of us repulsed these innuendoes with indignation. He was a true
humanitarian and rather ascetic than otherwise.</p>
<p>When Heyst met him in Delli, Morrison was walking along the street,
his eyeglass tossed over his shoulder, his head down, with the hopeless
aspect of those hardened tramps one sees on our roads trudging from
workhouse to workhouse. Being hailed on the street he looked up
with a wild worried expression. He was really in trouble.
He had come the week before into Delli and the Portuguese authorities,
on some pretence of irregularity in his papers, had inflicted a fine
upon him and had arrested his brig.</p>
<p>Morrison never had any spare cash in hand. With his system
of trading it would have been strange if he had; and all these debts
entered in the pocketbook weren’t good enough to raise a <i>millrei</i>
on - let alone a shilling. The Portuguese officials begged him
not to distress himself. They gave him a week’s grace, and
then proposed to sell the brig at auction. This meant ruin for
Morrison; and when Heyst hailed him across the street in his usual courtly
tone, the week was nearly out.</p>
<p>Heyst crossed over, and said with a slight bow, and in the manner
of a prince addressing another prince on a private occasion:</p>
<p>“What an unexpected pleasure. Would you have any objection
to drink something with me in that infamous wine-shop over there?
The sun is really too strong to talk in the street.”</p>
<p>The haggard Morrison followed obediently into a sombre, cool hovel
which he would have distained to enter at any other time. He was
distracted. He did not know what he was doing. You could
have led him over the edge of a precipice just as easily as into that
wine-shop. He sat down like an automaton. He was speechless,
but he saw a glass full of rough red wine before him, and emptied it.
Heyst meantime, politely watchful, had taken a seat opposite.</p>
<p>“You are in for a bout of fever, I fear,” he said sympathetically.</p>
<p>Poor Morrison’s tongue was loosened at that.</p>
<p>“Fever!” he cried. “Give me fever.
Give me plague. They are diseases. One gets over them.
But I am being murdered. I am being murdered by the Portuguese.
The gang here downed me at last among them. I am to have my throat
cut the day after tomorrow.”</p>
<p>In the face of this passion Heyst made, with his eyebrows, a slight
motion of surprise which would not have been misplaced in a drawing-room.
Morrison’s despairing reserve had broken down. He had been
wandering with a dry throat all over that miserable town of mud hovels,
silent, with no soul to turn to in his distress, and positively maddened
by his thoughts; and suddenly he had stumbled on a white man, figuratively
and actually white - for Morrison refused to accept the racial whiteness
of the Portuguese officials. He let himself go for the mere relief
of violent speech, his elbows planted on the table, his eyes blood-shot,
his voice nearly gone, the brim of his round pith hat shading an unshaven,
livid face. His white clothes, which he had not taken off for
three days, were dingy. He had already gone to the bad, past redemption.
The sight was shocking to Heyst; but he let nothing of it appear in
his hearing, concealing his impression under that consummate good-society
manner of his. Polite attention, what’s due from one gentleman
listening to another, was what he showed; and, as usual, it was catching;
so that Morrison pulled himself together and finished his narrative
in a conversational tone, with a man-of-the-world air.</p>
<p>“It’s a villainous plot. Unluckily, one is helpless.
That scoundrel Cousinho - Andreas, you know - has been coveting the
brig for years. Naturally, I would never sell. She is not
only my livelihood; she’s my life. So he has hatched this
pretty little plot with the chief of the customs. The sale, of
course, will be a farce. There’s no one here to bid.
He will get the brig for a song - no, not even that - a line of a song.
You have been some years now in the islands, Heyst. You know us
all; you have seen how we live. Now you shall have the opportunity
to see how some of us end; for it is the end, for me. I can’t
deceive myself any longer. You see it - don’t your?”</p>
<p>Morrison had pulled himself together, but one felt the snapping strain
on his recovered self-possession. Heyst was beginning to say that
he “could very well see all the bearings of this unfortunate -
” when Morrison interrupted him jerkily.</p>
<p>“Upon my word, I don’t know why I have been telling you
all this. I suppose seeing a thoroughly white man made it impossible
to keep my trouble to myself. Words can’t do it justice;
but since I’ve told you so much I may as well tell you more.
Listen. This morning on board, in my cabin I went down on my knees
and prayed for help. I went down on my knees!”</p>
<p>“You are a believer, Morrison?” asked Heyst with a distinct
note of respect.</p>
<p>“Surely I am not an infidel.”</p>
<p>Morrison was swiftly reproachful in his answer, and there came a
pause, Morrison perhaps interrogating his conscience, and Heyst preserving
a mien of unperturbed, polite interest.</p>
<p>“I prayed like a child, of course. I believe in children
praying - well, women, too, but I rather think God expects men to be
more self-reliant. I don’t hold with a man everlastingly
bothering the Almighty with his silly troubles. It seems such
cheek. Anyhow, this morning I - I have never done any harm to
any God’s creature knowingly - I prayed. A sudden impulse
- I went flop on my knees; so you may judge - ”</p>
<p>They were gazing earnestly into each other’s eyes. Poor
Morrison added, as a discouraging afterthought:</p>
<p>“Only this is such a God-forsaken spot.”</p>
<p>Heyst inquired with a delicate intonation whether he might know the
amount for which the brig was seized.</p>
<p>Morrison suppressed an oath, and named curtly a sum which was in
itself so insignificant that any other person than Heyst would have
exclaimed at it. And even Heyst could hardly keep incredulity
out of his politely modulated voice as he asked if it was a fact that
Morrison had not that amount in hand.</p>
<p>Morrison hadn’t. He had only a little English gold, a
few sovereigns, on board. He had left all his spare cash with
the Tesmans, in Samarang, to meet certain bills which would fall due
while he was away on his cruise. Anyhow, that money would not
have been any more good to him than if it had been in the innermost
depths of the infernal regions. He said all this brusquely.
He looked with sudden disfavour at that noble forehead, at those great
martial moustaches, at the tired eyes of the man sitting opposite him.
Who the devil was he? What was he, Morrison, doing there, talking
like this? Morrison knew no more of Heyst than the rest of us
trading in the Archipelago did. Had the Swede suddenly risen and
hit him on the nose, he could not have been taken more aback than when
this stranger, this nondescript wanderer, said with a little bow across
the table:</p>
<p>“Oh! If that’s the case I would be very happy if
you’d allow me to be of use!”</p>
<p>Morrison didn’t understand. This was one of those things
that don’t happen - unheard of things. He had no real inkling
of what it meant, till Heyst said definitely:</p>
<p>“I can lend you the amount.”</p>
<p>“You have the money?” whispered Morrison. “Do
you mean here, in your pocket?”</p>
<p>“Yes, on me. Glad to be of use.”</p>
<p>Morrison, staring open-mouthed, groped over his shoulder for the
cord of the eyeglass hanging down his back. When he found it,
he stuck it in his eye hastily. It was as if he expected Heyst’s
usual white suit of the tropics to change into a shining garment, flowing
down to his toes, and a pair of great dazzling wings to sprout out on
the Swede’s shoulders - and didn’t want to miss a single
detail of the transformation. But if Heyst was an angle from on
high, sent in answer to prayer, he did not betray his heavenly origin
by outward signs. So, instead of going on his knees, as he felt
inclined to do, Morrison stretched out his hand, which Heyst grasped
with formal alacrity and a polite murmur in which “Trifle - delighted
- of service,” could just be distinguished.</p>
<p>“Miracles do happen,” thought the awestruck Morrison.
To him, as to all of us in the Islands, this wandering Heyst, who didn’t
toil or spin visibly, seemed the very last person to be the agent of
Providence in an affair concerned with money. The fact of his
turning up in Timor or anywhere else was no more wonderful than the
settling of a sparrow on one’s window-sill at any given moment.
But that he should carry a sum of money in his pocket seemed somehow
inconceivable.</p>
<p>So inconceivable that as they were trudging together through the
sand of the roadway to the custom-house - another mud hovel - to pay
the fine, Morrison broke into a cold sweat, stopped short, and exclaimed
in faltering accents:</p>
<p>“I say! You aren’t joking, Heyst?”</p>
<p>“Joking!” Heyst’s blue eyes went hard as
he turned them on the discomposed Morrison. “In what way,
may I ask?” he continued with austere politeness.</p>
<p>Morrison was abashed.</p>
<p>“Forgive me, Heyst. You must have been sent by God in
answer to my prayer. But I have been nearly off my chump for three
days with worry; and it suddenly struck me: ‘What if it’s
the Devil who has sent him?’”</p>
<p>“I have no connection with the supernatural,” said Heyst
graciously, moving on. “Nobody has sent me. I just
happened along.”</p>
<p>“I know better,” contradicted Morrison. “I
may be unworthy, but I have been heard. I know it. I feel
it. For why should you offer - ”</p>
<p>Heyst inclined his head, as from respect for a conviction in which
he could not share. But he stuck to his point by muttering that
in the presence of an odious fact like this, it was natural -</p>
<p>Later in the day, the fine paid, and the two of them on board the
brig, from which the guard had been removed, Morrison who, besides,
being a gentleman was also an honest fellow began to talk about repayment.
He knew very well his inability to lay by any sum of money. It
was partly the fault of circumstances and partly of his temperament;
and it would have been very difficult to apportion the responsibility
between the two. Even Morrison himself could not say, while confessing
to the fact. With a worried air he ascribed it to fatality:</p>
<p>“I don’t know how it is that I’ve never been able
to save. It’s some sort of curse. There’s always
a bill or two to meet.”</p>
<p>He plunged his hand into his pocket for the famous notebook so well
known in the islands, the fetish of his hopes, and fluttered the pages
feverishly.</p>
<p>“And yet - look,” he went on. “There it is
- more than five thousand dollars owing. Surely that’s something.”</p>
<p>He ceased suddenly. Heyst, who had been all the time trying
to look as unconcerned as he could, made reassuring noises in his throat.
But Morrison was not only honest. He was honourable, too; and
on this stressful day, before this amazing emissary of Providence and
in the revulsion of his feelings, he made his great renunciation.
He cast off the abiding illusion of his existence.</p>
<p>“No. No. They are not good. I’ll never
be able to squeeze them. Never. I’ve been saying for
years I would, but I give it up. I never really believed I could.
Don’t reckon on that, Heyst. I have robbed you.”</p>
<p>Poor Morrison actually laid his head on the cabin table, and remained
in that crushed attitude while Heyst talked to him soothingly with the
utmost courtesy. The Swede was as much distressed as Morrison;
for he understood the other’s feelings perfectly. No decent
feeling was ever scorned by Heyst. But he was incapable of outward
cordiality of manner, and he felt acutely his defect. Consummate
politeness is not the right tonic for an emotional collapse. They
must have had, both of them, a fairly painful time of it in the cabin
of the brig. In the end Morrison, casting desperately for an idea
in the blackness of his despondency, hit upon the notion of inviting
Heyst to travel with him in his brig and have a share in his trading
ventures up to the amount of his loan.</p>
<p>It is characteristic of Heyst’s unattached, floating existence
that he was in a position to accept this proposal. There is no
reason to think that he wanted particularly just then to go poking aboard
the brig into all the holes and corners of the Archipelago where Morrison
picked up most of his trade. Far from it; but he would have consented
to almost any arrangement in order to put an end to the harrowing scene
in the cabin. There was at once a great transformation act: Morrison
raising his diminished head, and sticking the glass in his eye to looked
affectionately at Heyst, a bottle being uncorked, and so on. It
was agreed that nothing should be said to anyone of this transaction.
Morrison, you understand, was not proud of the episode, and he was afraid
of being unmercifully chaffed.</p>
<p>“An old bird like me! To let myself be trapped by those
damned Portuguese rascals! I should never hear the last of it.
We must keep it dark.”</p>
<p>From quite other motives, among which his native delicacy was the
principal, Heyst was even more anxious to bind himself to silence.
A gentleman would naturally shrink from the part of heavenly messenger
that Morrison would force upon him. It made Heyst uncomfortable,
as it was. And perhaps he did not care that it should be known
that he had some means, whatever they might have been - sufficient,
at any rate, to enable him to lend money to people. These two
had a duet down there, like conspirators in a comic opera, of “Sh
- ssh, shssh! Secrecy! Secrecy!” It must have
been funny, because they were very serious about it.</p>
<p>And for a time the conspiracy was successful in so far that we all
concluded that Heyst was boarding with the good-natured - some
said: sponging on the imbecile - Morrison, in his brig. But you
know how it is with all such mysteries. There is always a leak
somewhere. Morrison himself, not a perfect vessel by any means,
was bursting with gratitude, and under the stress he must have let out
something vague - enough to give the island gossip a chance. And
you know how kindly the world is in its comments on what it does not
understand. A rumour sprang out that Heyst, having obtained some
mysterious hold on Morrison, had fastened himself on him and was sucking
him dry. Those who had traced these mutters back to their origin
were very careful not to believe them. The originator, it seems,
was a certain Schomberg, a big, manly, bearded creature of the Teutonic
persuasion, with an ungovernable tongue which surely must have worked
on a pivot. Whether he was a Lieutenant of the Reserve, as he
declared, I don’t know. Out there he was by profession a
hotel-keeper, first in Bangkok, then somewhere else, and ultimately
in Sourabaya. He dragged after him up and down that section of
the tropical belt a silent, frightened, little woman with long ringlets,
who smiled at one stupidly, showing a blue tooth. I don’t
know why so many of us patronized his various establishments.
He was a noxious ass, and he satisfied his lust for silly gossip at
the cost of his customers. It was he who, one evening, as Morrison
and Heyst went past the hotel - they were not his regular patrons -
whispered mysteriously to the mixed company assembled on the veranda:</p>
<p>“The spider and the fly just gone by, gentlemen.”
Then, very important and confidential, his thick paw at the side of
his mouth: “We are among ourselves; well, gentlemen, all I can
say is, I don’t you ever get mixed up with that Swede. Don’t
you ever get caught in his web.”</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h3>CHAPTER THREE</h3>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>Human nature being what it is, having a silly side to it as well
as a mean side, there were not a few who pretended to be indignant on
no better authority than a general propensity to believe every evil
report; and a good many others who found it simply funny to call Heyst
the Spider - behind his back, of course. He was as serenely unconscious
of this as of his several other nicknames. But soon people found
other things to say of Heyst; not long afterwards he came very much
to the fore in larger affairs. He blossomed out into something
definite. He filled the public eye as the manager on the spot
of the Tropical Belt Coal Company with offices in London and Amsterdam,
and other things about it that sounded and looked grandiose. The
offices in the two capitals may have consisted - and probably did -
of one room in each; but at that distance, out East there, all this
had an air. We were more puzzled than dazzled, it is true; but
even the most sober-minded among us began to think that there was something
in it. The Tesmans appointed agents, a contract for government
mail-boats secured, the era of steam beginning for the islands - a great
stride forward - Heyst’s stride!</p>
<p>And all this sprang from the meeting of the cornered Morrison and
of the wandering Heyst, which may or may not have been the direct outcome
of a prayer. Morrison was not an imbecile, but he seemed to have
got himself into a state of remarkable haziness as to his exact position
towards Heyst. For, if Heyst had been sent with money in his pocket
by a direct decree of the Almighty in answer to Morrison’s prayer
then there was no reason for special gratitude, since obviously he could
not help himself. But Morrison believed both, in the efficacy
of prayer and in the infinite goodness of Heyst. He thanked God
with awed sincerity for his mercy, and could not thank Heyst enough
for the service rendered as between man and man. In this (highly
creditable) tangle of strong feelings Morrison’s gratitude insisted
on Heyst’s partnership in the great discovery. Ultimately
we heard that Morrison had gone home through the Suez Canal in order
to push the magnificent coal idea personally in London. He parted
from his brig and disappeared from our ken; but we heard that he had
written a letter or letters to Heyst, saying that London was cold and
gloomy; that he did not like either the men or things, that he was “as
lonely as a crow in a strange country.” In truth, he pined
after the <i>Capricorn</i> - I don’t mean only the tropic; I mean
the ship too. Finally he went into Dorsetshire to see his people,
caught a bad cold, and died with extraordinary precipitation in the
bosom of his appalled family. Whether his exertions in the City
of London had enfeebled his vitality I don’t know; but I believe
it was this visit which put life into the coal idea. Be it as
it may, the Tropical Belt Coal Company was born very shortly after Morrison,
the victim of gratitude and his native climate, had gone to join his
forefathers in a Dorsetshire churchyard.</p>
<p>Heyst was immensely shocked. He got the news in the Moluccas
through the Tesmans, and then disappeared for a time. It appears
that he stayed with a Dutch government doctor in Amboyna, a friend of
his who looked after him for a bit in his bungalow. He became
visible again rather suddenly, his eyes sunk in his head, and with a
sort of guarded attitude, as if afraid someone would reproach him with
the death of Morrison.</p>
<p>Naïve Heyst! As if anybody would . . . Nobody amongst
us had any interest in men who went home. They were all right;
they did not count any more. Going to Europe was nearly as final
as going to Heaven. It removed a man from the world of hazard
and adventure.</p>
<p>As a matter of fact, many of us did not hear of this death till months
afterwards - from Schomberg, who disliked Heyst gratuitously and made
up a piece of sinister whispered gossip:</p>
<p>“That’s what comes of having anything to do with that
fellow. He squeezes you dry like a lemon, then chucks you out
- sends you home to die. Take warning by Morrison!”</p>
<p>Of course, we laughed at the innkeeper’s suggestions of black
mystery. Several of us heard that Heyst was prepared to go to
Europe himself, to push on his coal enterprise personally; but he never
went. It wasn’t necessary. The company was formed
without him, and his nomination of manager in the tropics came out to
him by post.</p>
<p>From the first he had selected Samburan, or Round Island, for the
central station. Some copies of the prospectus issued in Europe,
having found their way out East, were passed from hand to hand.
We greatly admired the map which accompanied them for the edification
of the shareholders. On it Samburan was represented as the central
spot of the Eastern Hemisphere with its name engraved in enormous capitals.
Heavy lines radiated from it in all directions through the tropics,
figuring a mysterious and effective star - lines of influence or lines
of distance, or something of that sort. Company promoters have
an imagination of their own. There’s no more romantic temperament
on earth than the temperament of a company promoter. Engineers
came out, coolies were imported, bungalows were put up on Samburan,
a gallery driven into the hillside, and actually some coal got out.</p>
<p>These manifestations shook the soberest minds. For a time everybody
in the islands was talking of the Tropical Belt Coal, and even those
who smiled quietly to themselves were only hiding their uneasiness.
Oh, yes; it had come, and anybody could see what would be the consequences
- the end of the individual trader, smothered under a great invasion
of steamers. We could not afford to buy steamers. Not we.
And Heyst was the manager.</p>
<p>“You know, Heyst, enchanted Heyst.”</p>
<p>“Oh, come! He has been no better than a loafer around
here as far back as any of us can remember.”</p>
<p>“Yes, he said he was looking for facts. Well, he’s
got hold of one that will do for all of us,” commented a bitter
voice.</p>
<p>“That’s what they call development - and be hanged to
it!” muttered another.</p>
<p>Never was Heyst talked about so much in the tropical belt before.</p>
<p>“Isn’t he a Swedish baron or something?”</p>
<p>“He, a baron? Get along with you!”</p>
<p>For my part I haven’t the slightest doubt that he was.
While he was still drifting amongst the islands, enigmatical and disregarded
like an insignificant ghost, he told me so himself on a certain occasion.
It was a long time before he materialized in this alarming way into
the destroyer of our little industry - Heyst the Enemy.</p>
<p>It became the fashion with a good many to speak of Heyst as the Enemy.
He was very concrete, very visible now. He was rushing all over
the Archipelago, jumping in and out of local mail-packets as if they
had been tram-cars, here, there, and everywhere - organizing with all
his might. This was no mooning about. This was business.
And this sudden display of purposeful energy shook the incredulity of
the most sceptical more than any scientific demonstration of the value
of these coal-outcrops could have done. It was impressive.
Schomberg was the only one who resisted the infection. Big, manly
in a portly style, and profusely bearded, with a glass of beer in his
thick paw, he would approach some table where the topic of the hour
was being discussed, would listen for a moment, and then come out with
his invariable declaration:</p>
<p>“All this is very well, gentlemen; but he can’t throw
any of his coal-dust in my eyes. There’s nothing in it.
Why, there can’t be anything in it. A fellow like that for
manager? Phoo!”</p>
<p>Was it the clairvoyance of imbecile hatred, or mere stupid tenacity
of opinion, which ends sometimes by scoring against the world in a most
astonishing manner? Most of us can remember instances of triumphant
folly; and that ass Schomberg triumphed. The T.B.C. Company went
into liquidation, as I began by telling you. The Tesmans washed
their hands of it. The Government cancelled those famous contracts,
the talk died out, and presently it was remarked here and there that
Heyst had faded completely away. He had become invisible, as in
those early days when he used to make a bolt clear out of sight in his
attempts to break away from the enchantment of “these isles,”
either in the direction of New Guinea or in the direction of Saigon
- to cannibals or to cafés. The enchanted Heyst!
Had he at last broken the spell? Had he died? We were too
indifferent to wonder overmuch. You see we had on the whole liked
him well enough. And liking is not sufficient to keep going the
interest one takes in a human being. With hatred, apparently,
it is otherwise. Schomberg couldn’t forget Heyst.
The keen, manly Teutonic creature was a good hater. A fool often
is.</p>
<p>“Good evening, gentlemen. Have you got everything you
want? So! Good! You see? What was I always telling
you? Aha! There was nothing in it. I knew it.
But what I would like to know is what became of that - Swede.”</p>
<p>He put a stress on the word Swede as if it meant scoundrel.
He detested Scandinavians generally. Why? Goodness only
knows. A fool like that is unfathomable. He continued:</p>
<p>“It’s five months or more since I have spoken to anybody
who has seen him.”</p>
<p>As I have said, we were not much interested; but Schomberg, of course,
could not understand that. He was grotesquely dense. Whenever
three people came together in his hotel, he took good care that Heyst
should be with them.</p>
<p>“I hope the fellow did not go and drown himself,” he
would add with a comical earnestness that ought to have made us shudder;
only our crowd was superficial, and did not apprehend the psychology
of this pious hope.</p>
<p>“Why? Heyst isn’t in debt to you for drinks is
he?” somebody asked him once with shallow scorn.</p>
<p>“Drinks! Oh, dear no!”</p>
<p>The innkeeper was not mercenary. Teutonic temperament seldom
is. But he put on a sinister expression to tell us that Heyst
had not paid perhaps three visits altogether to his “establishment.”
This was Heyst’s crime, for which Schomberg wished him nothing
less than a long and tormented existence. Observe the Teutonic
sense of proportion and nice forgiving temper.</p>
<p>At last, one afternoon, Schomberg was seen approaching a group of
his customers. He was obviously in high glee. He squared
his manly chest with great importance.</p>
<p>“Gentlemen, I have news of him. Who? why, that Swede.
He is still on Samburan. He’s never been away from it.
The company is gone, the engineers are gone, the clerks are gone, the
coolies are gone, everything’s gone; but there he sticks.
Captain Davidson, coming by from the westward, saw him with his own
eyes. Something white on the wharf, so he steamed in and went
ashore in a small boat. Heyst, right enough. Put a book
into his pocket, always very polite. Been strolling on the wharf
and reading. ‘I remain in possession here,’ he told
Captain Davidson. What I want to know is what he gets to eat there.
A piece of dried fish now and then - what? That’s coming
down pretty low for a man who turned up his nose at my table d’hôte!”</p>
<p>He winked with immense malice. A bell started ringing, and
he led the way to the dining-room as if into a temple, very grave, with
the air of a benefactor of mankind. His ambition was to feed it
at a profitable price, and his delight was to talk of it behind its
back. It was very characteristic of him to gloat over the idea
of Heyst having nothing decent to eat.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h3>CHAPTER FOUR</h3>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>A few of us who were sufficiently interested went to Davidson for
details. These were not many. He told us that he passed
to the north of Samburan on purpose to see what was going on.
At first, it looked as if that side of the island had been altogether
abandoned. This was what he expected. Presently, above the
dense mass of vegetation that Samburan presents to view, he saw the
head of the flagstaff without a flag. Then, while steaming across
the slight indentation which for a time was known officially as Black
Diamond Bay, he made out with his glass the white figure on the coaling-wharf.
It could be no one but Heyst.</p>
<p>“I thought for certain he wanted to be taken off, so I steamed
in. He made no signs. However, I lowered a boat. I
could not see another living being anywhere. Yes. He had
a book in his hand. He looked exactly as we have always seen him
- very neat, white shoes, cork helmet. He explained to me that
he had always had a taste for solitude. It was the first I ever
heard of it, I told him. He only smiled. What could I say?
He isn’t the sort of man one can speak familiarly to. There’s
something in him. One doesn’t care to.</p>
<p>“‘But what’s the object? Are you thinking
of keeping possession of the mine?’ I asked him.</p>
<p>“‘Something of the sort,’ he says. ‘I
am keeping hold.’</p>
<p>“‘But all this is as dead as Julius Cæsar,’
I cried. ‘In fact, you have nothing worth holding on to,
Heyst.’</p>
<p>“‘Oh, I am done with facts,’ says he, putting his
hand to his helmet sharply with one of his short bows.”</p>
<p>Thus dismissed, Davidson went on board his ship, swung her out, and
as he was steaming away he watched from the bridge Heyst walking shoreward
along the wharf. He marched into the long grass and vanished -
all but the top of his white cork helmet, which seemed to swim in a
green sea. Then that too disappeared, as if it had sunk into the
living depths of the tropical vegetation, which is more jealous of men’s
conquests than the ocean, and which was about to close over the last
vestiges of the liquidated Tropical Belt Coal Company - A. Heyst, manager
in the East.</p>
<p>Davidson, a good, simple fellow in his way, was strangely affected.
It is to be noted that he knew very little of Heyst. He was one
of those whom Heyst’s finished courtesy of attitude and intonation
most strongly disconcerted. He himself was a fellow of fine feeling,
I think, though of course he had no more polish than the rest of us.
We were naturally a hail-fellow-well-met crowd, with standards of our
own - no worse, I daresay, than other people’s; but polish was
not one of them. Davidson’s fineness was real enough to
alter the course of the steamer he commanded. Instead of passing
to the south of Samburan, he made it his practice to take the passage
along the north shore, within about a mile of the wharf.</p>
<p>“He can see us if he likes to see us,” remarked Davidson.
Then he had an afterthought: “I say! I hope he won’t
think I am intruding, eh?”</p>
<p>We reassured him on the point of correct behaviour. The sea
is open to all.</p>
<p>This slight deviation added some ten miles to Davidson’s round
trip, but as that was sixteen hundred miles it did not matter much.</p>
<p>“I have told my owner of it,” said the conscientious
commander of the <i>Sissie</i>.</p>
<p>His owner had a face like an ancient lemon. He was small and
wizened - which was strange, because generally a Chinaman, as he grows
in prosperity, puts on inches of girth and stature. To serve a
Chinese firm is not so bad. Once they become convinced you deal
straight by them, their confidence becomes unlimited. You can
do no wrong. So Davidson’s old Chinaman squeaked hurriedly:</p>
<p>“All right, all right, all right. You do what you like,
captain - ”</p>
<p>And there was an end of the matter; not altogether, though.
From time to time the Chinaman used to ask Davidson about the white
man. He was still there, eh?</p>
<p>“I never see him,” Davidson had to confess to his owner,
who would peer at him silently through round, horn-rimmed spectacles,
several sizes too large for his little old face. “I never
see him.”</p>
<p>To me, on occasions he would say:</p>
<p>“I haven’t a doubt he’s there. He hides.
It’s very unpleasant.” Davidson was a little vexed
with Heyst. “Funny thing,” he went on. “Of
all the people I speak to, nobody ever asks after him but that Chinaman
of mine - and Schomberg,” he added after a while.</p>
<p>Yes, Schomberg, of course. He was asking everybody about everything,
and arranging the information into the most scandalous shape his imagination
could invent. From time to time he would step up, his blinking,
cushioned eyes, his thick lips, his very chestnut beard, looking full
of malice.</p>
<p>“Evening, gentlemen. Have you got all you want?
So! Good! Well, I am told the jungle has choked the very
sheds in Black Diamond Bay. Fact. He’s a hermit in
the wilderness now. But what can this manager get to eat there?
It beats me.”</p>
<p>Sometimes a stranger would inquire with natural curiosity:</p>
<p>“Who? What manager?”</p>
<p>“Oh, a certain Swede,” - with a sinister emphasis, as
if he were saying “a certain brigand.” “Well
known here. He’s turned hermit from shame. That’s
what the devil does when he’s found out.”</p>
<p>Hermit. This was the latest of the more or less witty labels
applied to Heyst during his aimless pilgrimage in this section of the
tropical belt, where the inane clacking of Schomberg’s tongue
vexed our ears.</p>
<p>But apparently Heyst was not a hermit by temperament. The sight
of his land was not invincibly odious to him. We must believe
this, since for some reason or other he did come out from his retreat
for a while. Perhaps it was only to see whether there were any
letters for him at the Tesmans. I don’t know. No one
knows. But this reappearance shows that his detachment from the
world was not complete. And incompleteness of any sort leads to
trouble. Axel Heyst ought not to have cared for his letters -
or whatever it was that brought him out after something more than a
year and a half in Samburan. But it was of no use. He had
not the hermit’s vocation! That was the trouble, it seems.</p>
<p>Be this as it may, he suddenly reappeared in the world, broad chest,
bald forehead, long moustaches, polite manner, and all - the complete
Heyst, even to the kindly sunken eyes on which there still rested the
shadow of Morrison’s death. Naturally, it was Davidson who
had given him a lift out of his forsaken island. There were no
other opportunities, unless some native craft were passing by - a very
remote and unsatisfactory chance to wait for. Yes, he came out
with Davidson, to whom he volunteered the statement that it was only
for a short time - a few days, no more. He meant to go back to
Samburan.</p>
<p>Davidson expressing his horror and incredulity of such foolishness,
Heyst explained that when the company came into being he had his few
belongings sent out from Europe.</p>
<p>To Davidson, as to any of us, the idea of Heyst, the wandering drifting,
unattached Heyst, having any belongings of the sort that can furnish
a house was startlingly novel. It was grotesquely fantastic.
It was like a bird owning real property.</p>
<p>“Belongings? Do you mean chairs and tables?” Davidson
asked with unconcealed astonishment.</p>
<p>Heyst did mean that. “My poor father died in London.
It has been all stored there ever since,” he explained.</p>
<p>“For all these years?” exclaimed Davidson, thinking how
long we all had known Heyst flitting from tree to tree in a wilderness.</p>
<p>“Even longer,” said Heyst, who had understood very well.</p>
<p>This seemed to imply that he had been wandering before he came under
our observation. In what regions? And what early age?
Mystery. Perhaps he was a bird that had never had a nest.</p>
<p>“I left school early,” he remarked once to Davidson,
on the passage. “It was in England. A very good school.
I was not a shining success there.”</p>
<p>The confessions of Heyst. Not one of us - with the probable
exception of Morrison, who was dead - had ever heard so much of his
history. It looks as if the experience of hermit life had the
power to loosen one’s tongue, doesn’t it?</p>
<p>During that memorable passage, in the <i>Sissie</i>, which took about
two days, he volunteered other hints - for you could not call it information
- about his history. And Davidson was interested. He was
interested not because the hints were exciting but because of that innate
curiosity about our fellows which is a trait of human nature.
Davidson’s existence, too, running the <i>Sissie</i> along the
Java Sea and back again, was distinctly monotonous and, in a sense,
lonely. He never had any sort of company on board. Native
deck-passengers in plenty, of course, but never a white man, so the
presence of Heyst for two days must have been a godsend. Davidson
was telling us all about it afterwards. Heyst said that his father
had written a lot of books. He was a philosopher.</p>
<p>“Seems to me he must have been something of a crank, too,”
was Davidson’s comment. “Apparently he had quarrelled
with his people in Sweden. Just the sort of father you would expect
Heyst to have. Isn’t he a bit of a crank himself?
He told me that directly his father died he lit out into the wide world
on his own, and had been on the move till he fetched up against this
famous coal business. Fits the son of the father somehow, don’t
you think?”</p>
<p>For the rest, Heyst was as polite as ever. He offered to pay
for his passage; but when Davidson refused to hear of it he seized him
heartily by the hand, gave one of his courtly bows, and declared that
he was touched by his friendly proceedings.</p>
<p>“I am not alluding to this trifling amount which you decline
to take,” he went on, giving a shake to Davidson’s hand.
“But I am touched by your humanity.” Another shake.
“Believe me, I am profoundly aware of having been an object of
it.” Final shake of the hand. All this meant that
Heyst understood in a proper sense the little <i>Sissie’s</i>
periodic appearance in sight of his hermitage.</p>
<p>“He’s a genuine gentleman,” Davidson said to us.
“I was really sorry when he went ashore.”</p>
<p>We asked him where he had left Heyst.</p>
<p>“Why, in Sourabaya - where else?”</p>
<p>The Tesmans had their principal counting-house in Sourabaya.
There had long existed a connection between Heyst and the Tesmans.
The incongruity of a hermit having agents did not strike us, nor yet
the absurdity of a forgotten cast-off, derelict manager of a wrecked,
collapsed, vanished enterprise, having business to attend to.
We said Sourabaya, of course, and took it for granted that he would
stay with one of the Tesmans. One of us even wondered what sort
of reception he would get; for it was known that Julius Tesman was unreasonably
bitter about the Tropical Belt Coal fiasco. But Davidson set us
right. It was nothing of the kind. Heyst went to stay in
Schomberg’s hotel, going ashore in the hotel launch. Not
that Schomberg would think of sending his launch alongside a mere trader
like the <i>Sissie</i>. But she had been meeting a coastal mail-packet,
and had been signalled to. Schomberg himself was steering her.</p>
<p>“You should have seen Schomberg’s eyes bulge out when
Heyst jumped in with an ancient brown leather bag!” said Davidson.
“He pretended not to know who it was - at first, anyway.
I didn’t go ashore with them. We didn’t stay more
than a couple of hours altogether. Landed two thousand coconuts
and cleared out. I have agreed to pick him up again on my next
trip in twenty days’ time.”</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h3>CHAPTER FIVE</h3>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>Davidson happened to be two days late on his return trip; no great
matter, certainly, but he made a point of going ashore at once, during
the hottest hour of the afternoon, to look for Heyst. Schomberg’s
hotel stood back in an extensive enclosure containing a garden, some
large trees, and, under their spreading boughs, a detached “hall
available for concerts and other performances,” as Schomberg worded
it in his advertisements. Torn, and fluttering bills, intimating
in heavy red capitals CONCERTS EVERY NIGHT, were stuck on the brick
pillars on each side of the gateway.</p>
<p>The walk had been long and confoundedly sunny. Davidson stood
wiping his wet neck and face on what Schomberg called “the piazza.”
Several doors opened on to it, but all the screens were down.
Not a soul was in sight, not even a China boy - nothing but a lot of
painted iron chairs and tables. Solitude, shade, and gloomy silence
- and a faint, treacherous breeze which came from under the trees and
quite unexpectedly caused the melting Davidson to shiver slightly -
the little shiver of the tropics which in Sourabaya, especially, often
means fever and the hospital to the incautious white man.</p>
<p>The prudent Davidson sought shelter in the nearest darkened room.
In the artificial dusk, beyond the levels of shrouded billiard-tables,
a white form heaved up from two chairs on which it had been extended.
The middle of the day, table d’hôte tiffin once over, was
Schomberg’s easy time. He lounged out, portly, deliberate,
on the defensive, the great fair beard like a cuirass over his manly
chest. He did not like Davidson, never a very faithful client
of his. He hit a bell on one of the tables as he went by, and
asked in a distant, Officer-in-Reserve manner:</p>
<p>“You desire?”</p>
<p>The good Davidson, still sponging his wet neck, declared with simplicity
that he had come to fetch away Heyst, as agreed.</p>
<p>“Not here!”</p>
<p>A Chinaman appeared in response to the bell. Schomberg turned
to him very severely:</p>
<p>“Take the gentleman’s order.”</p>
<p>Davidson had to be going. Couldn’t wait - only begged
that Heyst should be informed that the <i>Sissie</i> would leave at
midnight.</p>
<p>“Not - here, I am telling you!”</p>
<p>Davidson slapped his thigh in concern.</p>
<p>“Dear me! Hospital, I suppose.” A natural
enough surmise in a very feverish locality.</p>
<p>The Lieutenant of the Reserve only pursed up his mouth and raised
his eyebrows without looking at him. It might have meant anything,
but Davidson dismissed the hospital idea with confidence. However,
he had to get hold of Heyst between this and midnight:</p>
<p>“He has been staying here?” he asked.</p>
<p>“Yes, he was staying here.”</p>
<p>“Can you tell me where he is now?” Davidson went on placidly.
Within himself he was beginning to grow anxious, having developed the
affection of a self-appointed protector towards Heyst. The answer
he got was:</p>
<p>“Can’t tell. It’s none of my business,”
accompanied by majestic oscillations of the hotel-keeper’s head,
hinting at some awful mystery.</p>
<p>Davidson was placidity itself. It was his nature. He
did not betray his sentiments, which were not favourable to Schomberg.</p>
<p>“I am sure to find out at the Tesmans’ office,”
he thought. But it was a very hot hour, and if Heyst was down
at the port he would have learned already that the <i>Sissie</i> was
in. It was even possible that Heyst had already gone on board,
where he could enjoy a coolness denied to the town. Davidson,
being stout, was much preoccupied with coolness and inclined to immobility.
He lingered awhile, as if irresolute. Schomberg, at the door,
looking out, affected perfect indifference. He could not keep
it up, though. Suddenly he turned inward and asked with brusque
rage:</p>
<p>“You wanted to see him?”</p>
<p>“Why, yes,” said Davidson. “We agreed to
meet - ”</p>
<p>“Don’t you bother. He doesn’t care about
that now.”</p>
<p>“Doesn’t he?”</p>
<p>“Well, you can judge for yourself. He isn’t here,
is he? You take my word for it. Don’t you bother about
him. I am advising you as a friend.”</p>
<p>“Thank you,” said, Davidson, inwardly startled at the
savage tone. “I think I will sit down for a moment and have
a drink, after all.”</p>
<p>This was not what Schomberg had expected to hear. He called
brutally:</p>
<p>“Boy!”</p>
<p>The Chinaman approached, and after referring him to the white man
by a nod the hotel-keeper departed, muttering to himself. Davidson
heard him gnash his teeth as he went.</p>
<p>Davidson sat alone with the billiard-tables as if there had been
not a soul staying in the hotel. His placidity was so genuine
that he was not unduly, fretting himself over the absence of Heyst,
or the mysterious manners Schomberg had treated him to. He was
considering these things in his own fairly shrewd way. Something
had happened; and he was loath to go away to investigate, being restrained
by a presentiment that somehow enlightenment would come to him there.
A poster of CONCERTS EVERY EVENING, like those on the gate, but in a
good state of preservation, hung on the wall fronting him. He
looked at it idly and was struck by the fact - then not so very common
- that it was a ladies’ orchestra; “Zangiacomo’s eastern
tour - eighteen performers.” The poster stated that they
had had the honour of playing their select repertoire before various
colonial excellencies, also before pashas, sheiks, chiefs, H. H. the
Sultan of Mascate, etc., etc.</p>
<p>Davidson felt sorry for the eighteen lady-performers. He knew
what that sort of life was like, the sordid conditions and brutal incidents
of such tours led by such Zangiacomos who often were anything but musicians
by profession. While he was staring at the poster, a door somewhere
at his back opened, and a woman came in who was looked upon as Schomberg’s
wife, no doubt with truth. As somebody remarked cynically once,
she was too unattractive to be anything else. The opinion that
he treated her abominably was based on her frightened expression.
Davidson lifted his hat to her. Mrs. Schomberg gave him an inclination
of her sallow head and incontinently sat down behind a sort of raised
counter, facing the door, with a mirror and rows of bottles at her back.
Her hair was very elaborately done with two ringlets on the left side
of her scraggy neck; her dress was of silk, and she had come on duty
for the afternoon. For some reason or other Schomberg exacted
this from her, though she added nothing to the fascinations of the place.
She sat there in the smoke and noise, like an enthroned idol, smiling
stupidly over the billiards from time to time, speaking to no one, and
no one speaking to her. Schomberg himself took no more interest
in her than may be implied in a sudden and totally unmotived scowl.
Otherwise the very Chinamen ignored her existence.</p>
<p>She had interrupted Davidson in his reflections. Being alone
with her, her silence and open-mouthed immobility made him uncomfortable.
He was easily sorry for people. It seemed rude not to take any
notice of her. He said, in allusion to the poster:</p>
<p>“Are you having these people in the house?”</p>
<p>She was so unused to being addressed by customers that at the sound
of his voice she jumped in her seat. Davidson was telling us afterwards
that she jumped exactly like a figure made of wood, without losing her
rigid immobility. She did not even move her eyes; but she answered
him freely, though her very lips seemed made of wood.</p>
<p>“They stayed here over a month. They are gone now.
They played every evening.”</p>
<p>“Pretty good, were they?”</p>
<p>To this she said nothing; and as she kept on staring fixedly in front
of her, her silence disconcerted Davidson. It looked as if she
had not heard him - which was impossible. Perhaps she drew the
line of speech at the expression of opinions. Schomberg might
have trained her, for domestic reasons, to keep them to herself.
But Davidson felt in honour obliged to converse; so he said, putting
his own interpretation on this surprising silence:</p>
<p>“I see - not much account. Such bands hardly ever are.
An Italian lot, Mrs. Schomberg, to judge by the name of the boss?”</p>
<p>She shook her head negatively.</p>
<p>“No. He is a German really; only he dyes his hair and
beard black for business. Zangiacomo is his business name.”</p>
<p>“That’s a curious fact,” said Davidson. His
head being full of Heyst, it occurred to him that she might be aware
of other facts. This was a very amazing discovery to anyone who
looked at Mrs. Schomberg. Nobody had ever suspected her of having
a mind. I mean even a little of it, I mean any at all. One
was inclined to think of her as an It - an automaton, a very plain dummy,
with an arrangement for bowing the head at times and smiling stupidly
now and then. Davidson viewed her profile with a flattened nose,
a hollow cheek, and one staring, unwinking, goggle eye. He asked
himself: Did that speak just now? Will it speak again? It
was as exciting, for the mere wonder of it, as trying to converse with
a mechanism. A smile played about the fat features of Davidson;
the smile of a man making an amusing experiment. He spoke again
to her:</p>
<p>“But the other members of that orchestra were real Italians,
were they not?”</p>
<p>Of course, he didn’t care. He wanted to see whether the
mechanism would work again. It did. It said they were not.
They were of all sorts, apparently. It paused, with the one goggle
eye immovably gazing down the whole length of the room and through the
door opening on to the “piazza.” It paused, then went
on in the same low pitch:</p>
<p>“There was even one English girl.”</p>
<p>“Poor devil!” - said Davidson, “I suppose these
women are not much better than slaves really. Was that fellow
with the dyed beard decent in his way?”</p>
<p>The mechanism remained silent. The sympathetic soul of Davidson
drew its own conclusions.</p>
<p>“Beastly life for these women!” he said. “When
you say an English girl, Mrs. Schomberg, do you really mean a young
girl? Some of these orchestra girls are no chicks.”</p>
<p>“Young enough,” came the low voice out of Mrs. Schomberg’s
unmoved physiognomy.</p>
<p>Davidson, encouraged, remarked that he was sorry for her. He
was easily sorry for people.</p>
<p>“Where did they go to from here?” he asked.</p>
<p>“She did not go with them. She ran away.”</p>
<p>This was the pronouncement Davidson obtained next. It introduced
a new sort of interest.</p>
<p>“Well! Well!” he exclaimed placidly; and then,
with the air of a man who knows life: “Who with?” he inquired
with assurance.</p>
<p>Mrs. Schomberg’s immobility gave her an appearance of listening
intently. Perhaps she was really listening; but Schomberg must
have been finishing his sleep in some distant part of the house.
The silence was profound, and lasted long enough to become startling.
Then, enthroned above Davidson, she whispered at last:</p>
<p>“That friend of yours.”</p>
<p>“Oh, you know I am here looking for a friend,” said Davidson
hopefully. “Won’t you tell me - ”</p>
<p>“I’ve told you”</p>
<p>“Eh?”</p>
<p>A mist seemed to roll away from before Davidson’s eyes, disclosing
something he could not believe.</p>
<p>“You can’t mean it!” he cried. “He’s
not the man for it.” But the last words came out in a faint
voice. Mrs. Schomberg never moved her head the least bit.
Davidson, after the shock which made him sit up, went slack all over.</p>
<p>“Heyst! Such a perfect gentleman!” he exclaimed
weakly.</p>
<p>Mrs. Schomberg did not seem to have heard him. This startling
fact did not tally somehow with the idea Davidson had of Heyst.
He never talked of women, he never seemed to think of them, or to remember
that they existed; and then all at once - like this! Running off
with a casual orchestra girl!</p>
<p>“You might have knocked me down with a feather,” Davidson
told us some time afterwards.</p>
<p>By then he was taking an indulgent view of both the parties to that
amazing transaction. First of all, on reflection, he was by no
means certain that it prevented Heyst from being a perfect gentleman,
as before. He confronted our open grins or quiet smiles with a
serious round face. Heyst had taken the girl away to Samburan;
and that was no joking matter. The loneliness, the ruins of the
spot, had impressed Davidson’s simple soul. They were incompatible
with the frivolous comments of people who had not seen it. That
black jetty, sticking out of the jungle into the empty sea; these roof-ridges
of deserted houses peeping dismally above the long grass! Ough!
The gigantic and funeral blackboard sign of the Tropical Belt Coal Company,
still emerging from a wild growth of bushes like an inscription stuck
above a grave figured by the tall heap of unsold coal at the shore end
of the wharf, added to the general desolation.</p>
<p>Thus the sensitive Davidson. The girl must have been miserable
indeed to follow such a strange man to such a spot. Heyst had,
no doubt, told her the truth. He was a gentleman. But no
words could do justice to the conditions of life on Samburan.
A desert island was nothing to it. Moreover, when you were cast
away on a desert island - why, you could not help yourself; but to expect
a fiddle-playing girl out of an ambulant ladies’ orchestra to
remain content there for a day, for one single day, was inconceivable.
She would be frightened at the first sight of it. She would scream.</p>
<p>The capacity for sympathy in these stout, placid men! Davidson
was stirred to the depths; and it was easy to see that it was about
Heyst that he was concerned. We asked him if he had passed that
way lately.</p>
<p>“Oh, yes. I always do - about half a mile off.”</p>
<p>“Seen anybody about?”</p>
<p>“No, not a soul. Not a shadow.”</p>
<p>“Did you blow your whistle?”</p>
<p>“Blow the whistle? You think I would do such a thing?”</p>
<p>He rejected the mere possibility of such an unwarrantable intrusion.
Wonderfully delicate fellow, Davidson!</p>
<p>“Well, but how do you know that they are there?” he was
naturally asked.</p>
<p>Heyst had entrusted Mrs. Schomberg with a message for Davidson -
a few lines in pencil on a scrap of crumpled paper. It was to
the effect: that an unforeseen necessity was driving him away before
the appointed time. He begged Davidson’s indulgence for
the apparent discourtesy. The woman of the house - meaning Mrs.
Schomberg - would give him the facts, though unable to explain them,
of course.</p>
<p>“What was there to explain?” wondered Davidson dubiously.</p>
<p>“He took a fancy to that fiddle-playing girl, and - ”</p>
<p>“And she to him, apparently,” I suggested.</p>
<p>“Wonderfully quick work,” reflected Davidson. “What
do you think will come of it?”</p>
<p>“Repentance, I should say. But how is it that Mrs. Schomberg
has been selected for a confidante?”</p>
<p>For indeed a waxwork figure would have seemed more useful than that
woman whom we all were accustomed to see sitting elevated above the
two billiard-tables - without expression, without movement, without
voice, without sight.</p>
<p>“Why, she helped the girl to bolt,” said Davidson turning
at me his innocent eyes, rounded by the state of constant amazement
in which this affair had left him, like those shocks of terror or sorrow
which sometimes leave their victim afflicted by nervous trembling.
It looked as though he would never get over it.</p>
<p>“Mrs. Schomberg jerked Heyst’s note, twisted like a pipe-light,
into my lap while I sat there unsuspecting,” Davidson went on.
“Directly I had recovered my senses, I asked her what on earth
she had to do with it that Heyst should leave it with her. And
then, behaving like a painted image rather than a live woman, she whispered,
just loud enough for me to hear:</p>
<p>“I helped them. I got her things together, tied them
up in my own shawl, and threw them into the compound out of a back window.
I did it.”</p>
<p>“That woman that you would say hadn’t the pluck to lift
her little finger!” marvelled Davidson in his quiet, slightly
panting voice. “What do you think of that?”</p>
<p>I thought she must have had some interest of her own to serve.
She was too lifeless to be suspected of impulsive compassion.
It was impossible to think that Heyst had bribed her. Whatever
means he had, he had not the means to do that. Or could it be
that she was moved by that disinterested passion for delivering a woman
to a man which in respectable spheres is called matchmaking? - a highly
irregular example of it!</p>
<p>“It must have been a very small bundle,” remarked Davidson
further.</p>
<p>“I imagine the girl must have been specially attractive,”
I said.</p>
<p>“I don’t know. She was miserable. I don’t
suppose it was more than a little linen and a couple of those white
frocks they wear on the platform.”</p>
<p>Davidson pursued his own train of thought. He supposed that
such a thing had never been heard of in the history of the tropics.
For where could you find anyone to steal a girl out of an orchestra?
No doubt fellows here and there took a fancy to some pretty one - but
it was not for running away with her. Oh dear no! It needed
a lunatic like Heyst.</p>
<p>“Only think what it means,” wheezed Davidson, imaginative
under his invincible placidity. “Just only try to think!
Brooding alone on Samburan has upset his brain. He never stopped
to consider, or he couldn’t have done it. No sane man .
. . How is a thing like that to go on? What’s he going to
do with her in the end? It’s madness.”</p>
<p>“You say that he’s mad. Schomberg tells us that
he must be starving on his island; so he may end yet by eating her,”
I suggested.</p>
<p>Mrs. Schomberg had had no time to enter into details, Davidson told
us. Indeed, the wonder was that they had been left alone so long.
The drowsy afternoon was slipping by. Footsteps and voices resounded
on the veranda - I beg pardon, the piazza; the scraping of chairs, the
ping of a smitten bell. Customers were turning up. Mrs.
Schomberg was begging Davidson hurriedly, but without looking at him,
to say nothing to anyone, when on a half-uttered word her nervous whisper
was cut short. Through a small inner door Schomberg came in, his
hair brushed, his beard combed neatly, but his eyelids still heavy from
his nap. He looked with suspicion at Davidson, and even glanced
at his wife; but he was baffled by the natural placidity of the one
and the acquired habit of immobility in the other.</p>
<p>“Have you sent out the drinks?” he asked surlily.</p>
<p>She did not open her lips, because just then the head boy appeared
with a loaded tray, on his way out. Schomberg went to the door
and greeted the customers outside, but did not join them. He remained
blocking half the doorway, with his back to the room, and was still
there when Davidson, after sitting still for a while, rose to go.
At the noise he made Schomberg turned his head, watched him lift his
hat to Mrs. Schomberg and receive her wooden bow accompanied by a stupid
grin, and then looked away. He was loftily dignified. Davidson
stopped at the door, deep in his simplicity.</p>
<p>“I am sorry you won’t tell me anything about my friend’s
absence,” he said. “My friend Heyst, you know.
I suppose the only course for me now is to make inquiries down at the
port. I shall hear something there, I don’t doubt.”</p>
<p>“Make inquiries of the devil!” replied Schomberg in a
hoarse mutter.</p>
<p>Davidson’s purpose in addressing the hotel-keeper had been
mainly to make Mrs. Schomberg safe from suspicion; but he would fain
have heard something more of Heyst’s exploit from another point
of view. It was a shrewd try. It was successful in a rather
startling way, because the hotel-keeper’s point of view was horribly
abusive. All of a sudden, in the same hoarse sinister tone, he
proceeded to call Heyst many names, of which “pig-dog” was
not the worst, with such vehemence that he actually choked himself.
Profiting from the pause, Davidson, whose temperament could withstand
worse shocks, remonstrated in an undertone:</p>
<p>“It’s unreasonable to get so angry as that. Even
if he had run off with your cash-box - ”</p>
<p>The big hotel-keeper bent down and put his infuriated face close
to Davidson’s.</p>
<p>“My cash-box! My - he - look here, Captain Davidson!
He ran off with a girl. What do I care for the girl? The
girl is nothing to me.”</p>
<p>He shot out an infamous word which made Davidson start. That’s
what the girl was; and he reiterated the assertion that she was nothing
to him. What he was concerned for was the good name of his house.
Wherever he had been established, he had always had “artist parties”
staying in his house. One recommended him to the others; but what
would happen now, when it got about that leaders ran the risk in his
house - his house - of losing members of their troupe? And just
now, when he had spent seven hundred and thirty-four guilders in building
a concert-hall in his compound. Was that a thing to do in a respectable
hotel? The cheek, the indecency, the impudence, the atrocity!
Vagabond, impostor, swindler, ruffian, <i>schwein-hund</i>!</p>
<p>He had seized Davidson by a button of his coat, detaining him in
the doorway, and exactly in the line of Mrs. Schomberg’s stony
gaze. Davidson stole a glance in that direction and thought of
making some sort of reassuring sign to her, but she looked so bereft
of senses, and almost of life, perched up there, that it seemed not
worth while. He disengaged his button with firm placidity.
Thereupon, with a last stifled curse, Schomberg vanished somewhere within,
to try and compose his spirits in solitude. Davidson stepped out
on the veranda. The party of customers there had become aware
of the explosive interlude in the doorway. Davidson knew one of
these men, and nodded to him in passing; but his acquaintance called
out:</p>
<p>“Isn’t he in a filthy temper? He’s been like
that ever since.”</p>
<p>The speaker laughed aloud, while all the others sat smiling.
Davidson stopped.</p>
<p>“Yes, rather.” His feelings were, he told us, those
of bewildered resignation; but of course that was no more visible to
the others than the emotions of a turtle when it withdraws into its
shell.</p>
<p>“It seems unreasonable,” he murmured thoughtfully.</p>
<p>“Oh, but they had a scrap!” the other said.</p>
<p>“What do you mean? Was there a fight! - a fight with
Heyst?” asked Davidson, much perturbed, if somewhat incredulous.</p>
<p>“Heyst? No, these two - the bandmaster, the fellow who’s
taking these women about and our Schomberg. Signor Zangiacomo
ran amuck in the morning, and went for our worthy friend. I tell
you, they were rolling on the floor together on this very veranda, after
chasing each other all over the house, doors slamming, women screaming,
seventeen of them, in the dining-room; Chinamen up the trees.
Hey, John? You climb tree to see the fight, eh?”</p>
<p>The boy, almond-eyed and impassive, emitted a scornful grunt, finished
wiping the table, and withdrew.</p>
<p>“That’s what it was - a real, go-as-you-please scrap.
And Zangiacomo began it. Oh, here’s Schomberg. Say,
Schomberg, didn’t he fly at you, when the girl was missed, because
it was you who insisted that the artists should go about the audience
during the interval?”</p>
<p>Schomberg had reappeared in the doorway. He advanced.
His bearing was stately, but his nostrils were extraordinarily expanded,
and he controlled his voice with apparent effort.</p>
<p>“Certainly. That was only business. I quoted him
special terms and all for your sake, gentlemen. I was thinking
of my regular customers. There’s nothing to do in the evenings
in this town. I think, gentlemen, you were all pleased at the
opportunity of hearing a little good music; and where’s the harm
of offering a grenadine, or what not, to a lady artist? But that
fellow - that Swede - he got round the girl. He got round all
the people out here. I’ve been watching him for years.
You remember how he got round Morrison.”</p>
<p>He changed front abruptly, as if on parade, and marched off.
The customers at the table exchanged glances silently. Davidson’s
attitude was that of a spectator. Schomberg’s moody pacing
of the billiard-room could be heard on the veranda.</p>
<p>“And the funniest part is,” resumed the man who had been
speaking before - an English clerk in a Dutch house - “the funniest
part is that before nine o’clock that same morning those two were
driving together in a gharry down to the port, to look for Heyst and
the girl. I saw them rushing around making inquiries. I
don’t know what they would have done to the girl, but they seemed
quite ready to fall upon your Heyst, Davidson, and kill him on the quay.”</p>
<p>He had never, he said, seen anything so queer. Those two investigators
working feverishly to the same end were glaring at each other with surprising
ferocity. In hatred and mistrust they entered a steam-launch,
and went flying from ship to ship all over the harbour, causing no end
of sensation. The captains of vessels, coming on shore later in
the day, brought tales of a strange invasion, and wanted to know who
were the two offensive lunatics in a steam-launch, apparently after
a man and a girl, and telling a story of which one could make neither
head nor tail. Their reception by the roadstead was generally
unsympathetic, even to the point of the mate of an American ship bundling
them out over the rail with unseemly precipitation.</p>
<p>Meantime Heyst and the girl were a good few miles away, having gone
in the night on board one of the Tesman schooners bound to the eastward.
This was known afterwards from the Javanese boatmen whom Heyst hired
for the purpose at three o’clock in the morning. The Tesman
schooner had sailed at daylight with the usual land breeze, and was
probably still in sight in the offing at the time. However, the
two pursuers after their experience with the American mate, made for
the shore. On landing, they had another violent row in the German
language. But there was no second fight; and finally, with looks
of fierce animosity, they got together into a gharry - obviously with
the frugal view of sharing expenses - and drove away, leaving an astonished
little crowd of Europeans and natives on the quay.</p>
<p>After hearing this wondrous tale, Davidson went away from the hotel
veranda, which was filling with Schomberg’s regular customers.
Heyst’s escapade was the general topic of conversation.
Never before had that unaccountable individual been the cause of so
much gossip, he judged. No! Not even in the beginnings of
the Tropical Belt Coal Company when becoming for a moment a public character
was he the object of a silly criticism and unintelligent envy for every
vagabond and adventurer in the islands. Davidson concluded that
people liked to discuss that sort of scandal better than any other.</p>
<p>I asked him if he believed that this was such a great scandal after
all.</p>
<p>“Heavens, no!” said that excellent man who, himself,
was incapable of any impropriety of conduct. “But it isn’t
a thing I would have done myself; I mean even if I had not been married.”</p>
<p>There was no implied condemnation in the statement; rather something
like regret. Davidson shared my suspicion that this was in its
essence the rescue of a distressed human being. Not that we were
two romantics, tingeing the world to the hue of our temperament, but
that both of us had been acute enough to discover a long time ago that
Heyst was.</p>
<p>“I shouldn’t have had the pluck,” he continued.
“I see a thing all round, as it were; but Heyst doesn’t,
or else he would have been scared. You don’t take a woman
into a desert jungle without being made sorry for it sooner or later,
in one way or another; and Heyst being a gentleman only makes it worse.”</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h3>CHAPTER SIX</h3>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>We said no more about Heyst on that occasion, and it so happened
that I did not meet Davidson again for some three months. When
we did come together, almost the first thing he said to me was:</p>
<p>“I’ve seen him.”</p>
<p>Before I could exclaim, he assured me that he had taken no liberty,
that he had not intruded. He was called in. Otherwise he
would not have dreamed of breaking in upon Heyst’s privacy.</p>
<p>“I am certain you wouldn’t,” I assured him, concealing
my amusement at his wonderful delicacy. He was the most delicate
man that ever took a small steamer to and fro among the islands.
But his humanity, which was not less strong and praiseworthy, had induced
him to take his steamer past Samburan wharf (at an average distance
of a mile) every twenty-three days - exactly. Davidson was delicate,
humane, and regular.</p>
<p>“Heyst called you in?” I asked, interested.</p>
<p>Yes, Heyst had called him in as he was going by on his usual date.
Davidson was examining the shore through his glasses with his unwearied
and punctual humanity as he steamed past Samburan.</p>
<p>I saw a man in white. It could only have been Heyst.
He had fastened some sort of enormous flag to a bamboo pole, and was
waving it at the end of the old wharf.</p>
<p>Davidson didn’t like to take his steamer alongside - for fear
of being indiscreet, I suppose; but he steered close inshore, stopped
his engines, and lowered a boat. He went himself in that boat,
which was manned, of course, by his Malay seamen.</p>
<p>Heyst, when he saw the boat pulling towards him, dropped his signalling-pole;
and when Davidson arrived, he was kneeling down engaged busily in unfastening
the flag from it.</p>
<p>“Was there anything wrong?” I inquired, Davidson having
paused in his narrative and my curiosity being naturally aroused.
You must remember that Heyst as the Archipelago knew him was not - what
shall I say - was not a signalling sort of man.</p>
<p>“The very words that came out of my mouth,” said Davidson,
“before I laid the boat against the piles. I could not help
it!”</p>
<p>Heyst got up from his knees and began carefully folding up the flag
thing, which struck Davidson as having the dimensions of a blanket.</p>
<p>“No, nothing wrong,” he cried. His white teeth
flashed agreeably below the coppery horizontal bar of his long moustaches.</p>
<p>I don’t know whether it was his delicacy or his obesity which
prevented Davidson from clambering upon the wharf. He stood up
in the boat, and, above him, Heyst stooped low with urbane smiles, thanking
him and apologizing for the liberty, exactly in his usual manner.
Davidson had expected some change in the man, but there was none.
Nothing in him betrayed the momentous fact that within that jungle there
was a girl, a performer in a ladies’ orchestra, whom he had carried
straight off the concert platform into the wilderness. He was
not ashamed or defiant or abashed about it. He might have been
a shade confidential when addressing Davidson. And his words were
enigmatical.</p>
<p>“I took this course of signalling to you,” he said to
Davidson, “because to preserve appearances might be of the utmost
importance. Not to me, of course. I don’t care what
people may say, and of course no one can hurt me. I suppose I
have done a certain amount of harm, since I allowed myself to be tempted
into action. It seemed innocent enough, but all action is bound
to be harmful. It is devilish. That is why this world is
evil upon the whole. But I have done with it! I shall never
lift a little finger again. At one time I thought that intelligent
observation of facts was the best way of cheating the time which is
allotted to us whether we want it or not; but now I, have done with
observation, too.”</p>
<p>Imagine poor, simple Davidson being addressed in such terms alongside
an abandoned, decaying wharf jutting out of tropical bush. He
had never heard anybody speak like this before; certainly not Heyst,
whose conversation was concise, polite, with a faint ring of playfulness
in the cultivated tones of his voice.</p>
<p>“He’s gone mad,” Davidson thought to himself.</p>
<p>But, looking at the physiognomy above him on the wharf, he was obliged
to dismiss the notion of common, crude lunacy. It was truly most
unusual talk. Then he remembered - in his surprise he had lost
sight of it - that Heyst now had a girl there. This bizarre discourse
was probably the effect of the girl. Davidson shook off the absurd
feeling, and asked, wishing to make clear his friendliness, and not
knowing what else to say:</p>
<p>“You haven’t run short of stores or anything like that?”</p>
<p>Heyst smiled and shook his head:</p>
<p>“No, no. Nothing of the kind. We are fairly well
off here. Thanks, all the same. If I have taken the liberty
to detain you, it is I not from any uneasiness for myself and my - companion.
The person I was thinking of when I made up my mind to invoke your assistance
is Mrs. Schomberg.”</p>
<p>“I have talked with her,” interjected Davidson.</p>
<p>“Oh! You? Yes, I hoped she would find means to
- ”</p>
<p>“But she didn’t tell me much,” interrupted Davidson,
who was not averse from hearing something - he hardly knew what.</p>
<p>“H’m - Yes. But that note of mine? Yes?
She found an opportunity to give it to you? That’s good,
very good. She’s more resourceful than one would give her
credit for.”</p>
<p>“Women often are - ” remarked Davidson. The strangeness
from which he had suffered, merely because his interlocutor had carried
off a girl, wore off as the minutes went by. “There’s
a lot of unexpectedness about women,” he generalized with a didactic
aim which seemed to miss its mark; for the next thing Heyst said was:</p>
<p>“This is Mrs. Schomberg’s shawl.” He touched
the stuff hanging over his arm. “An Indian thing, I believe,”
he added, glancing at his arm sideways.</p>
<p>“It isn’t of particular value,” said Davidson truthfully.</p>
<p>“Very likely. The point is that it belongs to Schomberg’s
wife. That Schomberg seems to be an unconscionable ruffian - don’t
you think so?”</p>
<p>Davidson smiled faintly.</p>
<p>“We out here have got used to him,” he said, as if excusing
a universal and guilty toleration of a manifest nuisance. “I’d
hardly call him that. I only know him as a hotel-keeper.”</p>
<p>“I never knew him even as that - not till this time, when you
were so obliging as to take me to Sourabaya, I went to stay there from
economy. The Netherlands House is very expensive, and they expect
you to bring your own servant with you. It’s a nuisance.”</p>
<p>“Of course, of course,” protested Davidson hastily.</p>
<p>After a short silence Heyst returned to the matter of the shawl.
He wanted to send it back to Mrs. Schomberg. He said that it might
be very awkward for her if she were unable, if asked, to produce it.
This had given him, Heyst, much uneasiness. She was terrified
of Schomberg. Apparently she had reason to be.</p>
<p>Davidson had remarked that, too. Which did not prevent her,
he pointed out, from making a fool of him, in a way, for the sake of
a stranger.</p>
<p>“Oh! You know!” said Heyst. “Yes, she
helped me - us.”</p>
<p>“She told me so. I had quite a talk with her,”
Davidson informed him. “Fancy anyone having a talk with
Mrs. Schomberg! If I were to tell the fellows they wouldn’t
believe me. How did you get round her, Heyst? How did you
think of it? Why, she looks too stupid to understand human speech
and too scared to shoo a chicken away. Oh, the women, the women!
You don’t know what there may be in the quietest of them.”</p>
<p>“She was engaged in the task of defending her position in life,”
said Heyst. “It’s a very respectable task.”</p>
<p>“Is that it? I had some idea it was that,” confessed
Davidson.</p>
<p>He then imparted to Heyst the story of the violent proceedings following
on the discovery of his flight. Heyst’s polite attention
to the tale took on a sombre cast; but he manifested no surprise, and
offered no comment. When Davidson had finished he handed down
the shawl into the boat, and Davidson promised to do his best to return
it to Mrs. Schomberg in some secret fashion. Heyst expressed his
thanks in a few simple words, set off by his manner of finished courtesy.
Davidson prepared to depart. They were not looking at each other.
Suddenly Heyst spoke:</p>
<p>“You understand that this was a case of odious persecution,
don’t you? I became aware of it and - ”</p>
<p>It was a view which the sympathetic Davidson was capable of appreciating.</p>
<p>“I am not surprised to hear it,” he said placidly.
“Odious enough, I dare say. And you, of course - not being
a married man - were free to step in. Ah, well!”</p>
<p>He sat down in the stern-sheets, and already had the steering lines
in his hands when Heyst observed abruptly:</p>
<p>“The world is a bad dog. It will bite you if you give
it a chance; but I think that here we can safely defy the fates.”</p>
<p>When relating all this to me, Davidson’s only comment was:</p>
<p>“Funny notion of defying the fates - to take a woman in tow!”</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h3>CHAPTER SEVEN</h3>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>Some considerable time afterwards - we did not meet very often -
I asked Davidson how he had managed about the shawl and heard that he
had tackled his mission in a direct way, and had found it easy enough.
At the very first call he made in Samarang he rolled the shawl as tightly
as he could into the smallest possible brown-paper parcel, which he
carried ashore with him. His business in the town being transacted,
he got into a gharry with the parcel and drove to the hotel. With
his precious experience, he timed his arrival accurately for the hour
of Schomberg’s siesta. Finding the place empty as on the
former occasion, he marched into the billiard-room, took a seat at the
back, near the sort of dais which Mrs. Schomberg would in due course
come to occupy, and broke the slumbering silence of the house by thumping
a bell vigorously. Of course a Chinaman appeared promptly.
Davidson ordered a drink and sat tight.</p>
<p>“I would have ordered twenty drinks one after another, if necessary,”
he said - Davidson’s a very abstemious man - “rather than
take that parcel out of the house again. Couldn’t leave
it in a corner without letting the woman know it was there. It
might have turned out worse for her than not bringing the thing back
at all.”</p>
<p>And so he waited, ringing the bell again and again, and swallowing
two or three iced drinks which he did not want. Presently, as
he hoped it would happen, Mrs. Schomberg came in, silk dress, long neck,
ringlets, scared eyes, and silly grin - all complete. Probably
that lazy beast had sent her out to see who was the thirsty customer
waking up the echoes of the house at this quiet hour. Bow, nod
- and she clambered up to her post behind the raised counter, looking
so helpless, so inane, as she sat there, that if it hadn’t been
for the parcel, Davidson declared, he would have thought he had merely
dreamed all that had passed between them. He ordered another drink,
to get the Chinaman out of the room, and then seized the parcel, which
was reposing on a chair near him, and with no more than a mutter - “this
is something of yours” - he rammed it swiftly into a recess in
the counter, at her feet. There! The rest was her affair.
And just in time, too. Schomberg turned up, yawning affectedly,
almost before Davidson had regained his seat. He cast about suspicious
and irate glances. An invincible placidity of expression helped
Davidson wonderfully at the moment, and the other, of course, could
have no grounds for the slightest suspicion of any sort of understanding
between his wife and this customer.</p>
<p>As to Mrs. Schomberg, she sat there like a joss. Davidson was
lost in admiration. He believed, now, that the woman had been
putting it on for years. She never even winked. It was immense!
The insight he had obtained almost frightened him; he couldn’t
get over his wonder at knowing more of the real Mrs. Schomberg than
anybody in the Islands, including Schomberg himself. She was a
miracle of dissimulation. No wonder Heyst got the girl away from
under two men’s noses, if he had her to help with the job!</p>
<p>The greatest wonder, after all, was Heyst getting mixed up with petticoats.
The fellow’s life had been open to us for years and nothing could
have been more detached from feminine associations. Except that
he stood drinks to people on suitable occasions, like any other man,
this observer of facts seemed to have no connection with earthly affairs
and passions. The very courtesy of his manner, the flavour of
playfulness in the voice set him apart. He was like a feather
floating lightly in the workaday atmosphere which was the breath of
our nostrils. For this reason whenever this looker-on took contact
with things he attracted attention. First, it was the Morrison
partnership of mystery, then came the great sensation of the Tropical
Belt Coal where indeed varied interests were involved: a real business
matter. And then came this elopement, this incongruous phenomenon
of self-assertion, the greatest wonder of all, astonishing and amusing.</p>
<p>Davidson admitted to me that, the hubbub was subsiding; and the affair
would have been already forgotten, perhaps, if that ass Schomberg had
not kept on gnashing his teeth publicly about it. It was really
provoking that Davidson should not be able to give one some idea of
the girl. Was she pretty? He didn’t know. He
had stayed the whole afternoon in Schomberg’s hotel, mainly for
the purpose of finding out something about her. But the story
was growing stale. The parties at the tables on the veranda had
other, fresher, events to talk about and Davidson shrank from making
direct inquiries. He sat placidly there, content to be disregarded
and hoping for some chance word to turn up. I shouldn’t
wonder if the good fellow hadn’t been dozing. It’s
difficult to give you an adequate idea of Davidson’s placidity.</p>
<p>Presently Schomberg, wandering about, joined a party that had taken
the table next to Davidson’s.</p>
<p>“A man like that Swede, gentlemen, is a public danger,”
he began. “I remember him for years. I won’t
say anything of his spying - well, he used to say himself he was looking
for out-of-the-way facts and what is that if not spying? He was
spying into everybody’s business. He got hold of Captain
Morrison, squeezed him dry, like you would an orange, and scared him
off to Europe to die there. Everybody knows that Captain Morrison
had a weak chest. Robbed first and murdered afterwards!
I don’t mince words - not I. Next he gets up that swindle
of the Belt Coal. You know all about it. And now, after
lining his pockets with other people’s money, he kidnaps a white
girl belonging to an orchestra which is performing in my public room
for the benefit of my patrons, and goes off to live like a prince on
that island, where nobody can get at him. A damn silly girl .
. . It’s disgusting - tfui!”</p>
<p>He spat. He choked with rage - for he saw visions, no doubt.
He jumped up from his chair, and went away to flee from them - perhaps.
He went into the room where Mrs. Schomberg sat. Her aspect could
not have been very soothing to the sort of torment from which he was
suffering.</p>
<p>Davidson did not feel called upon to defend Heyst. His proceeding
was to enter into conversation with one and another, casually, and showing
no particular knowledge of the affair, in order to discover something
about the girl. Was she anything out of the way? Was she
pretty? She couldn’t have been markedly so. She had
not attracted special notice. She was young - on that everybody
agreed. The English clerk of Tesmans remembered that she had a
sallow face. He was respectable and highly proper. He was
not the sort to associate with such people. Most of these women
were fairly battered specimens. Schomberg had them housed in what
he called the Pavilion, in the grounds, where they were hard at it mending
and washing their white dresses, and could be seen hanging them out
to dry between the trees, like a lot of washerwomen. They looked
very much like middle-aged washerwomen on the platform, too. But
the girl had been living in the main building along with the boss, the
director, the fellow with the black beard, and a hard-bitten, oldish
woman who took the piano and was understood to be the fellow’s
wife.</p>
<p>This was not a very satisfactory result. Davidson stayed on,
and even joined the table d’hôte dinner, without gleaning
any more information. He was resigned.</p>
<p>“I suppose,” he wheezed placidly, “I am bound to
see her some day.”</p>
<p>He meant to take the Samburan channel every trip, as before of course.</p>
<p>“Yes,” I said. “No doubt you will.
Some day Heyst will be signalling to you again; and I wonder what it
will be for.”</p>
<p>Davidson made no reply. He had his own ideas about that, and
his silence concealed a good deal of thought. We spoke no more
of Heyst’s girl. Before we separated, he gave me a piece
of unrelated observation.</p>
<p>“It’s funny,” he said, “but I fancy there’s
some gambling going on in the evening at Schomberg’s place, on
the quiet. I’ve noticed men strolling away in twos and threes
towards that hall where the orchestra used to play. The windows
must be specially well shuttered, because I could not spy the smallest
gleam of light from that direction; but I can’t believe that those
beggars would go in there only to sit and think of their sins in the
dark.”</p>
<p>“That’s strange. It’s incredible that Schomberg
should risk that sort of thing,” I said.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div>
<h2>PART TWO</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div>
<h3>CHAPTER ONE</h3>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>As we know, Heyst had gone to stay in Schomberg’s hotel in
complete ignorance that his person was odious to that worthy.
When he arrived, Zangiacomo’s Ladies’ Orchestra had been
established there for some time.</p>
<p>The business which had called him out from his seclusion in his lost
corner of the Eastern seas was with the Tesmans, and it had something
to do with money. He transacted it quickly, and then found himself
with nothing to do while he awaited Davidson, who was to take him back
to his solitude; for back to his solitude Heyst meant to go. He
whom we used to refer to as the Enchanted Heyst was suffering from thorough
disenchantment. Not with the islands, however. The Archipelago
has a lasting fascination. It is not easy to shake off the spell
of island life. Heyst was disenchanted with life as a whole.
His scornful temperament, beguiled into action, suffered from failure
in a subtle way unknown to men accustomed to grapple with the realities
of common human enterprise. It was like the gnawing pain of useless
apostasy, a sort of shame before his own betrayed nature; and in addition,
he also suffered from plain, downright remorse. He deemed himself
guilty of Morrison’s death. A rather absurd feeling, since
no one could possibly have foreseen the horrors of the cold, wet summer
lying in wait for poor Morrison at home.</p>
<p>It was not in Heyst’s character to turn morose; but his mental
state was not compatible with a sociable mood. He spent his evenings
sitting apart on the veranda of Schomberg’s hotel. The lamentations
of string instruments issued from the building in the hotel compound,
the approaches to which were decorated with Japanese paper lanterns
strung up between the trunks of several big trees. Scraps of tunes
more or less plaintive reached his ears. They pursued him even
into his bedroom, which opened into an upstairs veranda. The fragmentary
and rasping character of these sounds made their intrusion inexpressibly
tedious in the long run. Like most dreamers, to whom it is given
sometimes to hear the music of the spheres, Heyst, the wanderer of the
Archipelago, had a taste for silence which he had been able to gratify
for years. The islands are very quiet. One sees them lying
about, clothed in their dark garments of leaves, in a great hush of
silver and azure, where the sea without murmurs meets the sky in a ring
of magic stillness. A sort of smiling somnolence broods over them;
the very voices of their people are soft and subdued, as if afraid to
break some protecting spell.</p>
<p>Perhaps this was the very spell which had enchanted Heyst in the
early days. For him, however, that was broken. He was no
longer enchanted, though he was still a captive of the islands.
He had no intention to leave them ever. Where could he have gone
to, after all these years? Not a single soul belonging to him
lived anywhere on earth. Of this fact - not such a remote one,
after all - he had only lately become aware; for it is failure that
makes a man enter into himself and reckon up his resources. And
though he had made up his mind to retire from the world in hermit fashion,
yet he was irrationally moved by this sense of loneliness which had
come to him in the hour of renunciation. It hurt him. Nothing
is more painful than the shock of sharp contradictions that lacerate
our intelligence and our feelings.</p>
<p>Meantime Schomberg watched Heyst out of the comer of his eye.
Towards the unconscious object of his enmity he preserved a distant
lieutenant-of-the-Reserve demeanour. Nudging certain of his customers
with his elbow, he begged them to observe what airs “that Swede”
was giving himself.</p>
<p>“I really don’t know why he has come to stay in my house.
This place isn’t good enough for him. I wish to goodness
he had gone somewhere else to show off his superiority. Here I
have got up this series of concerts for you gentlemen, just to make
things a little brighter generally; and do you think he’ll condescend
to step in and listen to a piece or two of an evening? Not he.
I know him of old. There he sits at the dark end of the piazza,
all the evening long - planning some new swindle, no doubt. For
two-pence I would ask him to go and look for quarters somewhere else;
only one doesn’t like to treat a white man like that out in the
tropics. I don’t know how long he means to stay, but I’m
willing to bet a trifle that he’ll never work himself up to the
point of spending the fifty cents of entrance money for the sake of
a little good music.”</p>
<p>Nobody cared to bet, or the hotel-keeper would have lost. One
evening Heyst was driven to desperation by the rasped, squeaked, scraped
snatches of tunes pursuing him even to his hard couch, with a mattress
as thin as a pancake and a diaphanous mosquito net. He descended
among the trees, where the soft glow of Japanese lanterns picked out
parts of their great rugged trunks, here and there, in the great mass
of darkness under the lofty foliage. More lanterns, of the shape
of cylindrical concertinas, hanging in a row from a slack string, decorated
the doorway of what Schomberg called grandiloquently “my concert-hall.”
In his desperate mood Heyst ascended three steps, lifted a calico curtain,
and went in.</p>
<p>The uproar in that small, barn-like structure, built of imported
pine boards, and raised clear of the ground, was simply stunning.
An instrumental uproar, screaming, grunting, whining, sobbing, scraping,
squeaking some kind of lively air; while a grand piano, operated upon
by a bony, red-faced woman with bad-tempered nostrils, rained hard notes
like hail through the tempest of fiddles. The small platform was
filled with white muslin dresses and crimson sashes slanting from shoulders
provided with bare arms, which sawed away without respite. Zangiacomo
conducted. He wore a white mess-jacket, a black dress waistcoat,
and white trousers. His longish, tousled hair and his great beard
were purple-black. He was horrible. The heat was terrific.
There were perhaps thirty people having drinks at several little tables.
Heyst, quite overcome by the volume of noise, dropped into a chair.
In the quick time of that music, in the varied, piercing clamour of
the strings, in the movements of the bare arms, in the low dresses,
the coarse faces, the stony eyes of the executants, there was a suggestion
of brutality - something cruel, sensual and repulsive.</p>
<p>“This is awful!” Heyst murmured to himself.</p>
<p>But there is an unholy fascination in systematic noise. He
did not flee from it incontinently, as one might have expected him to
do. He remained, astonished at himself for remaining, since nothing
could have been more repulsive to his tastes, more painful to his senses,
and, so to speak, more contrary to his genius, than this rude exhibition
of vigour. The Zangiacomo band was not making music; it was simply
murdering silence with a vulgar, ferocious energy. One felt as
if witnessing a deed of violence; and that impression was so strong
that it seemed marvellous to see the people sitting so quietly on their
chairs, drinking so calmly out of their glasses, and giving no signs
of distress, anger, or fear. Heyst averted his gaze from the unnatural
spectacle of their indifference.</p>
<p>When the piece of music came to an end the relief was so great that
he felt slightly dizzy, as if a chasm of silence had yawned at his feet.
When he raised his eyes, the audience, most perversely, was exhibiting
signs of animation and interest in their faces, and the women in white
muslin dresses were coming down in pairs from the platform into the
body of Schomberg’s “concert-hall.” They dispersed
themselves all over the place. The male creature with the hooked
nose and purple-black beard disappeared somewhere. This was the
interval during which, as the astute Schomberg had stipulated, the members
of the orchestra were encouraged to favour the members of the audience
with their company - that is, such members as seemed inclined to fraternize
with the arts in a familiar and generous manner; the symbol of familiarity
and generosity consisting in offers of refreshment.</p>
<p>The procedure struck Heyst as highly incorrect. However, the
impropriety of Schomberg’s ingenious scheme was defeated by the
circumstance that most of the women were no longer young, and that none
of them had ever been beautiful. Their more or less worn checks
were slightly rouged, but apart from that fact, which might have been
simply a matter of routine, they did not seem to take the success of
the scheme unduly to heart. The impulse to fraternize with the
arts being obviously weak in the audience, some of the musicians sat
down listlessly at unoccupied tables, while others went on perambulating
the central passage: arm in arm, glad enough, no doubt, to stretch their
legs while resting their arms. Their crimson sashes gave a factitious
touch of gaiety to the smoky atmosphere of the concert-hall; and Heyst
felt a sudden pity for these beings, exploited, hopeless, devoid of
charm and grace, whose fate of cheerless dependence invested their coarse
and joyless features with a touch of pathos.</p>
<p>Heyst was temperamentally sympathetic. To have them passing
and repassing close to his little table was painful to him. He
was preparing to rise and go out when he noticed that two white muslin
dresses and crimson sashes had not yet left the platform. One
of these dresses concealed the raw-boned frame of the woman with the
bad-tempered curve to her nostrils. She was no less a personage
than Mrs. Zangiacomo. She had left the piano, and, with her back
to the hall, was preparing the parts for the second half of the concert,
with a brusque, impatient action of her ugly elbow. This task
done, she turned, and, perceiving the other white muslin dress motionless
on a chair in the second row, she strode towards it between the music-stands
with an aggressive and masterful gait. On the lap of that dress
there lay, unclasped and idle, a pair of small hands, not very white,
attached to well-formed arms. The next detail Heyst was led to
observe was the arrangement of the hair - two thick, brown tresses rolled
round an attractively shaped head.</p>
<p>“A girl, by Jove!” he exclaimed mentally.</p>
<p>It was evident that she was a girl. It was evident in the outline
of the shoulders, in the slender white bust springing up, barred slantwise
by the crimson sash, from the bell-shaped spread of muslin skirt hiding
the chair on which she sat averted a little from the body of the hall.
Her feet, in low white shoes, were crossed prettily.</p>
<p>She had captured Heyst’s awakened faculty of observation; he
had the sensation of a new experience. That was because his faculty
of observation had never before been captured by any feminine creature
in that marked and exclusive fashion. He looked at her anxiously,
as no man ever looks at another man; and he positively forgot where
he was. He had lost touch with his surroundings. The big
woman, advancing, concealed the girl from his sight for a moment.
She bent over the seated youthful figure, in passing it very close,
as if to drop a word into its ear. Her lips did certainly move.
But what sort of word could it have been to make the girl jump up so
swiftly? Heyst, at his table, was surprised into a sympathetic
start. He glanced quickly round. Nobody was looking towards
the platform; and when his eyes swept back there again, the girl, with
the big woman treading at her heels, was coming down the three steps
from the platform to the floor of the hall. There she paused,
stumbled one pace forward, and stood still again, while the other -
the escort, the dragoon, the coarse big woman of the piano - passed
her roughly, and, marching truculently down the centre aisle between
the chairs and tables, went out to rejoin the hook-nosed Zangiacomo
somewhere outside. During her extraordinary transit, as if everything
in the hall were dirt under her feet, her scornful eyes met the upward
glance of Heyst, who looked away at once towards the girl. She
had not moved. Her arms hung down; her eyelids were lowered.</p>
<p>Heyst laid down his half-smoked cigar and compressed his lips.
Then he got up. It was the same sort of impulse which years ago
had made him cross the sandy street of the abominable town of Delli
in the island of Timor and accost Morrison, practically a stranger to
him then, a man in trouble, expressively harassed, dejected, lonely.</p>
<p>It was the same impulse. But he did not recognize it.
He was not thinking of Morrison then. It may be said that, for
the first time since the final abandonment of the Samburan coal mine,
he had completely forgotten the late Morrison. It is true that
to a certain extent he had forgotten also where he was. Thus,
unchecked by any sort of self consciousness, Heyst walked up the central
passage.</p>
<p>Several of the women, by this time, had found anchorage here and
there among the occupied tables. They talked to the men, leaning
on their elbows, and suggesting funnily - if it hadn’t been for
the crimson sashes - in their white dresses an assembly of middle-aged
brides with free and easy manners and hoarse voices. The murmuring
noise of conversations carried on with some spirit filled Schomberg’s
concert-room. Nobody remarked Heyst’s movements; for indeed
he was not the only man on his legs there. He had been confronting
the girl for some time before she became aware of his presence.
She was looking down, very still, without colour, without glances, without
voice, without movement. It was only when Heyst addressed her
in his courteous tone that she raised her eyes.</p>
<p>“Excuse me,” he said in English, “but that horrible
female has done something to you. She has pinched you, hasn’t
she? I am sure she pinched you just now, when she stood by your
chair.”</p>
<p>The girl received this overture with the wide, motionless stare of
profound astonishment. Heyst, vexed with himself, suspected that
she did not understand what he said. One could not tell what nationality
these women were, except that they were of all sorts. But she
was astonished almost more by the near presence of the man himself,
by his largely bald head, by the white brow, the sunburnt cheeks, the
long, horizontal moustaches of crinkly bronze hair, by the kindly expression
of the man’s blue eyes looking into her own. He saw the
stony amazement in hers give way to a momentary alarm, which was succeeded
by an expression of resignation.</p>
<p>“I am sure she pinched your arm most cruelly,” he murmured,
rather disconcerted now at what he had done.</p>
<p>It was a great comfort to hear her say:</p>
<p>“It wouldn’t have been the first time. And suppose
she did - what are you going to do about it?”</p>
<p>“I don’t know,” he said with a faint, remote playfulness
in his tone which had not been heard in it lately, and which seemed
to catch her ear pleasantly. “I am grieved to say that I
don’t know. But can I do anything? What would you
wish me to do? Pray command me.”</p>
<p>Again, the greatest astonishment became visible in her face; for
she now perceived how different he was from the other men in the room.
He was as different from them as she was different from the other members
of the ladies’ orchestra.</p>
<p>“Command you?” she breathed, after a time, in a bewildered
tone. “Who are you?” she asked a little louder.</p>
<p>“I am staying in this hotel for a few days. I just dropped
in casually here. This outrage - ”</p>
<p>“Don’t you try to interfere,” she said so earnestly
that Heyst asked, in his faintly playful tone:</p>
<p>“Is it your wish that I should leave you?”</p>
<p>“I haven’t said that,” the girl answered.
“She pinched me because I didn’t get down here quick enough
- ”</p>
<p>“I can’t tell you how indignant I am - ” said Heyst.
“But since you are down here now,” he went on, with the
ease of a man of the world speaking to a young lady in a drawing-room,
“hadn’t we better sit down?”</p>
<p>She obeyed his inviting gesture, and they sat down on the nearest
chairs. They looked at each other across a little round table
with a surprised, open gaze, self-consciousness growing on them so slowly
that it was a long time before they averted their eyes; and very soon
they met again, temporarily, only to rebound, as it were. At last
they steadied in contact, but by that time, say some fifteen minutes
from the moment when they sat down, the “interval” came
to an end.</p>
<p>So much for their eyes. As to the conversation, it had been
perfectly insignificant because naturally they had nothing to say to
each other. Heyst had been interested by the girl’s physiognomy.
Its expression was neither simple nor yet very clear. It was not
distinguished - that could not be expected - but the features had more
fineness than those of any other feminine countenance he had ever had
the opportunity to observe so closely. There was in it something
indefinably audacious and infinitely miserable - because the temperament
and the existence of that girl were reflected in it. But her voice!
It seduced Heyst by its amazing quality. It was a voice fit to
utter the most exquisite things, a voice which would have made silly
chatter supportable and the roughest talk fascinating. Heyst drank
in its charm as one listens to the tone of some instrument without heeding
the tune.</p>
<p>“Do you sing as well as play?” he asked her abruptly.</p>
<p>“Never sang a note in my life,” she said, obviously surprised
by the irrelevant question; for they had not been discoursing of sweet
sounds. She was clearly unaware of her voice. “I don’t
remember that I ever had much reason to sing since I was little,”
she added.</p>
<p>That inelegant phrase, by the mere vibrating, warm nobility of the
sound, found its way into Heyst’s heart. His mind, cool,
alert, watched it sink there with a sort of vague concern at the absurdity
of the occupation, till it rested at the bottom, deep down, where our
unexpressed longings lie.</p>
<p>“You are English, of course?” he said.</p>
<p>“What do you think?” she answered in the most charming
accents. Then, as if thinking that it was her turn to place a
question: “Why do you always smile when you speak?”</p>
<p>It was enough to make anyone look grave, but her good faith was so
evident that Heyst recovered himself at once.</p>
<p>“It’s my unfortunate manner - ” he said with his
delicate, polished playfulness. “It is very objectionable
to you?”</p>
<p>She was very serious.</p>
<p>“No. I only noticed it. I haven’t come across
so many pleasant people as all that, in my life.”</p>
<p>“It’s certain that this woman who plays the piano is
infinitely more disagreeable than any cannibal I have ever had to do
with.”</p>
<p>“I believe you!” She shuddered. “How
did you come to have anything to do with cannibals?”</p>
<p>“It would be too long a tale,” said Heyst with a faint
smile. Heyst’s smiles were rather melancholy, and accorded
badly with his great moustaches, under which his mere playfulness lurked
as comfortable as a shy bird in its native thicket. “Much
too long. How did you get amongst this lot here?”</p>
<p>“Bad luck,” she answered briefly.</p>
<p>“No doubt, no doubt,” Heyst assented with slight nods.
Then, still indignant at the pinch which he had divined rather than
actually seen inflicted: “I say, couldn’t you defend yourself
somehow?”</p>
<p>She had risen already. The ladies of the orchestra were slowly
regaining their places. Some were already seated, idle stony-eyed,
before the music-stands. Heyst was standing up, too.</p>
<p>“They are too many for me,” she said.</p>
<p>These few words came out of the common experience of mankind; yet
by virtue of her voice, they thrilled Heyst like a revelation.
His feelings were in a state of confusion, but his mind was clear.</p>
<p>“That’s bad. But it isn’t actual ill-usage
that this girl is complaining of,” he thought lucidly after she
left him.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h3>CHAPTER TWO</h3>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>That was how it began. How it was that it ended, as we know
it did end, is not so easy to state precisely. It is very clear
that Heyst was not indifferent, I won’t say to the girl, but to
the girl’s fate. He was the same man who had plunged after
the submerged Morrison whom he hardly knew otherwise than by sight and
through the usual gossip of the islands. But this was another
sort of plunge altogether, and likely to lead to a very different kind
of partnership.</p>
<p>Did he reflect at all? Probably. He was sufficiently
reflective. But if he did, it was with insufficient knowledge.
For there is no evidence that he paused at any time between the date
of that evening and the morning of the flight. Truth to say, Heyst
was not one of those men who pause much. Those dreamy spectators
of the world’s agitation are terrible once the desire to act gets
hold of them. They lower their heads and charge a wall with an
amazing serenity which nothing but an indisciplined imagination can
give.</p>
<p>He was not a fool. I suppose he knew - or at least he felt
- where this was leading him. But his complete inexperience gave
him the necessary audacity. The girl’s voice was charming
when she spoke to him of her miserable past, in simple terms, with a
sort of unconscious cynicism inherent in the truth of the ugly conditions
of poverty. And whether because he was humane or because her voice
included all the modulations of pathos, cheerfulness, and courage in
its compass, it was not disgust that the tale awakened in him, but the
sense of an immense sadness.</p>
<p>On a later evening, during the interval between the two parts of
the concert, the girl told Heyst about herself. She was almost
a child of the streets. Her father was a musician in the orchestras
of small theatres. Her mother ran away from him while she was
little, and the landladies of various poor lodging-houses had attended
casually to her abandoned childhood. It was never positive starvation
and absolute rags, but it was the hopeless grip of poverty all the time.
It was her father who taught her to play the violin. It seemed
that he used to get drunk sometimes, but without pleasure, and only
because he was unable to forget his fugitive wife. After he had
a paralytic stroke, falling over with a crash in the well of a music-hall
orchestra during the performance, she had joined the Zangiacomo company.
He was now in a home for incurables.</p>
<p>“And I am here,” she finished, “with no one to
care if I make a hole in the water the next chance I get or not.”</p>
<p>Heyst told her that he thought she could do a little better than
that, if it was only a question of getting out of the world. She
looked at him with special attention, and with a puzzled expression
which gave to her face an air of innocence.</p>
<p>This was during one of the “intervals” between the two
parts of the concert. She had come down that time without being
incited thereto by a pinch from the awful Zangiacomo woman. It
is difficult to suppose that she was seduced by the uncovered intellectual
forehead and the long reddish moustaches of her new friend. New
is not the right word. She had never had a friend before; and
the sensation of this friendliness going out to her was exciting by
its novelty alone. Besides, any man who did not resemble Schomberg
appeared for that very reason attractive. She was afraid of the
hotel-keeper, who, in the daytime, taking advantage of the fact that
she lived in the hotel itself, and not in the Pavilion with the other
“artists” prowled round her, mute, hungry, portentous behind
his great beard, or else assailed her in quiet corners and empty passages
with deep, mysterious murmurs from behind, which, not withstanding their
clear import, sounded horribly insane somehow.</p>
<p>The contrast of Heyst’s quiet, polished manner gave her special
delight and filled her with admiration. She had never seen anything
like that before. If she had, perhaps, known kindness in her life,
she had never met the forms of simple courtesy. She was interested
by it as a very novel experience, not very intelligible, but distinctly
pleasurable.</p>
<p>“I tell you they are too many for me,” she repeated,
sometimes recklessly, but more often shaking her head with ominous dejection.</p>
<p>She had, of course, no money at all. The quantities of “black
men” all about frightened her. She really had no definite
idea where she was on the surface of the globe. The orchestra
was generally taken from the steamer to some hotel, and kept shut up
there till it was time to go on board another steamer. She could
not remember the names she heard.</p>
<p>“How do you call this place again?” she used to ask Heyst.</p>
<p>“Sourabaya,” he would say distinctly, and would watch
the discouragement at the outlandish sound coming into her eyes, which
were fastened on his face.</p>
<p>He could not defend himself from compassion. He suggested that
she might go to the consul, but it was his conscience that dictated
this advice, not his conviction. She had never heard of the animal
or of its uses. A consul! What was it? Who was he?
What could he do? And when she learned that perhaps he could be
induced to send her home, her head dropped on her breast.</p>
<p>“What am I to do when I get there?” she murmured with
an intonation so just, with an accent so penetrating - the charm of
her voice did not fail her even in whispering - that Heyst seemed to
see the illusion of human fellowship on earth vanish before the naked
truth of her existence, and leave them both face to face in a moral
desert as arid as the sands of Sahara, without restful shade, without
refreshing water.</p>
<p>She leaned slightly over the little table, the same little table
at which they had sat when they first met each other; and with no other
memories but of the stones in the streets her childhood had known, in
the distress of the incoherent, confused, rudimentary impressions of
her travels inspiring her with a vague terror of the world she said
rapidly, as one speaks in desperation:</p>
<p>“<i>You</i> do something! You are a gentleman.
It wasn’t I who spoke to you first, was it? I didn’t
begin, did I? It was you who came along and spoke to me when I
was standing over there. What did you want to speak to me for?
I don’t care what it is, but you must do something.”</p>
<p>Her attitude was fierce and entreating at the same time - clamorous,
in fact though her voice had hardly risen above a breath. It was
clamorous enough to be noticed. Heyst, on purpose, laughed aloud.
She nearly choked with indignation at this brutal heartlessness.</p>
<p>“What did you mean, then, by saying ‘command me!’?”
she almost hissed.</p>
<p>Something hard in his mirthless stare, and a quiet final “All
right,” steadied her.</p>
<p>“I am not rich enough to buy you out,” he went on, speaking
with an extraordinary detached grin, “even if it were to be done;
but I can always steal you.”</p>
<p>She looked at him profoundly, as though these words had a hidden
and very complicated meaning.</p>
<p>“Get away now,” he said rapidly, “and try to smile
as you go.”</p>
<p>She obeyed with unexpected readiness; and as she had a set of very
good white teeth, the effect of the mechanical, ordered smile was joyous,
radiant. It astonished Heyst. No wonder, it flashed through
his mind, women can deceive men so completely. The faculty was
inherent in them; they seemed to be created with a special aptitude.
Here was a smile the origin of which was well known to him; and yet
it had conveyed a sensation of warmth, had given him a sort of ardour
to live which was very new to his experience.</p>
<p>By this time she was gone from the table, and had joined the other
“ladies of the orchestra.” They trooped towards the
platform, driven in truculently by the haughty mate of Zangiacomo, who
looked as though she were restraining herself with difficulty from punching
their backs. Zangiacomo followed, with his great, pendulous dyed
beard and short mess-jacket, with an aspect of hang-dog concentration
imparted by his drooping head and the uneasiness of his eyes, which
were set very close together. He climbed the steps last of all,
turned about, displaying his purple beard to the hall, and tapped with
his bow. Heyst winced in anticipation of the horrible racket.
It burst out immediately unabashed and awful. At the end of the
platform the woman at the piano, presenting her cruel profile, her head
tilted back, banged the keys without looking at the music.</p>
<p>Heyst could not stand the uproar for more than a minute. He
went out, his brain racked by the rhythm of some more or less Hungarian
dance music. The forests inhabited by the New Guinea cannibals
where he had encountered the most exciting of his earlier futile adventures
were silent. And this adventure, not in its execution, perhaps,
but in its nature, required even more nerve than anything he had faced
before. Walking among the paper lanterns suspended to trees he
remembered with regret the gloom and the dead stillness of the forests
at the back of Geelvink Bay, perhaps the wildest, the unsafest, the
most deadly spot on earth from which the sea can be seen. Oppressed
by his thoughts, he sought the obscurity and peace of his bedroom; but
they were not complete. The distant sounds of the concert reached
his ear, faint indeed, but still disturbing. Neither did he feel
very safe in there; for that sentiment depends not on extraneous circumstances
but on our inward conviction. He did not attempt to go to sleep;
he did not even unbutton the top button of his tunic. He sat in
a chair and mused. Formerly, in solitude and in silence, he had
been used to think clearly and sometimes even profoundly, seeing life
outside the flattering optical delusion of everlasting hope, of conventional
self-deceptions, of an ever-expected happiness. But now he was
troubled; a light veil seemed to hang before his mental vision; the
awakening of a tenderness, indistinct and confused as yet, towards an
unknown woman.</p>
<p>Gradually silence, a real silence, had established itself round him.
The concert was over; the audience had gone; the concert-hall was dark;
and even the Pavilion, where the ladies’ orchestra slept after
its noisy labours, showed not a gleam of light. Heyst suddenly
felt restless in all his limbs, as this reaction from the long immobility
would not be denied, he humoured it by passing quietly along the back
veranda and out into the grounds at the side of the house, into the
black shadows under the trees, where the extinguished paper lanterns
were gently swinging their globes like withered fruit.</p>
<p>He paced there to and fro for a long time, a calm, meditative ghost
in his white drill-suit, revolving in his head thoughts absolutely novel,
disquieting, and seductive; accustoming his mind to the contemplation
of his purpose, in order that by being faced steadily it should appear
praiseworthy and wise. For the use of reason is to justify the
obscure desires that move our conduct, impulses, passions, prejudices,
and follies, and also our fears.</p>
<p>He felt that he had engaged himself by a rash promise to an action
big with incalculable consequences. And then he asked himself
if the girl had understood what he meant. Who could tell?
He was assailed by all sorts of doubts. Raising his head, he perceived
something white flitting between the trees. It vanished almost
at once; but there could be no mistake. He was vexed at being
detected roaming like this in the middle of the night. Who could
that be? It never occurred to him that perhaps the girl, too,
would not be able to sleep. He advanced prudently. Then
he saw the white, phantom-like apparition again; and the next moment
all his doubts as to the state of her mind were laid at rest, because
he felt her clinging to him after the manner of supplicants all the
world over. Her whispers were so incoherent that he could not
understand anything; but this did not prevent him from being profoundly
moved. He had no illusions about her; but his sceptical mind was
dominated by the fulness of his heart.</p>
<p>“Calm yourself, calm yourself,” he murmured in her ear,
returning her clasp at first mechanically, and afterwards with a growing
appreciation of her distressed humanity. The heaving of her breast
and the trembling of all her limbs, in the closeness of his embrace,
seemed to enter his body, to infect his very heart. While she
was growing quieter in his arms, he was becoming more agitated, as if
there were only a fixed quantity of violent emotion on this earth.
The very night seemed more dumb, more still, and the immobility of the
vague, black shapes, surrounding him more perfect.</p>
<p>“It will be all right,” he tried to reassure her, with
a tone of conviction, speaking into her ear, and of necessity clasping
her more closely than before.</p>
<p>Either the words or the action had a very good effect. He heard
a light sigh of relief. She spoke with a calmed ardour.</p>
<p>“Oh, I knew it would be all right from the first time you spoke
to me! Yes, indeed, I knew directly you came up to me that evening.
I knew it would be all right, if you only cared to make it so; but of
course I could not tell if you meant it. ‘Command me,’
you said. Funny thing for a man like you to say. Did you
really mean it? You weren’t making fun of me?”</p>
<p>He protested that he had been a serious person all his life.</p>
<p>“I believe you,” she said ardently. He was touched
by this declaration. “It’s the way you have of speaking
as if you were amused with people,” she went on. “But
I wasn’t deceived. I could see you were angry with that
beast of a woman. And you are clever. You spotted something
at once. You saw it in my face, eh? It isn’t a bad
face - say? You’ll never be sorry. Listen - I’m
not twenty yet. It’s the truth, and I can’t be so
bad looking, or else - I will tell you straight that I have been worried
and pestered by fellows like this before. I don’t know what
comes to them - ”</p>
<p>She was speaking hurriedly. She choked, and then exclaimed,
with an accent of despair:</p>
<p>“What is it? What’s the matter?”</p>
<p>Heyst had removed his arms from her suddenly, and had recoiled a
little. “Is it my fault? I didn’t even look
at them, I tell you straight. Never! Have I looked at you?
Tell me. It was you that began it.”</p>
<p>In truth, Heyst had shrunk from the idea of competition with fellows
unknown, with Schomberg the hotel-keeper. The vaporous white figure
before him swayed pitifully in the darkness. He felt ashamed of
his fastidiousness.</p>
<p>“I am afraid we have been detected,” he murmured.
“I think I saw somebody on the path between the house and the
bushes behind you.”</p>
<p>He had seen no one. It was a compassionate lie, if there ever
was one. His compassion was as genuine as his shrinking had been,
and in his judgement more honourable.</p>
<p>She didn’t turn her head. She was obviously relieved.</p>
<p>“Would it be that brute?” she breathed out, meaning Schomberg,
of course. “He’s getting too forward with me now.
What can you expect? Only this evening, after supper, he - but
I slipped away. You don’t mind him, do you? Why, I
could face him myself now that I know you care for me. A girl
can always put up a fight. You believe me? Only it isn’t
easy to stand up for yourself when you feel there’s nothing and
nobody at your back. There’s nothing so lonely in the world
as a girl who has got to look after herself. When I left poor
dad in that home - it was in the country, near a village - I came out
of the gates with seven shillings and threepence in my old purse, and
my railway ticket. I tramped a mile, and got into a train - ”</p>
<p>She broke off, and was silent for a moment.</p>
<p>“Don’t you throw me over now,” she went on.
“If you did, what should I do? I should have to live, to
be sure, because I’d be afraid to kill myself, but you would have
done a thousand times worse than killing a body. You told me you
had been always alone, you had never had a dog even. Well, then,
I won’t be in anybody’s way if I live with you - not even
a dog’s. And what else did you mean when you came up and
looked at me so close?”</p>
<p>“Close? Did I?” he murmured unstirring before her
in the profound darkness. “So close as that?”</p>
<p>She had an outbreak of anger and despair in subdued tones.</p>
<p>“Have you forgotten, then? What did you expect to find?
I know what sort of girl I am; but all the same I am not the sort that
men turn their backs on - and you ought to know it, unless you aren’t
made like the others. Oh, forgive me! You aren’t like
the others; you are like no one in the world I ever spoke to.
Don’t you care for me? Don’t you see - ?”</p>
<p>What he saw was that, white and spectral, she was putting out her
arms to him out of the black shadows like an appealing ghost.
He took her hands, and was affected, almost surprised, to find them
so warm, so real, so firm, so living in his grasp. He drew her
to him, and she dropped her head on his shoulder with a deep-sigh.</p>
<p>“I am dead tired,” she whispered plaintively.</p>
<p>He put his arms around her, and only by the convulsive movements
of her body became aware that she was sobbing without a sound.
Sustaining her, he lost himself in the profound silence of the night.
After a while she became still, and cried quietly. Then, suddenly,
as if waking up, she asked:</p>
<p>“You haven’t seen any more of that somebody you thought
was spying about?”</p>
<p>He started at her quick, sharp whisper, and answered that very likely
he had been mistaken.</p>
<p>“If it was anybody at all,” she reflected aloud, “it
wouldn’t have been anyone but that hotel woman - the landlord’s
wife.”</p>
<p>“Mrs. Schomberg,” Heyst said, surprised.</p>
<p>“Yes. Another one that can’t sleep o’ nights.
Why? Don’t you see why? Because, of course, she sees
what’s going on. That beast doesn’t even try to keep
it from her. If she had only the least bit of spirit! She
knows how I feel, too, only she’s too frightened even to look
him in the face, let alone open her mouth. He would tell her to
go hang herself.”</p>
<p>For some time Heyst said nothing. A public, active contest
with the hotel-keeper was not to be thought of. The idea was horrible.
Whispering gently to the girl, he tried to explain to her that as things
stood, an open withdrawal from the company would be probably opposed.
She listened to his explanation anxiously, from time to time pressing
the hand she had sought and got hold of in the dark.</p>
<p>“As I told you, I am not rich enough to buy you out so I shall
steal you as soon as I can arrange some means of getting away from here.
Meantime it would be fatal to be seen together at night. We mustn’t
give ourselves away. We had better part at once. I think
I was mistaken just now; but if, as you say, that poor Mrs. Schomberg
can’t sleep of nights, we must be more careful. She would
tell the fellow.”</p>
<p>The girl had disengaged herself from his loose hold while he talked,
and now stood free of him, but still clasping his hand firmly.</p>
<p>“Oh, no,” she said with perfect assurance. “I
tell you she daren’t open her mouth to him. And she isn’t
as silly as she looks. She wouldn’t give us away.
She knows a trick worth two of that. She’ll help - that’s
what she’ll do, if she dares do anything at all.”</p>
<p>“You seem to have a very clear view of the situation,”
said Heyst, and received a warm, lingering kiss for this commendation.</p>
<p>He discovered that to-part from her was not such an easy matter as
he had supposed it would be.</p>
<p>“Upon my word,” he said before they separated, “I
don’t even know your name.”</p>
<p>“Don’t you? They call me Alma. I don’t
know why. Silly name! Magdalen too. It doesn’t
matter; you can call me by whatever name you choose. Yes, you
give me a name. Think of one you would like the sound of - something
quite new. How I should like to forget everything that has gone
before, as one forgets a dream that’s done with, fright and all!
I would try.”</p>
<p>“Would you really?” he asked in a murmur. “But
that’s not forbidden. I understand that women easily forget
whatever in their past diminishes them in their eyes.”</p>
<p>“It’s your eyes that I was thinking of, for I’m
sure I’ve never wished to forget anything till you came up to
me that night and looked me through and through. I know I’m
not much account; but I know how to stand by a man. I stood by
father ever since I could understand. He wasn’t a bad chap.
Now that I can’t be of any use to him, I would just as soon forget
all that and make a fresh start. But these aren’t things
that I could talk to you about. What could I ever talk to you
about?”</p>
<p>“Don’t let it trouble you,” Heyst said. “Your
voice is enough. I am in love with it, whatever it says.”</p>
<p>She remained silent for a while, as if rendered breathless by this
quiet statement.</p>
<p>“Oh! I wanted to ask you - ”</p>
<p>He remembered that she probably did not know his name, and expected
the question to be put to him now; but after a moment of hesitation
she went on:</p>
<p>“Why was it that you told me to smile this evening in the concert-room
there - you remember?”</p>
<p>“I thought we were being observed. A smile is the best
of masks. Schomberg was at a table next but one to us, drinking
with some Dutch clerks from the town. No doubt he was watching
us - watching you, at least. That’s why I asked you to smile.”</p>
<p>“Ah, that’s why. It never came into my head!”</p>
<p>“And you did it very well, too - very readily, as if you had
understood my intention.”</p>
<p>“Readily!” she repeated. “Oh, I was ready
enough to smile then. That’s the truth. It was the
first time for years I may say that I felt disposed to smile.
I’ve not had many chances to smile in my life, I can tell you;
especially of late.”</p>
<p>“But you do it most charmingly - in a perfectly fascinating
way.”</p>
<p>He paused. She stood still, waiting for more with the stillness
of extreme delight, wishing to prolong the sensation.</p>
<p>“It astonished me,” he added. “It went as
straight to my heart as though you had smiled for the purpose of dazzling
me. I felt as if I had never seen a smile before in my life.
I thought of it after I left you. It made me restless.”</p>
<p>“It did all that?” came her voice, unsteady, gentle,
and incredulous.</p>
<p>“If you had not smiled as you did, perhaps I should not have
come out here tonight,” he said, with his playful earnestness
of tone. “It was your triumph.”</p>
<p>He felt her lips touch his lightly, and the next moment she was gone.
Her white dress gleamed in the distance, and then the opaque darkness
of the house seemed to swallow it. Heyst waited a little before
he went the same way, round the comer, up the steps of the veranda,
and into his room, where he lay down at last - not to sleep, but to
go over in his mind all that had been said at their meeting.</p>
<p>“It’s exactly true about that smile,” he thought.
There he had spoken the truth to her; and about her voice, too.
For the rest - what must be must be.</p>
<p>A great wave of heat passed over him. He turned on his back,
flung his arms crosswise on the broad, hard bed, and lay still, open-eyed
under the mosquito net, till daylight entered his room, brightened swiftly,
and turned to unfailing sunlight. He got up then, went to a small
looking-glass hanging on the wall, and stared at himself steadily.
It was not a new-born vanity which induced this long survey. He
felt so strange that he could not resist the suspicion of his personal
appearance having changed during the night. What he saw in the
glass, however, was the man he knew before. It was almost a disappointment
- a belittling of his recent experience. And then he smiled at
his naïveness; for, being over five and thirty years of age, he
ought to have known that in most cases the body is the unalterable mask
of the soul, which even death itself changes but little, till it is
put out of sight where no changes matter any more, either to our friends
or to our enemies.</p>
<p>Heyst was not conscious of either friends or of enemies. It
was the very essence of his life to be a solitary achievement, accomplished
not by hermit-like withdrawal with its silence and immobility, but by
a system of restless wandering, by the detachment of an impermanent
dweller amongst changing scenes. In this scheme he had perceived
the means of passing through life without suffering and almost without
a single care in the world - invulnerable because elusive.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h3>CHAPTER THREE</h3>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>For fifteen years Heyst had wandered, invariably courteous and unapproachable,
and in return was generally considered a “queer chap.”
He had started off on these travels of his after the death of his father,
an expatriated Swede who died in London, dissatisfied with his country
and angry with all the world, which had instinctively rejected his wisdom.</p>
<p>Thinker, stylist, and man of the world in his time, the elder Heyst
had begun by coveting all the joys, those of the great and those of
the humble, those of the fools and those of the sages. For more
than sixty years he had dragged on this painful earth of ours the most
weary, the most uneasy soul that civilization had ever fashioned to
its ends of disillusion and regret. One could not refuse him a
measure of greatness, for he was unhappy in a way unknown to mediocre
souls. His mother Heyst had never known, but he kept his father’s
pale, distinguished face in affectionate memory. He remembered
him mainly in an ample blue dressing-gown in a large house of a quiet
London suburb. For three years, after leaving school at the age
of eighteen, he had lived with the elder Heyst, who was then writing
his last book. In this work, at the end of his life, he claimed
for mankind that right to absolute moral and intellectual liberty of
which he no longer believed them worthy.</p>
<p>Three years of such companionship at that plastic and impressionable
age were bound to leave in the boy a profound mistrust of life.
The young man learned to reflect, which is a destructive process, a
reckoning of the cost. It is not the clear-sighted who lead the
world. Great achievements are accomplished in a blessed, warm
mental fog, which the pitiless cold blasts of the father’s analysis
had blown away from the son.</p>
<p>“I’ll drift,” Heyst had said to himself deliberately.</p>
<p>He did not mean intellectually or sentimentally or morally.
He meant to drift altogether and literally, body and soul, like a detached
leaf drifting in the wind-currents under the immovable trees of a forest
glade; to drift without ever catching on to anything.</p>
<p>“This shall be my defence against life,” he had said
to himself with a sort of inward consciousness that for the son of his
father there was no other worthy alternative.</p>
<p>He became a waif and stray, austerely, from conviction, as others
do through drink, from vice, from some weakness of character - with
deliberation, as others do in despair. This, stripped of its facts,
had been Heyst’s life up to that disturbing night. Next
day, when he saw the girl called Alma, she managed to give him a glance
of frank tenderness, quick as lightning and leaving a profound impression,
a secret touch on the heart. It was in the grounds of the hotel,
about tiffin time, while the Ladies of the orchestra were strolling
back to their pavilion after rehearsal, or practice, or whatever they
called their morning musical exercises in the hall. Heyst, returning
from the town, where he had discovered that there would be difficulties
in the way of getting away at once, was crossing the compound, disappointed
and worried. He had walked almost unwittingly into the straggling
group of Zangiacomo’s performers. It was a shock to him,
on coming out of his brown study, to find the girl so near to him, as
if one waking suddenly should see the figure of his dream turned into
flesh and blood. She did not raise her shapely head, but her glance
was no dream thing. It was real, the most real impression of his
detached existence - so far.</p>
<p>Heyst had not acknowledged it in any way, though it seemed to him
impossible that its effect on him should not be visible to anyone who
happened to be looking on. And there were several men on the veranda,
steady customers of Schomberg’s table d’hôte, gazing
in his direction - at the ladies of the orchestra, in fact. Heyst’s
dread arose, not out of shame or timidity, but from his fastidiousness.
On getting amongst them, however, he noticed no signs of interest or
astonishment in their faces, any more than if they had been blind men.
Even Schomberg himself, who had to make way for him at the top of the
stairs, was completely unperturbed, and continued the conversation he
was carrying on with a client.</p>
<p>Schomberg, indeed, had observed “that Swede” talking
with the girl in the intervals. A crony of his had nudged him;
and he had thought that it was so much the better; the silly fellow
would keep everybody else off. He was rather pleased than otherwise
and watched them out of the corner of his eye with a malicious enjoyment
of the situation - a sort of Satanic glee. For he had little doubt
of his personal fascination, and still less of his power to get hold
of the girl, who seemed too ignorant to know how to help herself, and
who was worse than friendless, since she had for some reason incurred
the animosity of Mrs. Zangiacomo, a woman with no conscience.
The aversion she showed him as far as she dared (for it is not always
safe for the helpless to display the delicacy of their sentiments),
Schomberg pardoned on the score of feminine conventional silliness.
He had told Alma, as an argument, that she was a clever enough girl
to see that she could do no better than to put her trust in a man of
substance, in the prime of life, who knew his way about. But for
the excited trembling of his voice, and the extraordinary way in which
his eyes seemed to be starting out of his crimson, hirsute countenance,
such speeches had every character of calm, unselfish advice - which,
after the manner of lovers, passed easily into sanguine plans for the
future.</p>
<p>“We’ll soon get rid of the old woman,” he whispered
to her hurriedly, with panting ferocity. “Hang her!
I’ve never cared for her. The climate don’t suit her;
I shall tell her to go to her people in Europe. She will have
to go, too! I will see to it. <i>Eins</i>, <i>zwei</i>,
march! And then we shall sell this hotel and start another somewhere
else.”</p>
<p>He assured her that he didn’t care what he did for her sake;
and it was true. Forty-five is the age of recklessness for many
men, as if in defiance of the decay and death waiting with open arms
in the sinister valley at the bottom of the inevitable hill. Her
shrinking form, her downcast eyes, when she had to listen to him, cornered
at the end of an empty corridor, he regarded as signs of submission
to the overpowering force of his will, the recognition of his personal
fascinations. For every age is fed on illusions, lest men should
renounce life early and the human race come to an end.</p>
<p>It’s easy to imagine Schomberg’s humiliation, his shocked
fury, when he discovered that the girl who had for weeks resisted his
attacks, his prayers, and his fiercest protestations, had been snatched
from under his nose by “that Swede,” apparently without
any trouble worth speaking of. He refused to believe the fact.
He would have it, at first, that the Zangiacomos, for some unfathomable
reason, had played him a scurvy trick, but when no further doubt was
possible, he changed his view of Heyst. The despised Swede became
for Schomberg the deepest, the most dangerous, the most hateful of scoundrels.
He could not believe that the creature he had coveted with so much force
and with so little effect, was in reality tender, docile to her impulse,
and had almost offered herself to Heyst without a sense of guilt, in
a desire of safety, and from a profound need of placing her trust where
her woman’s instinct guided her ignorance. Nothing would
serve Schomberg but that she must have been circumvented by some occult
exercise of force or craft, by the laying of some subtle trap.
His wounded vanity wondered ceaselessly at the means “that Swede”
had employed to seduce her away from a man like him - Schomberg - as
though those means were bound to have been extraordinary, unheard of,
inconceivable. He slapped his forehead openly before his customers;
he would sit brooding in silence or else would burst out unexpectedly
declaiming against Heyst without measure, discretion, or prudence, with
swollen features and an affectation of outraged virtue which could not
have deceived the most childlike of moralists for a moment - and greatly
amused his audience.</p>
<p>It became a recognized entertainment to go and hear his abuse of
Heyst, while sipping iced drinks on the veranda of the hotel.
It was, in a manner, a more successful draw than the Zangiacomo concerts
had ever been - intervals and all. There was never any difficulty
in starting the performer off. Anybody could do it, by almost
any distant allusion. As likely as not he would start his endless
denunciations in the very billiard-room where Mrs. Schomberg sat enthroned
as usual, swallowing her sobs, concealing her tortures of abject humiliation
and terror under her stupid, set, everlasting grin, which, having been
provided for her by nature, was an excellent mask, in as much as nothing
- not even death itself, perhaps - could tear it away.</p>
<p>But nothing lasts in this world, at least without changing its physiognomy.
So, after a few weeks, Schomberg regained his outward calm, as if his
indignation had dried up within him. And it was time. He
was becoming a bore with his inability to talk of anything else but
Heyst’s unfitness to be at large, Heyst’s wickedness, his
wiles, his astuteness, and his criminality. Schomberg no longer
pretended to despise him. He could not have done it. After
what had happened he could not pretend, even to himself. But his
bottled-up indignation was fermenting venomously. At the time
of his immoderate loquacity one of his customers, an elderly man, had
remarked one evening:</p>
<p>“If that ass keeps on like this, he will end by going crazy.”</p>
<p>And this belief was less than half wrong. Schomberg had Heyst
on the brain. Even the unsatisfactory state of his affairs, which
had never been so unpromising since he came out East directly after
the Franco-Prussian War, he referred to some subtly noxious influence
of Heyst. It seemed to him that he could never be himself again
till he had got even with that artful Swede. He was ready to swear
that Heyst had ruined his life. The girl so unfairly, craftily,
basely decoyed away would have inspired him to success in a new start.
Obviously Mrs. Schomberg, whom he terrified by savagely silent moods
combined with underhand, poisoned glances, could give him no inspiration.
He had grown generally neglectful, but with a partiality for reckless
expedients, as if he did not care when and how his career as a hotel-keeper
was to be brought to an end. This demoralized state accounted
for what Davidson had observed on his last visit to the Schomberg establishment,
some two months after Heyst’s secret departure with the girl to
the solitude of Samburan.</p>
<p>The Schomberg of a few years ago - the Schomberg of the Bangkok days,
for instance, when he started the first of his famed table d’hôte
dinners - would never have risked anything of the sort. His genius
ran to catering, “white man for white men” and to the inventing,
elaborating, and retailing of scandalous gossip with asinine unction
and impudent delight. But now his mind was perverted by the pangs
of wounded vanity and of thwarted passion. In this state of moral
weakness Schomberg allowed himself to be corrupted.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h3>CHAPTER FOUR</h3>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>The business was done by a guest who arrived one fine morning by
mail-boat - immediately from Celebes, having boarded her in Macassar,
but generally, Schomberg understood, from up China Sea way; a wanderer
clearly, even as Heyst was, but not alone and of quite another kind.</p>
<p>Schomberg, looking up from the stern-sheets of his steam-launch,
which he used for boarding passenger ships on arrival, discovered a
dark sunken stare plunging down on him over the rail of the first-class
part of the deck. He was no great judge of physiognomy.
Human beings, for him, were either the objects of scandalous gossip
or else recipients of narrow strips of paper, with proper bill-heads
stating the name of his hotel - “W. Schomberg, proprietor, accounts
settled weekly.”</p>
<p>So in the clean-shaven, extremely thin face hanging over the mail-boat’s
rail Schomberg saw only the face of a possible “account.”
The steam-launches of other hotels were also alongside, but he obtained
the preference.</p>
<p>“You are Mr. Schomberg, aren’t you?” the face asked
quite unexpectedly.</p>
<p>“I am at your service,” he answered from below; for business
is business, and its forms and formulas must be observed, even if one’s
manly bosom is tortured by that dull rage which succeeds the fury of
baffled passion, like the glow of embers after a fierce blaze.</p>
<p>Presently the possessor of the handsome but emaciated face was seated
beside Schomberg in the stern-sheets of the launch. His body was
long and loose-jointed, his slender fingers, intertwined, clasped the
leg resting on the knee, as he lolled back in a careless yet tense attitude.
On the other side of Schomberg sat another passenger, who was introduced
by the clean-shaven man as -</p>
<p>“My secretary. He must have the room next to mine.”</p>
<p>“We can manage that easily for you.”</p>
<p>Schomberg steered with dignity, staring straight ahead, but very
much interested by these two promising “accounts.”
Their belongings, a couple of large leather trunks browned by age and
a few smaller packages, were piled up in the bows. A third individual
- a nondescript, hairy creature - had modestly made his way forward
and had perched himself on the luggage. The lower part of his
physiognomy was over-developed; his narrow and low forehead, unintelligently
furrowed by horizontal wrinkles, surmounted wildly hirsute cheeks and
a flat nose with wide, baboon-like nostrils. There was something
equivocal in the appearance of his shaggy, hair-smothered humanity.
He, too, seemed to be a follower of the clean-shaven man, and apparently
had travelled on deck with native passengers, sleeping under the awnings.
His broad, squat frame denoted great strength. Grasping the gunwales
of the launch, he displayed a pair of remarkably long arms, terminating
in thick, brown hairy paws of simian aspect.</p>
<p>“What shall we do with the fellow of mine?” the chief
of the party asked Schomberg. “There must be a boarding-house
somewhere near the port - some grog-shop where they could let him have
a mat to sleep on?”</p>
<p>Schomberg said there was a place kept by a Portuguese half-caste.</p>
<p>“A servant of yours?” he asked.</p>
<p>“Well, he hangs on to me. He is an alligator-hunter.
I picked him up in Colombia, you know. Ever been in Colombia?”</p>
<p>“No,” said Schomberg, very much surprised. “An
alligator-hunter? Funny trade! Are you coming from Colombia,
then?”</p>
<p>“Yes, but I have been coming for a long time. I come
from a good many places. I am travelling west, you see.”</p>
<p>“For sport, perhaps?” suggested Schomberg.</p>
<p>“Yes. Sort of sport. What do you say to chasing
the sun?”</p>
<p>“I see - a gentleman at large,” said Schomberg, watching
a sailing canoe about to cross his bow, and ready to clear it by a touch
of the helm.</p>
<p>The other passenger made himself heard suddenly.</p>
<p>“Hang these native craft! They always get in the way.”</p>
<p>He was a muscular, short man with eyes that gleamed and blinked,
a harsh voice, and a round, toneless, pock-marked face ornamented by
a thin, dishevelled moustache, sticking out quaintly under the tip of
a rigid nose. Schomberg made the reflection that there was nothing
secretarial about him. Both he and his long, lank principal wore
the usual white suit of the tropics, cork helmets, pipe-clayed white
shoes - all correct. The hairy nondescript creature perched on
their luggage in the bow had a check shirt and blue dungaree trousers.
He gazed in their direction from forward in an expectant, trained-animal
manner.</p>
<p>“You spoke to me first,” said Schomberg in his manly
tones. “You were acquainted with my name. Where did
you hear of me, gentlemen, may I ask?”</p>
<p>“In Manila,” answered the gentleman at large, readily.
“From a man with whom I had a game of cards one evening in the
Hotel Castille.”</p>
<p>“What man? I’ve no friends in Manila that I know
of,” wondered Schomberg with a severe frown.</p>
<p>“I can’t tell you his name. I’ve clean forgotten
it; but don’t you worry. He was anything but a friend of
yours. He called you all the names he could think of. He
said you set a lot of scandal going about him once, somewhere - in Bangkok,
I think. Yes, that’s it. You were running a table
d’hôte in Bangkok at one time, weren’t you?”</p>
<p>Schomberg, astounded by the turn of the information, could only throw
out his chest more and exaggerate his austere Lieutenant-of-the-Reserve
manner. A table d’hôte? Yes, certainly.
He always - for the sake of white men. And here in this place,
too? Yes, in this place, too.</p>
<p>“That’s all right, then.” The stranger turned
his black, cavernous, mesmerizing glance away from the bearded Schomberg,
who sat gripping the brass tiller in a sweating palm. “Many
people in the evening at your place?”</p>
<p>Schomberg had recovered somewhat.</p>
<p>“Twenty covers or so, take one day with another,” he
answered feelingly, as befitted a subject on which he was sensitive.
“Ought to be more, if only people would see that it’s for
their own good. Precious little profit I get out of it.
You are partial to tables d’hôte, gentlemen?”</p>
<p>The new guest made answer that he liked a hotel where one could find
some local people in the evening. It was infernally dull otherwise.
The secretary, in sign of approval, emitted a grunt of astonishing ferocity,
as if proposing to himself to eat the local people. All this sounded
like a longish stay, thought Schomberg, satisfied under his grave air;
till, remembering the girl snatched away from him by the last guest
who had made a prolonged stay in his hotel, he ground his teeth so audibly
that the other two looked at him in wonder. The momentary convulsion
of his florid physiognomy seemed to strike them dumb. They exchanged
a quick glance. Presently the clean-shaven man fired out another
question in his curt, unceremonious manner:</p>
<p>“You have no women in your hotel, eh?”</p>
<p>“Women!” Schomberg exclaimed indignantly, but also as
if a little frightened. “What on earth do you mean by women?
What women? There’s Mrs. Schomberg, of course,” he
added, suddenly appeased, with lofty indifference.</p>
<p>“If she knows how to keep her place, then it will do.
I can’t stand women near me. They give me the horrors,”
declared the other. “They are a perfect curse!”</p>
<p>During this outburst the secretary wore a savage grin. The
chief guest closed his sunken eyes, as if exhausted, and leaned the
back of his head against the stanchion of the awning. In this
pose, his long, feminine eyelashes were very noticeable, and his regular
features, sharp line of the jaw, and well-cut chin were brought into
prominence, giving him a used-up, weary, depraved distinction.
He did not open his eyes till the steam-launch touched the quay.
Then he and the other man got ashore quickly, entered a carriage, and
drove away to the hotel, leaving Schomberg to look after their luggage
and take care of their strange companion. The latter, looking
more like a performing bear abandoned by his show men than a human being,
followed all Schomberg’s movements step by step, close behind
his back, muttering to himself in a language that sounded like some
sort of uncouth Spanish. The hotel-keeper felt uncomfortable till
at last he got rid of him at an obscure den where a very clean, portly
Portuguese half-caste, standing serenely in the doorway, seemed to understand
exactly how to deal with clients of every kind. He took from the
creature the strapped bundle it had been hugging closely through all
its peregrinations in that strange town, and cut short Schomberg’s
attempts at explanation by a most confident -</p>
<p>“I comprehend very well, sir.”</p>
<p>“It’s more than I do,” thought Schomberg, going
away thankful at being relieved of the alligator-hunter’s company.
He wondered what these fellows were, without being able to form a guess
of sufficient probability. Their names he learned that very day
by direct inquiry “to enter in my books,” he explained in
his formal military manner, chest thrown out, beard very much in evidence.</p>
<p>The shaven man, sprawling in a long chair, with his air of withered
youth, raised his eyes languidly.</p>
<p>“My name? Oh, plain Mr. Jones - put that down - a gentleman
at large. And this is Ricardo.” The pock-marked man,
lying prostrate in another long chair, made a grimace, as if something
had tickled the end of his nose, but did not come out of his supineness.
“Martin Ricardo, secretary. You don’t want any more
of our history, do you? Eh, what? Occupation? Put
down, well - tourists. We’ve been called harder names before
now; it won’t hurt our feelings. And that fellow of mine
- where did you tuck him away? Oh, he will be all right.
When he wants anything he’ll take it. He’s Peter.
Citizen of Colombia. Peter, Pedro - I don’t know that he
ever had any other name. Pedro, alligator hunter. Oh, yes
- I’ll pay his board with the half-caste. Can’t help
myself. He’s so confoundedly devoted to me that if I were
to give him the sack he would be at my throat. Shall I tell you
how I killed his brother in the wilds of Colombia? Well, perhaps
some other time - it’s a rather long story. What I shall
always regret is that I didn’t kill him, too. I could have
done it without any extra trouble then; now it’s too late.
Great nuisance; but he’s useful sometimes. I hope you are
not going to put all this in your book?”</p>
<p>The offhand, hard manner and the contemptuous tone of “plain
Mr. Jones” disconcerted Schomberg utterly. He had never
been spoken to like this in his life. He shook his head in silence
and withdrew, not exactly scared - though he was in reality of a timid
disposition under his manly exterior - but distinctly mystified and
impressed.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h3>CHAPTER FIVE</h3>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>Three weeks later, after putting his cash-box away in the safe which
filled with its iron bulk a corner of their room, Schomberg turned towards
his wife, but without looking at her exactly, and said:</p>
<p>“I must get rid of these two. It won’t do!”</p>
<p>Mrs. Schomberg had entertained that very opinion from the first;
but she had been broken years ago into keeping her opinions to herself.
Sitting in her night attire in the light of a single candle, she was
careful not to make a sound, knowing from experience that her very assent
would be resented. With her eyes she followed the figure of Schomberg,
clad in his sleeping suit, and moving restlessly about the room.</p>
<p>He never glanced her way, for the reason that Mrs. Schomberg, in
her night attire, looked the most unattractive object in existence -
miserable, insignificant, faded, crushed, old. And the contrast
with the feminine form he had ever in his mind’s eye made his
wife’s appearance painful to his aesthetic sense.</p>
<p>Schomberg walked about swearing and fuming for the purpose of screwing
his courage up to the sticking point.</p>
<p>“Hang me if I ought not to go now, at once, this minute, into
his bedroom, and tell him to be off - him and that secretary of his
- early in the morning. I don’t mind a round game of cards,
but to make a decoy of my table d’hôte - my blood boils!
He came here because some lying rascal in Manila told him I kept a table
d’hôte.”</p>
<p>He said these things, not for Mrs. Schomberg’s information,
but simply thinking aloud, and trying to work his fury up to a point
where it would give him courage enough to face “plain Mr. Jones.”</p>
<p>“Impudent overbearing, swindling sharper,” he went on.
“I have a good mind to - ”</p>
<p>He was beside himself in his lurid, heavy, Teutonic manner, so unlike
the picturesque, lively rage of the Latin races; and though his eyes
strayed about irresolutely, yet his swollen, angry features awakened
in the miserable woman over whom he had been tyrannizing for years a
fear for his precious carcass, since the poor creature had nothing else
but that to hold on to in the world. She knew him well; but she
did not know him altogether. The last thing a woman will consent
to discover in a man whom she loves, or on whom she simply depends,
is want of courage. And, timid in her comer, she ventured to say
pressingly:</p>
<p>“Be careful, Wilhelm! Remember the knives and revolvers
in their trunks.”</p>
<p>In guise of thanks for that anxious reminder, he swore horribly in
the direction of her shrinking person. In her scanty nightdress,
and barefooted, she recalled a mediæval penitent being reproved
for her sins in blasphemous terms. Those lethal weapons were always
present to Schomberg’s mind. Personally, he had never seen
them. His part, ten days after his guests’ arrival, had
been to lounge in manly, careless attitudes on the veranda - keeping
watch - while Mrs. Schomberg, provided with a bunch of assorted keys,
her discoloured teeth chattering and her globular eyes absolutely idiotic
with fright, was “going through” the luggage of these strange
clients. Her terrible Wilhelm had insisted on it.</p>
<p>“I’ll be on the look-out, I tell you,” he said.
“I shall give you a whistle when I see them coming back.
You couldn’t whistle. And if he were to catch you at it,
and chuck you out by the scruff of the neck, it wouldn’t hurt
you much; but he won’t touch a woman. Not he! He has
told me so. Affected beast. I must find out something about
their little game, and so there’s an end of it. Go in!
Go now! Quick march!”</p>
<p>It had been an awful job; but she did go in, because she was much
more afraid of Schomberg than of any possible consequences of the act.
Her greatest concern was lest no key of the bunch he had provided her
with should fit the locks. It would have been such a disappointment
for Wilhelm. However, the trunks, she found, had been left open;
but her investigation did not last long. She was frightened of
firearms, and generally of all weapons, not from personal cowardice,
but as some women are, almost superstitiously, from an abstract horror
of violence and murder. She was out again on the veranda long
before Wilhelm had any occasion for a warning whistle. The instinctive,
motiveless fear being the most difficult to overcome, nothing could
induce her to return to her investigations, neither threatening growls
nor ferocious hisses, nor yet a poke or two in the ribs.</p>
<p>“Stupid female!” muttered the hotel-keeper, perturbed
by the notion of that armoury in one of his bedrooms. This was
from no abstract sentiment, with him it was constitutional. “Get
out of my sight,” he snarled. “Go and dress yourself
for the table d’hôte.”</p>
<p>Left to himself, Schomberg had meditated. What the devil did
this mean? His thinking processes were sluggish and spasmodic;
but suddenly the truth came to him.</p>
<p>“By heavens, they are desperadoes!” he thought.</p>
<p>Just then he beheld “plain Mr. Jones” and his secretary
with the ambiguous name of Ricardo entering the grounds of the hotel.
They had been down to the port on some business, and now were returning;
Mr. Jones lank, spare, opening his long legs with angular regularity
like a pair of compasses, the other stepping out briskly by his side.
Conviction entered Schomberg’s heart. They <i>were</i> two
desperadoes - no doubt about it. But as the funk which he experienced
was merely a general sensation, he managed to put on his most severe
Officer-of-the-Reserve manner, long before they had closed with him.</p>
<p>“Good morning, gentlemen.”</p>
<p>Being answered with derisive civility, he became confirmed in his
sudden conviction of their desperate character. The way Mr. Jones
turned his hollow eyes on one, like an incurious spectre, and the way
the other, when addressed, suddenly retracted his lips and exhibited
his teeth without looking round - here was evidence enough to settle
that point. Desperadoes! They passed through the billiard-room,
inscrutably mysterious, to the back of the house, to join their violated
trunks.</p>
<p>“Tiffin bell will ring in five minutes, gentlemen.”
Schomberg called after them, exaggerating the deep manliness of his
tone.</p>
<p>He had managed to upset himself very much. He expected to see
them come back infuriated and begin to bully him with an odious lack
of restraint. Desperadoes! However they didn’t; they
had not noticed anything unusual about their trunks and Schomberg recovered
his composure and said to himself that he must get rid of this deadly
incubus as soon as practicable. They couldn’t possibly want
to stay very long; this was not the town - the colony - for desperate
characters. He shrank from action. He dreaded any kind of
disturbance - “fracas” he called it - in his hotel.
Such things were not good for business. Of course, sometimes one
had to have a “fracas;” but it had been a comparatively
trifling task to seize the frail Zangiacomo - whose bones were no larger
than a chicken’s - round the ribs, lift him up bodily, dash him
to the ground, and fall on him. It had been easy. The wretched,
hook-nosed creature lay without movement, buried under its purple beard.</p>
<p>Suddenly, remembering the occasion of that “fracas,”
Schomberg groaned with the pain as of a hot coal under his breastbone,
and gave himself up to desolation. Ah, if he only had that girl
with him he would have been masterful and resolute and fearless - fight
twenty desperadoes - care for nobody on earth! Whereas the possession
of Mrs. Schomberg was no incitement to a display of manly virtues.
Instead of caring for no one, he felt that he cared for nothing.
Life was a hollow sham; he wasn’t going to risk a shot through
his lungs or his liver in order to preserve its integrity. It
had no savour - damn it!</p>
<p>In his state of moral decomposition, Schomberg, master as he was
of the art of hotel-keeping, and careful of giving no occasion for criticism
to the powers regulating that branch of human activity, let things take
their course; though he saw very well where that course was tending.
It began first with a game or two after dinner - for the drinks, apparently
- with some lingering customer, at one of the little tables ranged against
the walls of the billiard-room. Schomberg detected the meaning
of it at once. “That’s what it was! This was
what they were! And, moving about restlessly (at that time his
morose silent period had set in), he cast sidelong looks at the game;
but he said nothing. It was not worth while having a row with
men who were so overbearing. Even when money appeared in connection
with these postprandial games, into which more and more people were
being drawn, he still refrained from raising the question; he was reluctant
to draw unduly the attention of “plain Mr. Jones” and of
the equivocal Ricardo, to his person. One evening, however, after
the public rooms of the hotel had become empty, Schomberg made an attempt
to grapple with the problem in an indirect way.</p>
<p>In a distant corner the tired China boy dozed on his heels, his back
against the wall. Mrs. Schomberg had disappeared, as usual, between
ten and eleven. Schomberg walked about slowly in and out of the
room and the veranda, thoughtful, waiting for his two guests to go to
bed. Then suddenly he approached them, militarily, his chest thrown
out, his voice curt and soldierly.</p>
<p>“Hot night, gentlemen.”</p>
<p>Mr Jones, lolling back idly in a chair, looked up. Ricardo,
as idle, but more upright, made no sign.</p>
<p>“Won’t you have a drink with me before retiring?”
went on Schomberg, sitting down by the little table.</p>
<p>“By all means,” said Mr. Jones lazily.</p>
<p>Ricardo showed his teeth in a strange, quick grin. Schomberg
felt painfully how difficult it was to get in touch with these men,
both so quiet, so deliberate, so menacingly unceremonious. He
ordered the Chinaman to bring in the drinks. His purpose was to
discover how long these guests intended to stay. Ricardo displayed
no conversational vein, but Mr. Jones appeared communicative enough.
His voice somehow matched his sunken eyes. It was hollow without
being in the least mournful; it sounded distant, uninterested, as though
he were speaking from the bottom of a well. Schomberg learned
that he would have the privilege of lodging and boarding these gentlemen
for at least a month more. He could not conceal his discomfiture
at this piece of news.</p>
<p>“What’s the matter? Don’t you like to have
people in your house?” asked plain Mr. Jones languidly.
“I should have thought the owner of a hotel would be pleased.”</p>
<p>He lifted his delicate and beautifully pencilled eyebrows.
Schomberg muttered something about the locality being dull and uninteresting
to travellers - nothing going on - too quiet altogether, but he only
provoked the declaration that quiet had its charm sometimes, and even
dullness was welcome as a change.</p>
<p>“We haven’t had time to be dull for the last three years,”
added plain Mr. Jones, his eyes fixed darkly on Schomberg whom he further
more invited to have another drink, this time with him, and not to worry
himself about things he did not understand; and especially not to be
inhospitable - which in a hotel-keeper is highly unprofessional.</p>
<p>“I don’t understand,” grumbled Schomberg.
“Oh, yes, I understand perfectly well. I - ”</p>
<p>“You are frightened,” interrupted Mr. Jones. “What
is the matter?”</p>
<p>“I don’t want any scandal in my place. That’s
what’s the matter.”</p>
<p>Schomberg tried to face the situation bravely, but that steady, black
stare affected him. And when he glanced aside uncomfortably, he
met Ricardo’s grin uncovering a lot of teeth, though the man seemed
absorbed in his thoughts all the time.</p>
<p>“And, moreover,” went on Mr. Jones in that distant tone
of his, “you can’t help yourself. Here we are and
here we stay. Would you try to put us out? I dare say you
could do it; but you couldn’t do it without getting hurt - very
badly hurt. We can promise him that, can’t we, Martin?”</p>
<p>The secretary retracted his lips and looked up sharply at Schomberg,
as if only too anxious to leap upon him with teeth and claws.</p>
<p>Schomberg managed to produce a deep laugh.</p>
<p>“Ha! Ha! Ha!”</p>
<p>Mr Jones closed his eyes wearily, as if the light hurt them, and
looked remarkably like a corpse for a moment. This was bad enough;
but when he opened them again, it was almost a worse trial for Schomberg’s
nerves. The spectral intensity of that glance, fixed on the hotel-keeper
(and this was most frightful) without any definite expression, seemed
to dissolve the last grain of resolution in his character.</p>
<p>“You don’t think, by any chance, that you have to do
with ordinary people, do you?” inquired Mr. Jones, in his lifeless
manner, which seemed to imply some sort of menace from beyond the grave.</p>
<p>“He’s a gentleman,” testified Martin Ricardo with
a sudden snap of the lips, after which his moustaches stirred by themselves
in an odd, feline manner.</p>
<p>“Oh, I wasn’t thinking of that,” said plain Mr.
Jones, while Schomberg, dumb and planted heavily in his chair looked
from one to the other, leaning forward a little. “Of course
I am that; but Ricardo attaches too much importance to a social advantage.
What I mean, for instance, is that he, quiet and inoffensive as you
see him sitting here, would think nothing of setting fire to this house
of entertainment of yours. It would blaze like a box of matches.
Think of that! It wouldn’t advance your affairs much, would
it? - whatever happened to us.”</p>
<p>“Come, come gentlemen,” remonstrated Schomberg, in a
murmur. “This is very wild talk!”</p>
<p>“And you have been used to deal with tame people, haven’t
you? But we aren’t tame. We once kept a whole angry
town at bay for two days, and then we got away with our plunder.
It was in Venezuela. Ask Martin here - he can tell you.”</p>
<p>Instinctively Schomberg looked at Ricardo, who only passed the tip
of his tongue over his lips with an uncanny sort of gusto, but did not
offer to begin.</p>
<p>“Well, perhaps it would be a rather long story,” Mr.
Jones conceded after a short silence.</p>
<p>“I have no desire to hear it, I am sure,” said Schomberg.
“This isn’t Venezuela. You wouldn’t get away
from here like that. But all this is silly talk of the worst sort.
Do you mean to say you would make deadly trouble for the sake of a few
guilders that you and that other” - eyeing Ricardo suspiciously,
as one would look at a strange animal - “gentleman can win of
an evening? Isn’t as if my customers were a lot of rich
men with pockets full of cash. I wonder you take so much trouble
and risk for so little money.”</p>
<p>Schomberg’s argument was met by Mr. Jones’s statement
that one must do something to kill time. Killing time was not
forbidden. For the rest, being in a communicative mood, Mr. Jones
said languidly and in a voice indifferent, as if issuing from a tomb,
that he depended on himself, as if the world were still one great, wild
jungle without law. Martin was something like that, too - for
reasons of his own.</p>
<p>All these statements Ricardo confirmed by short, inhuman grins.
Schomberg lowered his eyes, for the sight of these two men intimidated
him; but he was losing patience.</p>
<p>“Of course, I could see at once that you were two desperate
characters - something like what you say. But what would you think
if I told you that I am pretty near as desperate as you two gentlemen?
‘Here’s that Schomberg has an easy time running his hotel,’
people think; and yet it seems to me I would just as soon let you rip
me open and burn the whole show as not. There!”</p>
<p>A low whistle was heard. It came from Ricardo, and was derisive.
Schomberg, breathing heavily, looked on the floor. He was really
desperate. Mr. Jones remained languidly sceptical.</p>
<p>“Tut, tut! You have a tolerable business. You are
perfectly tame; you - ” He paused, then added in a tone
of disgust: “You have a wife.”</p>
<p>Schomberg tapped the floor angrily with his foot and uttered an indistinct,
laughing curse.</p>
<p>“What do you mean by flinging that damned trouble at my head?”
he cried. “I wish you would carry her off with you some
where to the devil! I wouldn’t run after you.”</p>
<p>The unexpected outburst affected Mr. Jones strangely. He had
a horrified recoil, chair and all, as if Schomberg had thrust a wriggling
viper in his face.</p>
<p>“What’s this infernal nonsense?” he muttered thickly.
“What do you mean? How dare you?”</p>
<p>Ricardo chuckled audibly.</p>
<p>“I tell you I am desperate,” Schomberg repeated.
“I am as desperate as any man ever was. I don’t care
a hang what happens to me!”</p>
<p>“Well, then” - Mr. Jones began to speak with a quietly
threatening effect, as if the common words of daily use had some other
deadly meaning to his mind - “well, then, why should you make
yourself ridiculously disagreeable to us? If you don’t care,
as you say, you might just as well let us have the key of that music-shed
of yours for a quiet game; a modest bank - a dozen candles or so.
It would be greatly appreciated by your clients, as far as I can judge
from the way they betted on a game of écarté I had with
that fair, baby-faced man - what’s his name? They just yearn
for a modest bank. And I am afraid Martin here would take it badly
if you objected; but of course you won’t. Think of the calls
for drinks!”</p>
<p>Schomberg, raising his eyes, at last met the gleams in two dark caverns
under Mr. Jones’s devilish eyebrows, directed upon him impenetrably.
He shuddered as if horrors worse than murder had been lurking there,
and said, nodding towards Ricardo:</p>
<p>“I dare say he wouldn’t think twice about sticking me,
if he had you at his back! I wish I had sunk my launch, and gone
to the bottom myself in her, before I boarded the steamer you came by.
Ah, well, I’ve been already living in hell for weeks, so you don’t
make much difference. I’ll let you have the concert-room
- and hang the consequences. But what about the boy on late duty?
If he sees the cards and actual money passing, he will be sure to blab,
and it will be all over the town in no time.”</p>
<p>A ghastly smile stirred the lips of Mr. Jones.</p>
<p>“Ah, I see you want to make a success of it. Very good.
That’s the way to get on. Don’t let it disturb you.
You chase all the Chinamen to bed early, and we’ll get Pedro here
every evening. He isn’t the conventional waiter’s
cut, but he will do to run to and fro with the tray, while you sit here
from nine to eleven serving out drinks and gathering the money.”</p>
<p>“There will be three of them now,” thought the unlucky
Schomberg.</p>
<p>But Pedro, at any rate, was just a simple, straightforward brute,
if a murderous one. There was no mystery about him, nothing uncanny,
no suggestion of a stealthy, deliberate wildcat turned into a man, or
of an insolent spectre on leave from Hades, endowed with skin and bones
and a subtle power of terror. Pedro with his fangs, his tangled
beard, and queer stare of his little bear’s eyes was, by comparison,
delightfully natural. Besides, Schomberg could no longer help
himself.</p>
<p>“That will do very well,” he asserted mournfully.
“But if you gentlemen, if you had turned up here only three months
ago - ay, less than three months ago - you would have found somebody
very different from what I am now to talk to you. It’s true.
What do you think of that?”</p>
<p>“I scarcely know what to think. I should think it was
a lie. You were probably as tame three months ago as you are now.
You were born tame, like most people in the world.”</p>
<p>Mr Jones got up spectrally, and Ricardo imitated him with a snarl
and a stretch. Schomberg, in a brown study, went on, as if to
himself:</p>
<p>“There has been an orchestra here - eighteen women.”</p>
<p>Mr Jones let out an exclamation of dismay, and looked about as if
the walls around him and the whole house had been infected with plague.
Then he became very angry, and swore violently at Schomberg for daring
to bring up such subjects. The hotel-keeper was too much surprised
to get up. He gazed from his chair at Mr. Jones’s anger,
which had nothing spectral in it but was not the more comprehensible
for that.</p>
<p>“What’s the matter?” he stammered out. “What
subject? Didn’t you hear me say it was an orchestra?
There’s nothing wrong in that. Well, there was a girl amongst
them - ” Schomberg’s eyes went stony; he clasped his
hands in front of his breast with such force that his knuckles came
out white. “Such a girl! Tame, am I? I would
have kicked everything to pieces about me for her. And she, of
course . . . I am in the prime of life . . . then a fellow bewitched
her - a vagabond, a false, bring, swindling, underhand, stick-at-nothing
brute. Ah!”</p>
<p>His entwined fingers cracked as he tore his hands apart, flung out
his arms, and leaned his forehead on them in a passion of fury.
The other two looked at his shaking back - the attenuated Mr. Jones
with mingled scorn and a sort of fear, Ricardo with the expression of
a cat which sees a piece of fish in the pantry out of reach. Schomberg
flung himself backwards. He was dry-eyed, but he gulped as if
swallowing sobs.</p>
<p>“No wonder you can do with me what you like. You have
no idea - just let me tell you of my trouble - ”</p>
<p>“I don’t want to know anything of your beastly trouble,”
said Mr. Jones, in his most lifelessly positive voice.</p>
<p>He stretched forth an arresting hand, and, as Schomberg remained
open-mouthed, he walked out of the billiard-room in all the uncanniness
of his thin shanks. Ricardo followed at his leader’s heels;
but he showed his teeth to Schomberg over his shoulder.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h3>CHAPTER SIX</h3>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>From that evening dated those mysterious but significant phenomena
in Schomberg’s establishment which attracted Captain Davidson’s
casual notice when he dropped in, placid yet astute, in order to return
Mrs. Schomberg’s Indian shawl. And strangely enough, they
lasted some considerable time. It argued either honesty and bad
luck or extraordinary restraint on the part of “plain Mr. Jones
and Co.” in their discreet operations with cards.</p>
<p>It was a curious and impressive sight, the inside of Schomberg’s
concert-hall, encumbered at one end by a great stack of chairs piled
up on and about the musicians’ platform, and lighted at the other
by two dozen candles disposed about a long trestle table covered with
green cloth. In the middle, Mr. Jones, a starved spectre turned
into a banker, faced Ricardo, a rather nasty, slow-moving cat turned
into a croupier. By contrast, the other faces round that table,
anything between twenty and thirty, must have looked like collected
samples of intensely artless, helpless humanity - pathetic in their
innocent watch for the small turns of luck which indeed might have been
serious enough for them. They had no notice to spare for the hairy
Pedro, carrying a tray with the clumsiness of a creature caught in the
woods and taught to walk on its hind legs.</p>
<p>As to Schomberg, he kept out of the way. He remained in the
billiard-room, serving out drinks to the unspeakable Pedro with an air
of not seeing the growling monster, of not knowing where the drinks
went, of ignoring that there was such a thing as a music-room over there
under the trees within fifty yards of the hotel. He submitted
himself to the situation with a low-spirited stoicism compounded of
fear and resignation. Directly the party had broken up, (he could
see dark shapes of the men drifting singly and in knots through the
gate of the compound), he would withdraw out of sight behind a door
not quit closed, in order to avoid meeting his two extraordinary guests;
but he would watch through the crack their contrasted forms pass through
the billiard-room and disappear on their way to bed. Then he would
hear doors being slammed upstairs; and a profound silence would fall
upon the whole house, upon his hotel appropriated, haunted by those
insolently outspoken men provided with a whole armoury of weapons in
their trunks. A profound silence. Schomberg sometimes could
not resist the notion that he must be dreaming. Shuddering, he
would pull himself together, and creep out, with movements strangely
inappropriate to the Lieutenant-of-the-Reserve bearing by which he tried
to keep up his self-respect before the world.</p>
<p>A great loneliness oppressed him. One after another he would
extinguish the lamps, and move softly towards his bedroom, where Mrs.
Schomberg waited for him - no fit companion for a man of his ability
and “in the prime of life.” But that life, alas, was
blighted. He felt it; and never with such force as when on opening
the door he perceived that woman sitting patiently in a chair, her toes
peeping out under the edge of her night-dress, an amazingly small amount
of hair on her head drooping on the long stalk of scraggy neck, with
that everlasting scared grin showing a blue tooth and meaning nothing
- not even real fear. For she was used to him.</p>
<p>Sometimes he was tempted to screw the head off the stalk. He
imagined himself doing it - with one hand, a twisting movement.
Not seriously, of course. Just a simple indulgence for his exasperated
feelings. He wasn’t capable of murder. He was certain
of that. And, remembering suddenly the plain speeches of Mr. Jones,
he would think: “I suppose I am too tame for that” - quite
unaware that he had murdered the poor woman morally years ago.
He was too unintelligent to have the notion of such a crime. Her
bodily presence was bitterly offensive, because of its contrast with
a very different feminine image. And it was no use getting rid
of her. She was a habit of years, and there would be nothing to
put in her place. At any rate, he could talk to that idiot half
the night if he chose.</p>
<p>That night he had been vapouring before her as to his intention to
face his two guests and, instead of that inspiration he needed, had
merely received the usual warning: “Be careful, Wilhelm.”
He did not want to be told to be careful by an imbecile female.
What he needed was a pair of woman’s arms which, flung round his
neck, would brace him up for the encounter. Inspire him, he called
it to himself.</p>
<p>He lay awake a long time; and his slumbers, when they came, were
unsatisfactory and short. The morning light had no joy for his
eyes. He listened dismally to the movements in the house.
The Chinamen were unlocking and flinging wide the doors of the public
rooms which opened on the veranda. Horrors! Another poisoned
day to get through somehow! The recollection of his resolve made
him feel actually sick for a moment. First of all the lordly,
abandoned attitudes of Mr. Jones disconcerted him. Then there
was his contemptuous silence. Mr. Jones never addressed himself
to Schomberg with any general remarks, never opened his lips to him
unless to say “Good morning” - two simple words which, uttered
by that man, seemed a mockery of a threatening character. And,
lastly, it was not a frank physical fear he inspired - for as to that,
even a cornered rat will fight - but a superstitious shrinking awe,
something like an invincible repugnance to seek speech with a wicked
ghost. That it was a daylight ghost surprisingly angular in his
attitudes, and for the most part spread out on three chairs, did not
make it any easier. Daylight only made him a more weird, a more
disturbing and unlawful apparition. Strangely enough in the evening
when he came out of his mute supineness, this unearthly side of him
was less obtrusive. At the gaming-table, when actually handling
the cards, it was probably sunk quite out of sight; but Schomberg, having
made up his mind in ostrich-like fashion to ignore what was going on,
never entered the desecrated music-room. He had never seen Mr.
Jones in the exercise of his vocation - or perhaps it was only his trade.</p>
<p>“I will speak to him tonight,” Schomberg said to himself,
while he drank his morning tea, in pyjamas, on the veranda, before the
rising sun had topped the trees of the compound, and while the undried
dew still lay silvery on the grass, sparkled on the blossoms of the
central flower-bed, and darkened the yellow gravel of the drive.
“That’s what I’ll do. I won’t keep out
of sight tonight. I shall come out and catch him as he goes to
bed carrying the cash-box.”</p>
<p>After all, what was the fellow but common desperado? Murderous?
Oh, yes; murderous enough, perhaps - and the muscles of Schomberg’s
stomach had a quivering contraction under his airy attire. But
even a common desperado would think twice or, more likely, a hundred
times, before openly murdering an inoffensive citizen in a civilized,
European-ruled town. He jerked his shoulders. Of course!
He shuddered again, and paddled back to his room to dress himself.
His mind was made up, and he would think no more about it; but still
he had his doubts. They grew and unfolded themselves with the
progress of the day, as some plants do. At times they made him
perspire more than usual, and they did away with the possibility of
his afternoon siesta. After turning over on his couch more than
a dozen times, he gave up this mockery of repose, got up, and went downstairs.</p>
<p>It was between three and four o’clock, the hour of profound
peace. The very flowers seemed to doze on their stalks set with
sleepy leaves. Not even the air stirred, for the sea-breeze was
not due till later. The servants were out of sight, catching naps
in the shade somewhere behind the house. Mrs. Schomberg in a dim
up-stair room with closed jalousies, was elaborating those two long
pendant ringlets which were such a feature of her hairdressing for her
afternoon duties. At that time no customers ever troubled the
repose of the establishment. Wandering about his premises in profound
solitude, Schomberg recoiled at the door of the billiard-room, as if
he had seen a snake in his path. All alone with the billiards,
the bare little tables, and a lot of untenanted chairs, Mr. Secretary
Ricardo sat near the wall, performing with lightning rapidity something
that looked like tricks with his own personal pack of cards, which he
always carried about in his pocket. Schomberg would have backed
out quietly if Ricardo had not turned his head. Having been seen,
the hotel-keeper elected to walk in as the lesser risk of the two.
The consciousness of his inwardly abject attitude towards these men
caused him always to throw his chest out and assume a severe expression.
Ricardo watched his approach, clasping the pack of cards in both hands.</p>
<p>“You want something, perhaps?” suggested Schomberg in
his lieutenant-of-the-Reserve voice.</p>
<p>Ricardo shook his head in silence and looked expectant. With
him Schomberg exchanged at least twenty words every day. He was
infinitely more communicative than his patron. At times he looked
very much like an ordinary human being of his class; and he seemed to
be in an amiable mood at that moment. Suddenly spreading some
ten cards face downward in the form of a fan, he thrust them towards
Schomberg.</p>
<p>“Come, man, take one quick!”</p>
<p>Schomberg was so surprised that he took one hurriedly, after a very
perceptible start. The eyes of Martin Ricardo gleamed phosphorescent
in the half-light of the room screened from the heat and glare of the
tropics.</p>
<p>“That’s the king of hearts you’ve got,” he
chuckled, showing his teeth in a quick flash.</p>
<p>Schomberg, after looking at the card, admitted that it was, and laid
it down on the table.</p>
<p>“I can make you take any card I like nine times out of ten,”
exulted the secretary, with a strange curl of his lips and a green flicker
in his raised eyes.</p>
<p>Schomberg looked down at him dumbly. For a few seconds neither
of them stirred; then Ricardo lowered his glance, and, opening his fingers,
let the whole pack fall on the table. Schomberg sat down.
He sat down because of the faintness in his legs, and for no other reason.
His mouth was dry. Having sat down, he felt that he must speak.
He squared his shoulders in parade style.</p>
<p>“You are pretty good at that sort of thing,” he said.</p>
<p>“Practice makes perfect,” replied the secretary.</p>
<p>His precarious amiability made it impossible for Schomberg to get
away. Thus, from his very timidity, the hotel-keeper found himself
engaged in a conversation the thought of which filled him with apprehension.
It must be said, in justice to Schomberg, that he concealed his funk
very creditably. The habit of throwing out his chest and speaking
in a severe voice stood him in good stead. With him, too, practice
made perfect; and he would probably have kept it up to the end, to the
very last moment, to the ultimate instant of breaking strain which would
leave him grovelling on the floor. To add to his secret trouble,
he was at a loss what to say. He found nothing else but the remark:</p>
<p>“I suppose you are fond of cards.”</p>
<p>“What would you expect?” asked Ricardo in a simple, philosophical
tone. “It is likely I should not be?” Then,
with sudden fire: “Fond of cards? Ay, passionately!”</p>
<p>The effect of this outburst was augmented by the quiet lowering of
the eyelids, by a reserved pause as though this had been a confession
of another kind of love. Schomberg cudgelled his brains for a
new topic, but he could not find one. His usual scandalous gossip
would not serve this turn. That desperado did not know anyone
anywhere within a thousand miles. Schomberg was almost compelled
to keep to the subject.</p>
<p>“I suppose you’ve always been so - from your early youth.”</p>
<p>Ricardo’s eyes remained cast down. His fingers toyed
absently with the pack on the table.</p>
<p>“I don’t know that it was so early. I first got
in the way of it playing for tobacco - in forecastles of ships, you
know - common sailor games. We used to spend whole watches below
at it, round a chest, under a slush lamp. We would hardly spare
the time to get a bite of salt horse - neither eat nor sleep.
We could hardly stand when the watches were mustered on deck.
Talk of gambling!” He dropped the reminiscent tone to add
the information, “I was bred to the sea from a boy, you know.”</p>
<p>Schomberg had fallen into a reverie, but without losing the sense
of impending calamity. The next words he heard were:</p>
<p>“I got on all right at sea, too. Worked up to be mate.
I was mate of a schooner - a yacht, you might call her - a special good
berth too, in the Gulf of Mexico, a soft job that you don’t run
across more than once in a lifetime. Yes, I was mate of her when
I left the sea to follow him.”</p>
<p>Ricardo tossed up his chin to indicate the room above; from which
Schomberg, his wits painfully aroused by this reminder of Mr. Jones’s
existence, concluded that the latter had withdrawn into his bedroom.
Ricardo, observing him from under lowered eyelids, went on:</p>
<p>“It so happened that we were shipmates.”</p>
<p>“Mr Jones, you mean? Is he a sailor too?”</p>
<p>Ricardo raised his eyelids at that.</p>
<p>“He’s no more Mr. Jones than you are,” he said
with obvious pride. “He a sailor! That just shows
your ignorance. But there! A foreigner can’t be expected
to know any better. I am an Englishman, and I know a gentleman
at sight. I should know one drunk, in the gutter, in jail, under
the gallows. There’s a something - it isn’t exactly
the appearance, it’s a - no use me trying to tell you. You
ain’t an Englishman, and if you were, you wouldn’t need
to be told.”</p>
<p>An unsuspected stream of loquacity had broken its dam somewhere deep
within the man, had diluted his fiery blood and softened his pitiless
fibre. Schomberg experienced mingled relief and apprehension,
as if suddenly an enormous savage cat had begun to wind itself about
his legs in inexplicable friendliness. No prudent man under such
circumstances would dare to stir. Schomberg didn’t stir.
Ricardo assumed an easy attitude, with an elbow on the table.
Schomberg squared his shoulders afresh.</p>
<p>“I was employed, in that there yacht - schooner, whatever you
call it - by ten gentlemen at once. That surprises you, eh?
Yes, yes, ten. Leastwise there were nine of them gents good enough
in their way, and one downright gentleman, and that was . . . ”</p>
<p>Ricardo gave another upward jerk of his chin as much as to say: He!
The only one.</p>
<p>“And no mistake,” he went on. “I spotted
him from the first day. How? Why? Ay, you may ask.
Hadn’t seen that many gentlemen in my life. Well, somehow
I did. If you were an Englishman, you would - ”</p>
<p>“What was your yacht?” Schomberg interrupted as impatiently
as he dared; for this harping on nationality jarred on his already tried
nerves. “What was the game?”</p>
<p>“You have a headpiece on you! Game! ’Xactly.
That’s what it was - the sort of silliness gentlemen will get
up among themselves to play at adventure. A treasure-hunting expedition.
Each of them put down so much money, you understand, to buy the schooner.
Their agent in the city engaged me and the skipper. The greatest
secrecy and all that. I reckon he had a twinkle in his eye all
the time - and no mistake. But that wasn’t our business.
Let them bust their money as they like. The pity of it was that
so little of it came our way. Just fair pay and no more.
And damn any pay, much or little, anyhow - that’s what I say!”</p>
<p>He blinked his eyes greenishly in the dim light. The heat seemed
to have stilled everything in the world but his voice. He swore
at large, abundantly, in snarling undertones, it was impossible to say
why, then calmed down as inexplicably, and went on, as a sailor yarns.</p>
<p>“At first there were only nine of them adventurous sparks,
then, just a day or two before the sailing date, he turned up.
Heard of it somehow, somewhere - I would say from some woman, if I didn’t
know him as I do. He would give any woman a ten-mile berth.
He can’t stand them. Or maybe in a flash bar. Or maybe
in one of them grand clubs in Pall Mall. Anyway, the agent netted
him in all right - cash down, and only about four and twenty hours for
him to get ready; but he didn’t miss his ship. Not he!
You might have called it a pier-head jump - for a gentleman. I
saw him come along. Know the West India Docks, eh?”</p>
<p>Schomberg did not know the West India Docks. Ricardo looked
at him pensively for a while, and then continued, as if such ignorance
had to be disregarded.</p>
<p>“Our tug was already alongside. Two loafers were carrying
his dunnage behind him. I told the dockman at our moorings to
keep all fast for a minute. The gangway was down already; but
he made nothing of it. Up he jumps, one leap, swings his long
legs over the rail, and there he is on board. They pass up his
swell dunnage, and he puts his hand in his trousers pocket and throws
all his small change on the wharf for them chaps to pick up. They
were still promenading that wharf on all fours when we cast off.
It was only then that he looked at me - quietly, you know; in a slow
way. He wasn’t so thin then as he is now; but I noticed
he wasn’t so young as he looked - not by a long chalk. He
seemed to touch me inside somewhere. I went away pretty quick
from there; I was wanted forward anyhow. I wasn’t frightened.
What should I be frightened for? I only felt touched - on the
very spot. But Jee-miny, if anybody had told me we should be partners
before the year was out - well, I would have - ”</p>
<p>He swore a variety of strange oaths, some common, others quaintly
horrible to Schomberg’s ears, and all mere innocent exclamations
of wonder at the shifts and changes of human fortune. Schomberg
moved slightly in his chair. But the admirer and partner of “plain
Mr. Jones” seemed to have forgotten Schomberg’s existence
for the moment. The stream of ingenuous blasphemy - some of it
in bad Spanish - had run dry, and Martin Ricardo, connoisseur in gentlemen,
sat dumb with a stony gaze as if still marvelling inwardly at the amazing
elections, conjunctions, and associations of events which influence
man’s pilgrimage on this earth.</p>
<p>At last Schomberg spoke tentatively:</p>
<p>“And so the - the gentleman, up there, talked you over into
leaving a good berth?”</p>
<p>Ricardo started.</p>
<p>“Talked me over! Didn’t need to talk me over.
Just beckoned to me, and that was enough. By that time we were
in the Gulf of Mexico. One night we were lying at anchor, close
to a dry sandbank - to this day I am not sure where it was - off the
Colombian coast or thereabouts. We were to start digging the next
morning, and all hands had turned in early, expecting a hard day with
the shovels. Up he comes, and in his quiet, tired way of speaking
- you can tell a gentleman by that as much as by anything else almost
- up he comes behind me and says, just like that into my ear, in a manner:
‘Well, what do you think of our treasure hunt now?’</p>
<p>“I didn’t even turn my head; ’xactly as I stood,
I remained, and I spoke no louder than himself:</p>
<p>“‘If you want to know, sir, it’s nothing but just
damned tom-foolery.’</p>
<p>“We had, of course, been having short talks together at one
time or another during the passage. I dare say he had read me
like a book. There ain’t much to me, except that I have
never been tame, even when walking the pavement and cracking jokes and
standing drinks to chums - ay, and to strangers, too. I would
watch them lifting their elbows at my expense, or splitting their side
at my fun - I <i>can</i> be funny when I like, you bet!”</p>
<p>A pause for self-complacent contemplation of his own fun and generosity
checked the flow of Ricardo’s speech. Schomberg was concerned
to keep within bounds the enlargement of his eyes, which he seemed to
feel growing bigger in his head.</p>
<p>“Yes, yes,” he whispered hastily.</p>
<p>“I would watch them and think: ‘You boys don’t
know who I am. If you did - !’ With girls, too.
Once I was courting a girl. I used to kiss her behind the ear
and say to myself: ‘If you only knew who’s kissing you,
my dear, you would scream and bolt!’ Ha! ha! Not that
I wanted to do them any harm; but I felt the power in myself.
Now, here we sit, friendly like, and that’s all right. You
aren’t in my way. But I am not friendly to you. I
just don’t care. Some men do say that; but I really don’t.
You are no more to me one way or another than that fly there.
Just so. I’d squash you or leave you alone. I don’t
care what I do.”</p>
<p>If real force of character consists in overcoming our sudden weaknesses,
Schomberg displayed plenty of that quality. At the mention of
the fly, he re-enforced the severe dignity of his attitude as one inflates
a collapsing toy balloon with a great effort of breath. The easy-going,
relaxed attitude of Ricardo was really appalling.</p>
<p>“That’s so,” he went on. “I am that
sort of fellow. You wouldn’t think it, would you?
No. You have to be told. So I am telling you, and I dare
say you only half believe it. But you can’t say to yourself
that I am drunk, stare at me as you may. I haven’t had anything
stronger than a glass of iced water all day. Takes a real gentleman
to see through a fellow. Oh, yes - he spotted me. I told
you we had a few talks at sea about one thing or another. And
I used to watch him down the skylight, playing cards in the cuddy with
the others. They had to pass the time away somehow. By the
same token he caught me at it once, and it was then that I told him
I was fond of cards - and generally lucky in gambling, too. Yes,
he had sized me up. Why not? A gentleman’s just like
any other man - and something more.”</p>
<p>It flashed through Schomberg’s mind: that these two were indeed
well matched in their enormous dissimilarity, identical souls in different
disguises.</p>
<p>“Says he to me” - Ricardo started again in a gossiping
manner - ‘I’m packed up. It’s about time to
go, Martin.’</p>
<p>“It was the first time he called me Martin. Says I:</p>
<p>“‘Is that it, sir?’</p>
<p>“‘You didn’t think I was after that sort of treasure,
did you? I wanted to clear out from home quietly. It’s
a pretty expensive way of getting a passage across, but it has served
my turn.’</p>
<p>“I let him know very soon that I was game for anything, from
pitch and toss to wilful murder, in his company.</p>
<p>“‘Wilful murder?’ says he in his quiet way.
‘What the deuce is that? What are you talking about?
People do get killed sometimes when they get in one’s way, but
that’s self-defence - you understand?’</p>
<p>“I told him I did. And then I said I would run below
for a minute, to ram a few of my things into a sailor’s bag I
had. I’ve never cared for a lot of dunnage; I believed in
going about flying light when I was at sea. I came back and found
him strolling up and down the deck, as if he were taking a breath of
fresh air before turning in, like any other evening.</p>
<p>“‘Ready?’</p>
<p>“‘Yes, sir.’</p>
<p>“He didn’t even look at me. We had had a boat in
the water astern ever since we came to anchor in the afternoon.
He throws the stump of his cigar overboard.</p>
<p>“‘Can you get the captain out on deck?’ he asks.</p>
<p>“That was the last thing in the world I should have thought
of doing. I lost my tongue for a moment.</p>
<p>“‘I can try,’ says I.</p>
<p>“‘Well, then, I am going below. You get him up
and keep him with you till I come back on deck. Mind! Don’t
let him go below till I return.’</p>
<p>“I could not help asking why he told me to rouse a sleeping
man, when we wanted everybody on board to sleep sweetly till we got
clear of the schooner. He laughs a little and says that I didn’t
see all the bearings of this business.</p>
<p>“‘Mind,’ he says, ‘don’t let him leave
you till you see me come up again.’ He puts his eyes close
to mine. ‘Keep him with you at all costs.’</p>
<p>“‘And that means?’ says I.</p>
<p>“‘All costs to him - by every possible or impossible
means. I don’t want to be interrupted in my business down
below. He would give me lots of trouble. I take you with
me to save myself trouble in various circumstances; and you’ve
got to enter on your work right away.’</p>
<p>“‘Just so, sir,’ says I; and he slips down the
companion.</p>
<p>“With a gentleman you know at once where you are; but it was
a ticklish job. The skipper was nothing to me one way or another,
any more than you are at this moment, Mr. Schomberg. You may light
your cigar or blow your brains out this minute, and I don’t care
a hang which you do, both or neither. To bring the skipper up
was easy enough. I had only to stamp on the deck a few times over
his head. I stamped hard. But how to keep him up when he
got there?</p>
<p>“‘Anything the matter; Mr. Ricardo?’ I heard his
voice behind me.</p>
<p>“There he was, and I hadn’t thought of anything to say
to him; so I didn’t turn round. The moonlight was brighter
than many a day I could remember in the North Sea.</p>
<p>“‘Why did you call me? What are you staring at
out there, Mr. Ricardo?’</p>
<p>“He was deceived by my keeping my back to him. I wasn’t
staring at anything, but his mistake gave me a notion.</p>
<p>“‘I am staring at something that looks like a canoe over
there,’ I said very slowly.</p>
<p>“The skipper got concerned at once. It wasn’t any
danger from the inhabitants, whoever they were.</p>
<p>“‘Oh, hang it!’ says he. ‘That’s
very unfortunate.’ He had hoped that the schooner being
on the coast would not get known so very soon. ‘Dashed awkward,
with the business we’ve got in hand, to have a lot of niggers
watching operations. But are you certain this is a canoe?’</p>
<p>“‘It may be a drift-log,’ I said; ‘but I
thought you had better have a look with your own eyes. You may
make it out better than I can.’</p>
<p>“His eyes weren’t anything as good as mine. But
he says:</p>
<p>“‘Certainly. Certainly. You did quite right.’</p>
<p>“And it’s a fact I had seen some drift-logs at sunset.
I saw what they were then and didn’t trouble my head about them,
forgot all about it till that very moment. Nothing strange in
seeing drift-logs off a coast like that; and I’m hanged if the
skipper didn’t make one out in the wake of the moon. Strange
what a little thing a man’s life hangs on sometimes - a single
word! Here you are, sitting unsuspicious before me, and you may
let out something unbeknown to you that would settle your hash.
Not that I have any ill-feeling. I have no feelings. If
the skipper had said, ‘O, bosh!’ and had turned his back
on me, he would not have gone three steps towards his bed; but he stood
there and stared. And now the job was to get him off the deck
when he was no longer wanted there.</p>
<p>“‘We are just trying to make out if that object there
is a canoe or a log,’ says he to Mr. Jones.</p>
<p>“Mr Jones had come up, lounging as carelessly as when he went
below. While the skipper was jawing about boats and drifting logs.
I asked by signs, from behind, if I hadn’t better knock him on
the head and drop him quietly overboard. The night was slipping
by, and we had to go. It couldn’t be put off till next night
no more. No. No more. And do you know why?”</p>
<p>Schomberg made a slight negative sign with his head. This direct
appeal annoyed him, jarred on the induced quietude of a great talker
forced into the part of a listener and sunk in it as a man sinks into
slumber. Mr. Ricardo struck a note of scorn.</p>
<p>“Don’t know why? Can’t you guess? No?
Because the boss had got hold of the skipper’s cash-box by then.
See?”</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h3>CHAPTER SEVEN</h3>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>“A common thief!”</p>
<p>Schomberg bit his tongue just too late, and woke up completely as
he saw Ricardo retract his lips in a cat-like grin; but the companion
of “plain Mr. Jones” didn’t alter his comfortable,
gossiping attitude.</p>
<p>“Garn! What if he did want to see his money back, like
any tame shopkeeper, hash-seller, gin-slinger, or ink-spewer does?
Fancy a mud turtle like you trying to pass an opinion on a gentleman!
A gentleman isn’t to be sized up so easily. Even I ain’t
up to it sometimes. For instance, that night, all he did was to
waggle his finger at me. The skipper stops his silly chatter,
surprised.</p>
<p>“‘Eh? What’s the matter?’ asks he.</p>
<p>“The matter! It was his reprieve - that’s what
was the matter.</p>
<p>“‘O, nothing, nothing,’ says my gentleman.
‘You are perfectly right. A log - nothing but a log.’</p>
<p>“Ha, ha! Reprieve, I call it, because if the skipper
had gone on with his silly argument much longer he would have had to
be knocked out of the way. I could hardly hold myself in on account
of the precious minutes. However, his guardian angel put it into
his head to shut up and go back to his bed. I was ramping mad
about the lost time.”</p>
<p>“‘Why didn’t you let me give him one on his silly
coconut sir?’ I asks.</p>
<p>“‘No ferocity, no ferocity,’ he says, raising his
finger at me as calm as you please.</p>
<p>“You can’t tell how a gentleman takes that sort of thing.
They don’t lost their temper. It’s bad form.
You’ll never see him lose his temper - not for anybody to see
anyhow. Ferocity ain’t good form, either - that much I’ve
learned by this time, and more, too. I’ve had that schooling
that you couldn’t tell by my face if I meant to rip you up the
next minute - as of course I could do in less than a jiffy. I
have a knife up the leg of my trousers.”</p>
<p>“You haven’t!” exclaimed Schomberg incredulously.</p>
<p>Mr Ricardo was as quick as lightning in changing his lounging, idle
attitude for a stooping position, and exhibiting the weapon with one
jerk at the left leg of his trousers. Schomberg had just a view
of it, strapped to a very hairy limb, when Mr. Ricardo, jumping up,
stamped his foot to get the trouser-leg down, and resumed his careless
pose with one elbow on the table.</p>
<p>“It’s a more handy way to carry a tool than you would
think,” he went on, gazing abstractedly into Schomberg’s
wide-open eyes. “Suppose some little difference comes up
during a game. Well, you stoop to pick up a dropped card, and
when you come up - there you are ready to strike, or with the thing
up you sleeve ready to throw. Or you just dodge under the table
when there’s some shooting coming. You wouldn’t believe
the damage a fellow with a knife under the table can do to ill-conditioned
skunks that want to raise trouble, before they begin to understand what
the screaming’s about, and make a bolt - those that can, that
is.”</p>
<p>The roses of Schomberg’s cheek at the root of his chestnut
beard faded perceptibly. Ricardo chuckled faintly.</p>
<p>“But no ferocity - no ferocity! A gentleman knows.
What’s the good of getting yourself into a state? And no
shirking necessity, either. No gentleman ever shirks. What
I learn I don’t forget. Why! We gambled on the plains,
with a damn lot of cattlemen in ranches; played fair, mind - and then
had to fight for our winnings afterwards as often as not. We’ve
gambled on the hills and in the valleys and on the sea-shore, and out
of sight of land - mostly fair. Generally it’s good enough.
We began in Nicaragua first, after we left that schooner and her fool
errand. There were one hundred and twenty-seven sovereigns and
some Mexican dollars in that skipper’s cash-box. Hardly
enough to knock a man on the head for from behind, I must confess; but
that the skipper had a narrow escape the governor himself could not
deny afterwards.</p>
<p>“‘Do you want me to understand, sir, that you mind there
being one life more or less on this earth?’ I asked him, a few
hours after we got away.</p>
<p>“‘Certainly not,’ says he.</p>
<p>“‘Well, then, why did you stop me?’</p>
<p>“‘There’s a proper way of doing things. You’ll
have to learn to be correct. There’s also unnecessary exertion.
That must be avoided, too - if only for the look of the thing.’
A gentleman’s way of putting things to you - and no mistake!</p>
<p>“At sunrise we got into a creek, to lie hidden in case the
treasure hunt party had a mind to take a spell hunting for us.
And dash me if they didn’t! We saw the schooner away out,
running to leeward, with ten pairs of binoculars sweeping the sea, no
doubt on all sides. I advised the governor to give her time to
beat back again before we made a start. So we stayed up that creek
something like ten days, as snug as can be. On the seventh day
we had to kill a man, though - the brother of this Pedro here.
They were alligator-hunters, right enough. We got our lodgings
in their hut. Neither the boss nor I could <i>habla Español</i>
- speak Spanish, you know - much then. Dry bank, nice shade, jolly
hammocks, fresh fish, good game, everything lovely. The governor
chucked them a few dollars to begin with; but it was like boarding with
a pair of savage apes, anyhow. By and by we noticed them talking
a lot together. They had twigged the cash-box, and the leather
portmanteaus, and my bag - a jolly lot of plunder to look at.
They must have been saying to each other:</p>
<p>“‘No one’s ever likely to come looking for these
two fellows, who seem to have fallen from the moon. Let’s
cut their throats.’</p>
<p>“Why, of course! Clear as daylight. I didn’t
need to spy one of them sharpening a devilish long knife behind some
bushes, while glancing right and left with his wild eyes, to know what
was in the wind. Pedro was standing by, trying the edge of another
long knife. They thought we were away on our lookout at the mouth
of the river, as was usual with us during the day. Not that we
expected to see much of the schooner, but it was just as well to make
certain, if possible; and then it was cooler out of the woods, in the
breeze. Well, the governor was there right enough, lying comfortable
on a rug, where he could watch the offing, but I had gone back to the
hut to get a chew of tobacco out of my bag. I had not broken myself
of the habit then, and I couldn’t be happy unless I had a lump
as big as a baby’s fist in my cheek.”</p>
<p>At the cannibalistic comparison, Schomberg muttered a faint, sickly
“don’t.” Ricardo hitched himself up in his seat
and glanced down his outstretched legs complacently.</p>
<p>“I am tolerably light on my feet, as a general thing,”
he went on. “Dash me if I don’t think I could drop
a pinch of salt on a sparrow’s tail, if I tried. Anyhow,
they didn’t hear me. I watched them two brown, hairy brutes
not ten yards off. All they had on was white linen drawers rolled
up on their thighs. Not a word they said to each other.
Antonio was down on his thick hams, busy rubbing a knife on a flat stone;
Pedro was leaning against a small tree and passing his thumb along the
edge of his blade. I got away quieter than a mouse, you bet.”</p>
<p>“I didn’t say anything to the boss then. He was
leaning on his elbow on his rug, and didn’t seem to want to be
spoken to. He’s like that - sometimes that familiar you
might think he would eat out of your hand, and at others he would snub
you sharper than a devil - but always quiet. Perfect gentleman,
I tell you. I didn’t bother him, then; but I wasn’t
likely to forget them two fellows, so businesslike with their knives.
At that time we had only one revolver between us two - the governor’s
six-shooter, but loaded only in five chambers; and we had no more cartridges.
He had left the box behind in a drawer in his cabin. Awkward!
I had nothing but an old clasp-knife - no good at all for anything serious.</p>
<p>“In the evening we four sat round a bit of fire outside the
sleeping-shed, eating broiled fish off plantain leaves, with roast yams
for bread - the usual thing. The governor and I were on one side,
and these two beauties cross-legged on the other, grunting a word or
two to each other, now and then, hardly human speech at all, and their
eyes down, fast on the ground. For the last three days we couldn’t
get them to look us in the face. Presently I began to talk to
the boss quietly, just as I am talking to you now, careless like, and
I told him all I had observed. He goes on picking up pieces of
fish and putting them into his mouth as calm as anything. It’s
a pleasure to have anything to do with a gentleman. Never looked
across at them once.</p>
<p>“‘And now,’ says I, yawning on purpose, ‘we’ve
got to stand watch at night, turn about, and keep our eyes skinned all
day, too, and mind we don’t get jumped upon suddenly.’</p>
<p>“‘It’s perfectly intolerable,’ says the governor.
‘And you with no weapon of any sort!’</p>
<p>“‘I mean to stick pretty close to you, sir, from this
on, if you don’t mind,’ says I.</p>
<p>“He just nods the least bit, wipes his fingers on the plantain
leaf, puts his hand behind his back, as if to help himself to rise from
the ground, snatches his revolver from under his jacket and plugs a
bullet plumb centre into Mr. Antonio’s chest. See what it
is to have to do with a gentleman. No confounded fuss, and things
done out of hand. But he might have tipped me a wink or something.
I nearly jumped out of my skin. Scared ain’t in it!
I didn’t even know who had fired. Everything had been so
still just before that the bang of the shot seemed the loudest noise
I had ever heard. The honourable Antonio pitches forward - they
always do, towards the shot; you must have noticed that yourself - yes,
he pitches forward on to the embers, and all that lot of hair on his
face and head flashes up like a pinch of gunpowder. Greasy, I
expect; always scraping the fat off them alligators’ hides - ”</p>
<p>“Look here,” exclaimed Schomberg violently, as if trying
to burst some invisible bonds, “do you mean to say that all this
happened?”</p>
<p>“No,” said Ricardo coolly. “I am making it
all up as I go along, just to help you through the hottest part of the
afternoon. So down he pitches his nose on the red embers, and
up jumps our handsome Pedro and I at the same time, like two Jacks-in-the-box.
He starts to bolt away, with his head over his shoulder, and I, hardly
knowing what I was doing, spring on his back. I had the sense
to get my hands round his neck at once, and it’s about all I could
do to lock my fingers tight under his jaw. You saw the beauty’s
neck, didn’t you? Hard as iron, too. Down we both
went. Seeing this the governor puts his revolver in his pocket.</p>
<p>“‘Tie his legs together, sir,’ I yell. ‘I’m
trying to strangle him.’</p>
<p>“There was a lot of their fibre-lines lying about. I
gave him a last squeeze and then got up.</p>
<p>“‘I might have shot you,’ says the governor, quite
concerned.</p>
<p>“‘But you are glad to have saved a cartridge, sir,’
I tell him.</p>
<p>“My jump did save it. It wouldn’t have done to
let him get away in the dark like that, and have the beauty dodging
around in the bushes, perhaps, with the rusty flint-lock gun they had.
The governor owned up that the jump was the correct thing.</p>
<p>“‘But he isn’t dead,’ says he, bending over
him.</p>
<p>“Might as well hope to strangle an ox. We made haste
to tie his elbows back, and then, before he came to himself, we dragged
him to a small tree, sat him up, and bound him to it, not by the waist
but by the neck - some twenty turns of small line round his throat and
the trunk, finished off with a reef-knot under his ear. Next thing
we did was to attend to the honourable Antonio, who was making a great
smell frizzling his face on the red coals. We pushed and rolled
him into the creek, and left the rest to the alligators.</p>
<p>“I was tired. That little scrap took it out of me something
awful. The governor hadn’t turned a hair. That’s
where a gentleman has the pull of you. He don’t get excited.
No gentleman does - or hardly ever. I fell asleep all of a sudden
and left him smoking by the fire I had made up, his railway rug round
his legs, as calm as if he were sitting in a first-class carriage.
We hardly spoke ten words to each other after it was over, and from
that day to this we have never talked of the business. I wouldn’t
have known he remembered it if he hadn’t alluded to it when talking
with you the other day - you know, with regard to Pedro.”</p>
<p>“It surprised you, didn’t it? That’s why
I am giving you this yarn of how he came to be with us, like a sort
of dog - dashed sight more useful, though. You know how he can
trot around with trays? Well, he could bring down an ox with his
fist, at a word from the boss, just as cleverly. And fond of the
governor! Oh, my word! More than any dog is of any man.”</p>
<p>Schomberg squared his chest.</p>
<p>“Oh, and that’s one of the things I wanted to mention
to Mr. Jones,” he said. “It’s unpleasant to
have that fellow round the house so early. He sits on the stairs
at the back for hours before he is needed here, and frightens people
so that the service suffers. The Chinamen - ”</p>
<p>Ricardo nodded and raised his hand.</p>
<p>“When I first saw him he was fit to frighten a grizzly bear,
let alone a Chinaman. He’s become civilized now to what
he once was. Well, that morning, first thing on opening my eyes,
I saw him sitting there, tied up by the neck to the tree. He was
blinking. We spend the day watching the sea, and we actually made
out the schooner working to windward, which showed that she had given
us up. Good! When the sun rose again, I took a squint at
our Pedro. He wasn’t blinking. He was rolling his
eyes, all white one minute and black the next, and his tongue was hanging
out a yard. Being tied up short by the neck like this would daunt
the arch devil himself - in time - in time, mind! I don’t
know but that even a real gentleman would find it difficult to keep
a stiff lip to the end. Presently we went to work getting our
boat ready. I was busying myself setting up the mast, when the
governor passes the remark:</p>
<p>“‘I think he wants to say something.’</p>
<p>“I had heard a sort of croaking going on for some time, only
I wouldn’t take any notice; but then I got out of the boat and
went up to him, with some water. His eyes were red - red and black
and half out of his head. He drank all the water I gave him, but
he hadn’t much to say for himself. I walked back to the
governor.</p>
<p>“‘He asks for a bullet in his head before we go,’
I said. I wasn’t at all pleased.</p>
<p>“‘Oh, that’s out of the question altogether,’
says the governor.</p>
<p>“He was right there. Only four shots left, and ninety
miles of wild coast to put behind us before coming to the first place
where you could expect to buy revolver cartridges.</p>
<p>“‘Anyhow,’ I tells him, ‘he wants to be killed
some way or other, as a favour.’</p>
<p>“And then I go on setting up the boat’s mast. I
didn’t care much for the notion of butchering a man bound hand
and foot and fastened by the neck besides. I had a knife then
- the honourable Antonio’s knife; and that knife is this knife.</p>
<p>Ricardo gave his leg a resounding slap.</p>
<p>“First spoil in my new life,” he went on with harsh joviality.
“The dodge of carrying it down there I learned later. I
carried it stuck in my belt that day. No, I hadn’t much
stomach for the job; but when you work with a gentleman of the real
right sort you may depend on your feelings being seen through your skin.
Says the governor suddenly:</p>
<p>“‘It may even be looked upon as his right’ - you
hear a gentleman speaking there? - ‘but what do you think of taking
him with us in the boat?’</p>
<p>“And the governor starts arguing that the beggar would be useful
in working our way along the coast. We could get rid of him before
coming to the first place that was a little civilized. I didn’t
want much talking over. Out I scrambled from the boat.</p>
<p>“‘Ay, but will he be manageable, sir?’</p>
<p>“‘Oh, yes. He’s daunted. Go on, cut
him loose - I take the responsibility.’</p>
<p>“‘Right you are, sir.’</p>
<p>“He sees me come along smartly with his brother’s knife
in my hand - I wasn’t thinking how it looked from his side of
the fence, you know - and jiminy, it nearly killed him! He stared
like a crazed bullock and began to sweat and twitch all over, something
amazing. I was so surprised, that I stopped to look at him.
The drops were pouring over his eyebrows, down his beard, off his nose
- and he gurgled. Then it struck me that he couldn’t see
what was in my mind. By favour or by right he didn’t like
to die when it came to it; not in that way, anyhow. When I stepped
round to get at the lashing, he let out a sort of soft bellow.
Thought I was going to stick him from behind, I guess. I cut all
the turns with one slash, and he went over on his side, flop, and started
kicking with his tied legs. Laugh! I don’t know what
there was so funny about it, but I fairly shouted. What between
my laughing and his wriggling, I had a job in cutting him free.
As soon as he could feel his limbs he makes for the bank, where the
governor was standing, crawls up to him on his hands and knees, and
embraces his legs. Gratitude, eh? You could see that being
allowed to live suited that chap down to the ground. The governor
gets his legs away from him gently and just mutters to me:</p>
<p>“‘Let’s be off. Get him into the boat.’</p>
<p>“It was not difficult,” continued Ricardo, after eyeing
Schomberg fixedly for a moment. “He was ready enough to
get into the boat, and - here he is. He would let himself be chopped
into small pieces - with a smile, mind; with a smile! - for the governor.
I don’t know about him doing that much for me; but pretty near,
pretty near. I did the tying up and the untying, but he could
see who was the boss. And then he knows a gentleman. A dog
knows a gentleman - any dog. It’s only some foreigners that
don’t know; and nothing can teach them, either.”</p>
<p>“And you mean to say,” asked Schomberg, disregarding
what might have been annoying for himself in the emphasis of the final
remark, “you mean to say that you left steady employment at good
wages for a life like this?”</p>
<p>“There!” began Ricardo quietly. “That’s
just what a man like you would say. You are that tame! I
follow a gentleman. That ain’t the same thing as to serve
an employer. They give you wages as they’d fling a bone
to a dog, and they expect you to be grateful. It’s worse
than slavery. You don’t expect a slave that’s bought
for money to be grateful. And if you sell your work - what is
it but selling your own self? You’ve got so many days to
live and you sell them one after another. Hey? Who can pay
me enough for my life? Ay! But they throw at you your week’s
money and expect you to say ‘thank you’ before you pick
it up.”</p>
<p>He mumbled some curses, directed at employers generally, as it seemed,
then blazed out:</p>
<p>“Work be damned! I ain’t a dog walking on its hind
legs for a bone; I am a man who’s following a gentleman.
There’s a difference which you will never understand, Mr. Tame
Schomberg.”</p>
<p>He yawned slightly. Schomberg, preserving a military stiffness
reinforced by a slight frown, had allowed his thoughts to stray away.
They were busy detailing the image of a young girl - absent - gone -
stolen from him. He became enraged. There was that rascal
looking at him insolently. If the girl had not been shamefully
decoyed away from him, he would not have allowed anyone to look at him
insolently. He would have made nothing of hitting that rogue between
the eyes. Afterwards he would have kicked the other without hesitation.
He saw himself doing it; and in sympathy with this glorious vision Schomberg’s
right foot, and arm moved convulsively.</p>
<p>At this moment he came out of his sudden reverie to note with alarm
the wide-awake curiosity of Mr. Ricardo’s stare.</p>
<p>“And so you go like this about the world, gambling,”
he remarked inanely, to cover his confusion. But Ricardo’s
stare did not change its character, and he continued vaguely:</p>
<p>“Here and there and everywhere.” He pulled himself
together, squared his shoulders. “Isn’t it very precarious?”
he said firmly.</p>
<p>The word precarious - seemed to be effective, because Ricardo’s
eyes lost their dangerously interested expression.</p>
<p>“No, not so bad,” Ricardo said, with indifference.
“It’s my opinion that men will gamble as long as they have
anything to put on a card. Gamble? That’s nature.
What’s life itself? You never know what may turn up.
The worst of it is that you never can tell exactly what sort of cards
you are holding yourself. What’s trumps? - that is the question.
See? Any man will gamble if only he’s given a chance, for
anything or everything. You too - ”</p>
<p>“I haven’t touched a card now for twenty years,”
said Schomberg in an austere tone.</p>
<p>“Well, if you got your living that way you would be no worse
than you are now, selling drinks to people - beastly beer and spirits,
rotten stuff fit to make an old he-goat yell if you poured it down its
throat. Pooh! I can’t stand the confounded liquor.
Never could. A whiff of neat brandy in a glass makes me feel sick.
Always did. If everybody was like me, liquor would be going a-begging.
You think it’s funny in a man, don’t you?”</p>
<p>Schomberg made a vague gesture of toleration. Ricardo hitched
up his chair and settled his elbow afresh on the table.</p>
<p>“French siros I must say I do like. Saigon’s the
place for them. I see you have siros in the bar. Hang me
if I ain’t getting dry, conversing like this with you. Come,
Mr. Schomberg, be hospitable, as the governor says.”</p>
<p>Schomberg rose and walked with dignity to the counter. His
footsteps echoed loudly on the floor of polished boards. He took
down a bottle, labelled “<i>Sirop de Groseille</i>.”
The little sounds he made, the clink of glass, the gurgling of the liquid,
the pop of the soda-water cork had a preternatural sharpness.
He came back carrying a pink and glistening tumbler. Mr. Ricardo
had followed his movements with oblique, coyly expectant yellow eyes,
like a cat watching the preparation of a saucer of milk, and the satisfied
sound after he had drunk might have been a slightly modified form of
purring, very soft and deep in his throat. It affected Schomberg
unpleasantly as another example of something inhuman in those men wherein
lay the difficulty of dealing with them. A spectre, a cat, an
ape - there was a pretty association for a mere man to remonstrate with,
he reflected with an inward shudder; for Schomberg had been overpowered,
as it were, by his imagination, and his reason could not react against
that fanciful view of his guests. And it was not only their appearance.
The morals of Mr. Ricardo seemed to him to be pretty much the morals
of a cat. Too much. What sort of argument could a mere man
offer to a . . . or to a spectre, either! What the morals of a
spectre could be, Schomberg had no idea. Something dreadful, no
doubt. Compassion certainly had no place in them. As to
the ape - well, everybody knew what an ape was. It had no morals.
Nothing could be more hopeless.</p>
<p>Outwardly, however, having picked up the cigar which he had laid
aside to get the drink, with his thick fingers, one of them ornamented
by a gold ring, Schomberg smoked with moody composure. Facing
him, Ricardo blinked slowly for a time, then closed his eyes altogether,
with the placidity of the domestic cat dozing on the hearth-rug.
In another moment he opened them very wide, and seemed surprised to
see Schomberg there.</p>
<p>“You’re having a very slack time today, aren’t
you?” he observed. “But then this whole town is confoundedly
slack, anyhow; and I’ve never faced such a slack party at a table
before. Come eleven o’clock, they begin to talk of breaking
up. What’s the matter with them? Want to go to bed
so early, or what?”</p>
<p>“I reckon you don’t lose a fortune by their wanting to
go to bed,” said Schomberg, with sombre sarcasm.</p>
<p>“No,” admitted Ricardo, with a grin that stretched his
thin mouth from ear to ear, giving a sudden glimpse of his white teeth.
“Only, you see, when I once start, I would play for nuts, for
parched peas, for any rubbish. I would play them for their souls.
But these Dutchmen aren’t any good. They never seem to get
warmed up properly, win or lose. I’ve tried them both ways,
too. Hang them for a beggarly, bloodless lot of animated cucumbers!”</p>
<p>“And if anything out of the way was to happen, they would be
just as cool in locking you and your gentleman up,” Schomberg
snarled unpleasantly.</p>
<p>“Indeed!” said Ricardo slowly, taking Schomberg’s
measure with his eyes. “And what about you?”</p>
<p>“You talk mighty big,” burst out the hotel-keeper.
“You talk of ranging all over the world, and doing great things,
and taking fortune by the scruff of the neck, but here you stick at
this miserable business!”</p>
<p>“It isn’t much of a lay - that’s a fact,”
admitted Ricardo unexpectedly.</p>
<p>Schomberg was red in the face with audacity.</p>
<p>“I call it paltry,” he spluttered.</p>
<p>“That’s how it looks. Can’t call it anything
else.” Ricardo seemed to be in an accommodating mood.
“I should be ashamed of it myself, only you see the governor is
subject to fits - ”</p>
<p>“Fits!” Schomberg cried out, but in a low tone.
“You don’t say so!” He exulted inwardly, as
if this disclosure had in some way diminished the difficulty of the
situation. “Fits! That’s a serious thing, isn’t
it? You ought to take him to the civil hospital - a lovely place.”</p>
<p>Ricardo nodded slightly, with a faint grin.</p>
<p>“Serious enough. Regular fits of laziness, I call them.
Now and then he lays down on me like this, and there’s no moving
him. If you think I like it, you’re a long way out.
Generally speaking, I can talk him over. I know how to deal with
a gentleman. I am no daily-bread slave. But when he has
said, ‘Martin, I am bored,’ then look out! There’s
nothing to do but to shut up, confound it!”</p>
<p>Schomberg, very much cast down, had listened open-mouthed.</p>
<p>“What’s the cause of it?” he asked. “Why
is he like this? I don’t understand.”</p>
<p>“I think I do,” said Ricardo. “A gentleman,
you know, is not such a simple person as you or I; and not so easy to
manage, either. If only I had something to lever him out with!”</p>
<p>“What do you mean, to lever him out with?” muttered Schomberg
hopelessly.</p>
<p>Ricardo was impatient with this denseness.</p>
<p>“Don’t you understand English? Look here!
I couldn’t make this billiard table move an inch if I talked to
it from now till the end of days - could I? Well, the governor
is like that, too, when the fits are on him. He’s bored.
Nothing’s worthwhile, nothing’s good enough, that’s
mere sense. But if I saw a capstan bar lying about here, I would
soon manage to shift that billiard table of yours a good many inches.
And that’s all there is to it.”</p>
<p>He rose noiselessly, stretched himself, supple and stealthy, with
curious sideways movements of his head and unexpected elongations of
his thick body, glanced out of the corners of his eyes in the direction
of the door, and finally leaned back against the table, folding his
arms on his breast comfortably, in a completely human attitude.</p>
<p>“That’s another thing you can tell a gentleman by - his
freakishness. A gentleman ain’t accountable to nobody, any
more than a tramp on the roads. He ain’t got to keep time.
The governor got like this once in a one-horse Mexican pueblo on the
uplands, away from everywhere. He lay all day long in a dark room
- ”</p>
<p>“Drunk?” This word escaped Schomberg by inadvertence
at which he became frightened. But the devoted secretary seemed
to find it natural.</p>
<p>“No, that never comes on together with this kind of fit.
He just lay there full length on a mat, while a ragged, bare-legged
boy that he had picked up in the street sat in the <i>patio</i>, between
two oleanders near the open door of his room, strumming on a guitar
and singing <i>tristes</i> to him from morning to night. You know
<i>tristes</i> - twang, twang, twang, aouh, hoo! Chroo, yah!”</p>
<p>Schomberg uplifted his hands in distress. This tribute seemed
to flatter Ricardo. His mouth twitched grimly.</p>
<p>“Like that - enough to give colic to an ostrich, eh?
Awful. Well, there was a cook there who loved me - an old fat,
Negro woman with spectacles. I used to hide in the kitchen and
turn her to, to make me <i>dulces</i> - sweet things, you know, mostly
eggs and sugar - to pass the time away. I am like a kid for sweet
things. And, by the way, why don’t you ever have a pudding
at your tablydott, Mr. Schomberg? Nothing but fruit, morning,
noon, and night. Sickening! What do you think a fellow is
- a wasp?”</p>
<p>Schomberg disregarded the injured tone.</p>
<p>“And how long did that fit, as you call it, last?” he
asked anxiously.</p>
<p>“Weeks, months, years, centuries, it seemed to me,” returned
Mr. Ricardo with feeling. “Of an evening the governor would
stroll out into the <i>sala</i> and fritter his life away playing cards
with the <i>juez</i> of the place - a little Dago with a pair of black
whiskers - ekarty, you know, a quick French game, for small change.
And the <i>comandante</i>, a one-eyed, half-Indian, flat-nosed ruffian,
and I, we had to stand around and bet on their hands. It was awful!”</p>
<p>“Awful,” echoed Schomberg, in a Teutonic throaty tone
of despair. “Look here, I need your rooms.”</p>
<p>“To be sure. I have been thinking that for some time
past,” said Ricardo indifferently.</p>
<p>“I was mad when I listened to you. This must end!”</p>
<p>“I think you are mad yet,” said Ricardo, not even unfolding
his arms or shifting his attitude an inch. He lowered his voice
to add: “And if I thought you had been to the police, I would
tell Pedro to catch you round the waist and break your fat neck by jerking
your head backward - snap! I saw him do it to a big buck nigger
who was flourishing a razor in front of the governor. It can be
done. You hear a low crack, that’s all - and the man drops
down like a limp rag.”</p>
<p>Not even Ricardo’s head, slightly inclined on the left shoulder,
had moved; but when he ceased the greenish irises which had been staring
out of doors glided into the corners of his eyes nearest to Schomberg
and stayed there with a coyly voluptuous expression.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h3>CHAPTER EIGHT</h3>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>Schomberg felt desperation, that lamentable substitute for courage,
ooze out of him. It was not so much the threat of death as the
weirdly circumstantial manner of its declaration which affected him.
A mere “I’ll murder you,” however ferocious in tone,
and earnest, in purpose, he could have faced; but before this novel
mode of speech and procedure, his imagination being very sensitive to
the unusual, he collapsed as if indeed his moral neck had been broken
- snap!</p>
<p>“Go to the police? Of course not. Never dreamed
of it. Too late now. I’ve let myself be mixed up in
this. You got my consent while I wasn’t myself. I
explained it to you at the time.”</p>
<p>Ricardo’s eye glided gently off Schomberg to stare far away.</p>
<p>“Ay! Some trouble with a girl. But that’s
nothing to us.”</p>
<p>“Naturally. What I say is, what’s the good of all
that savage talk to me?” A bright argument occurred to him.
“It’s out of proportion; for even if I were fool enough
to go to the police now, there’s nothing serious to complain about.
It would only mean deportation for you. They would put you on
board the first west-bound steamer to Singapore.” He had
become animated. “Out of this to the devil,” he added
between his teeth for his own private satisfaction.</p>
<p>Ricardo made no comment, and gave no sign of having heard a single
word. This discouraged Schomberg, who had looked up hopefully.</p>
<p>“Why do you want to stick here?” he cried. “It
can’t pay you people to fool around like this. Didn’t
you worry just now about moving your governor? Well, the police
would move him for you; and from Singapore you can go on to the east
coast of Africa.”</p>
<p>“I’ll be hanged if the fellow isn’t up to that
silly trick!” was Ricardo’s comment, spoken in an ominous
tone which recalled Schomberg to the realities of his position.</p>
<p>“No! No!” he protested. “It’s
a manner of speaking. Of course I wouldn’t.”</p>
<p>“I think that trouble about the girl has really muddled your
brains, Mr. Schomberg. Believe me, you had better part friends
with us; for, deportation or no deportation, you’ll be seeing
one of us turning up before long to pay you off for any nasty dodge
you may be hatching in that fat head of yours.”</p>
<p>“<i>Gott im Himmel</i>!” groaned Schomberg. “Will
nothing move him out? Will he stop here immer - I mean always?
Suppose I were to make it worth your while, couldn’t you - ”</p>
<p>“No,” Ricardo interrupted. “I couldn’t,
unless I had something to lever him out with. I’ve told
you that before.”</p>
<p>“An inducement?” muttered Schomberg.</p>
<p>“Ay. The east coast of Africa isn’t good enough.
He told me the other day that it will have to wait till he is ready
for it; and he may not be ready for a long time, because the east coast
can’t run away, and no one is likely to run off with it.”</p>
<p>These remarks, whether considered as truisms or as depicting Mr.
Jones’s mental state, were distinctly discouraging to the long-suffering
Schomberg; but there is truth in the well-known saying that places the
darkest hour before the dawn. The sound of words, apart from the
context, has its power; and these two words, ‘run off,’
had a special affinity to the hotel-keeper’s, haunting idea.
It was always present in his brain, and now it came forward evoked by
a purely fortuitous expression. No, nobody could run off with
a continent; but Heyst had run off with the girl!</p>
<p>Ricardo could have had no conception of the cause of Schomberg’s
changed expression. Yet it was noticeable enough to interest him
so much that he stopped the careless swinging of his leg and said, looking
at the hotel-keeper:</p>
<p>“There’s not much use arguing against that sort of talk
- is there?”</p>
<p>Schomberg was not listening.</p>
<p>“I could put you on another track,” he said slowly, and
stopped, as if suddenly choked by an unholy emotion of intense eagerness
combined with fear of failure. Ricardo waited, attentive, yet
not without a certain contempt.</p>
<p>“On the track of a man!” Schomberg uttered convulsively,
and paused again, consulting his rage and his conscience.</p>
<p>“The man in the moon, eh?” suggested Ricardo, in a jeering
murmur.</p>
<p>Schomberg shook his head.</p>
<p>“It would be nearly as safe to rook him as if he were the Man
in the moon. You go and try. It isn’t so very far.”</p>
<p>He reflected. These men were thieves and murderers as well
as gamblers. Their fitness for purposes of vengeance was appallingly
complete. But he preferred not to think of it in detail.
He put it to himself summarily that he would be paying Heyst out and
would, at the same time, relieve himself of these men’s oppression.
He had only to let loose his natural gift for talking scandalously about
his fellow creatures. And in this case his great practice in it
was assisted by hate, which, like love, has an eloquence of its own.
With the utmost ease he portrayed for Ricardo, now seriously attentive,
a Heyst fattened by years of private and public rapines, the murderer
of Morrison, the swindler of many shareholders, a wonderful mixture
of craft and impudence, of deep purposes and simple wiles, of mystery
and futility. In this exercise of his natural function Schomberg
revived, the colour coming back to his face, loquacious, florid, eager,
his manliness set off by the military bearing.</p>
<p>“That’s the exact story. He was seen hanging about
this part of the world for years, spying into everybody’s business:
but I am the only one who has seen through him from the first - contemptible,
double-faced, stick-at-nothing, dangerous fellow.”</p>
<p>“Dangerous, is he?”</p>
<p>Schomberg came to himself at the sound of Ricardo’s voice.</p>
<p>“Well, you know what I mean,” he said uneasily.
“A lying, circumventing, soft-spoken, polite, stuck-up rascal.
Nothing open about him.”</p>
<p>Mr Ricardo had slipped off the table, and was prowling about the
room in an oblique, noiseless manner. He flashed a grin at Schomberg
in passing, and a snarling:</p>
<p>“Ah! H’m!”</p>
<p>“Well, what more dangerous do you want?” argued Schomberg.
“He’s in no way a fighting man, I believe,” he added
negligently.</p>
<p>“And you say he has been living alone there?”</p>
<p>“Like the man in the moon,” answered Schomberg readily.
“There’s no one that cares a rap what becomes of him.
He has been lying low, you understand, after bagging all that plunder.</p>
<p>“Plunder, eh? Why didn’t he go home with it?”
inquired Ricardo.</p>
<p>The henchman of plain Mr. Jones was beginning to think that this
was something worth looking into. And he was pursuing truth in
the manner of men of sounder morality and purer intentions than his
own; that is he pursued it in the light of his own experience and prejudices.
For facts, whatever their origin (and God only knows where they come
from), can be only tested by our own particular suspicions. Ricardo
was suspicious all round. Schomberg, such is the tonic of recovered
self-esteem, Schomberg retorted fearlessly:</p>
<p>“Go home? Why don’t you go home? To hear
your talk, you must have made a pretty considerable pile going round
winning people’s money. You ought to be ready by this time.”</p>
<p>Ricardo stopped to look at Schomberg with surprise.</p>
<p>“You think yourself very clever, don’t you?” he
said.</p>
<p>Schomberg just then was so conscious of being clever that the snarling
irony left him unmoved. There was positively a smile in his noble
Teutonic beard, the first smile for weeks. He was in a felicitous
vein.</p>
<p>“How do you know that he wasn’t thinking of going home?
As a matter of fact, he was on his way home.”</p>
<p>“And how do I know that you are not amusing yourself by spinning
out a blamed fairy tale?” interrupted Ricardo roughly. “I
wonder at myself listening to the silly rot!”</p>
<p>Schomberg received this turn of temper unmoved. He did not
require to be very subtly observant to notice that he had managed to
arouse some sort of feeling, perhaps of greed, in Ricardo’s breast.</p>
<p>“You won’t believe me? Well! You can ask
anybody that comes here if that - that Swede hadn’t got as far
as this house on his way home. Why should he turn up here if not
for that? You ask anybody.”</p>
<p>“Ask, indeed!” returned the other. “Catch
me asking at large about a man I mean to drop on! Such jobs must
be done on the quiet - or not at all.”</p>
<p>The peculiar intonation of the last phrase touched the nape of Schomberg’s
neck with a chill. He cleared his throat slightly and looked away
as though he had heard something indelicate. Then, with a jump
as it were:</p>
<p>“Of course he didn’t tell me. Is it likely?
But haven’t I got eyes? Haven’t I got my common sense
to tell me? I can see through people. By the same token,
he called on the Tesmans. Why did he call on the Tesmans two days
running, eh? You don’t know? You can’t tell?”</p>
<p>He waited complacently till Ricardo had finished swearing quite openly
at him for a confounded chatterer, and then went on:</p>
<p>“A fellow doesn’t go to a counting-house in business
hours for a chat about the weather, two days running. Then why?
To close his account with them one day, and to get his money out the
next! Clear, what?”</p>
<p>Ricardo, with his trick of looking one way and moving another approached
Schomberg slowly.</p>
<p>“To get his money?” he purred.</p>
<p>“<i>Gewiss</i>,” snapped Schomberg with impatient superiority.
“What else? That is, only the money he had with the Tesmans.
What he has buried or put away on the island, devil only knows.
When you think of the lot of hard cash that passed through that man’s
hands, for wages and stores and all that - and he’s just a cunning
thief, I tell you.” Ricardo’s hard stare discomposed
the hotel-keeper, and he added in an embarrassed tone: “I mean
a common, sneaking thief - no account at all. And he calls himself
a Swedish baron, too! Tfui!”</p>
<p>“He’s a baron, is he? That foreign nobility ain’t
much,” commented Mr. Ricardo seriously. “And then
what? He hung about here!”</p>
<p>“Yes, he hung about,” said Schomberg, making a wry mouth.
“He - hung about. That’s it. Hung - ”</p>
<p>His voice died out. Curiosity was depicted in Ricardo’s
countenance.</p>
<p>“Just like that; for nothing? And then turned about and
went back to that island again?”</p>
<p>“And went back to that island again,” Schomberg echoed
lifelessly, fixing his gaze on the floor.</p>
<p>“What’s the matter with you?” asked Ricardo with
genuine surprise. “What is it?”</p>
<p>Schomberg, without looking up, made an impatient gesture. His
face was crimson, and he kept it lowered. Ricardo went back to
the point.</p>
<p>“Well, but how do you account for it? What was his reason?
What did he go back to the island for?”</p>
<p>“Honeymoon!” spat out Schomberg viciously.</p>
<p>Perfectly still, his eyes downcast, he suddenly, with no preliminary
stir, hit the table with his fist a blow which caused the utterly unprepared
Ricardo to leap aside. And only then did Schomberg look up with
a dull, resentful expression.</p>
<p>Ricardo stared hard for a moment, spun on his heel, walked to the
end of the room, came back smartly, and muttered a profound “Ay!
Ay!” above Schomberg’s rigid head. That the hotel-keeper
was capable of a great moral effort was proved by a gradual return of
his severe, Lieutenant-of-the-Reserve manner.</p>
<p>“Ay, ay!” repeated Ricardo more deliberately than before,
and as if after a further survey of the circumstances, “I wish
I hadn’t asked you, or that you had told me a lie. It don’t
suit me to know that there’s a woman mixed up in this affair.
What’s she like? It’s the girl you - ”</p>
<p>“Leave off!” muttered Schomberg, utterly pitiful behind
his stiff military front.</p>
<p>“Ay, ay!” Ricardo ejaculated for the third time, more
and more enlightened and perplexed. “Can’t bear to
talk about it - so bad as that? And yet I would bet she isn’t
a miracle to look at.”</p>
<p>Schomberg made a gesture as if he didn’t know, as if he didn’t
care. Then he squared his shoulders and frowned at vacancy.</p>
<p>“Swedish baron - h’m!” Ricardo continued meditatively.
“I believe the governor would think that business worth looking
up, quite, if I put it to him properly. The governor likes a duel,
if you will call it so; but I don’t know a man that can stand
up to him on the square. Have you ever seen a cat play with a
mouse? It’s a pretty sight!”</p>
<p>Ricardo, with his voluptuously gleaming eyes and the coy expression,
looked so much like a cat that Schomberg would have felt all the alarm
of a mouse if other feelings had not had complete possession of his
breast.</p>
<p>“There are no lies between you and me,” he said, more
steadily than he thought he could speak.</p>
<p>“What’s the good now? He funks women. In
that Mexican pueblo where we lay grounded on our beef-bones, so to speak,
I used to go to dances of an evening. The girls there would ask
me if the English <i>caballero</i> in the <i>posada</i> was a monk in
disguise, or if he had taken a vow to the <i>sancissima madre</i> not
to speak to a woman, or whether - You can imagine what fairly free-spoken
girls will ask when they come to the point of not caring what they say;
and it used to vex me. Yes, the governor funks facing women.”</p>
<p>“One woman?” interjected Schomberg in guttural tones.</p>
<p>“One may be more awkward to deal with than two, or two hundred,
for that matter. In a place that’s full of women you needn’t
look at them unless you like; but if you go into a room where there
is only one woman, young or old, pretty or ugly, you have got to face
her. And, unless you are after her, then - the governor is right
enough - she’s in the way.”</p>
<p>“Why notice them?” muttered Schomberg. “What
can they do?”</p>
<p>“Make a noise, if nothing else,” opined Mr. Ricardo curtly,
with the distaste of a man whose path is a path of silence; for indeed,
nothing is more odious than a noise when one is engaged in a weighty
and absorbing card game. “Noise, noise, my friend,”
he went on forcibly; “confounded screeching about something or
other, and I like it no more than the governor does. But with
the governor there’s something else besides. He can’t
stand them at all.”</p>
<p>He paused to reflect on this psychological phenomenon, and as no
philosopher was at hand to tell him that there is no strong sentiment
without some terror, as there is no real religion without a little fetishism,
he emitted his own conclusion, which surely could not go to the root
of the matter.</p>
<p>“I’m hanged if I don’t think they are to him what
liquor is to me. Brandy - pah!”</p>
<p>He made a disgusted face, and produced a genuine shudder. Schomberg
listened to him in wonder. It looked as if the very scoundrelism,
of that - that Swede would protect him; the spoil of his iniquity standing
between the thief and the retribution.</p>
<p>“That’s so, old buck.” Ricardo broke the
silence after contemplating Schomberg’s mute dejection with a
sort of sympathy. “I don’t think this trick will work.”</p>
<p>“But that’s silly,” whispered the man deprived
of the vengeance which he had seemed already to hold in his hand, by
a mysterious and exasperating idiosyncrasy.</p>
<p>“Don’t you set yourself to judge a gentleman.”
Ricardo without anger administered a moody rebuke. “Even
I can’t understand the governor thoroughly. And I am an
Englishman and his follower. No, I don’t think I care to
put it before him, sick as I am of staying here.”</p>
<p>Ricardo could not be more sick of staying than Schomberg was of seeing
him stay. Schomberg believed so firmly in the reality of Heyst
as created by his own power of false inferences, of his hate, of his
love of scandal, that he could not contain a stifled cry of conviction
as sincere as most of our convictions, the disguised servants of our
passions, can appear at a supreme moment.</p>
<p>“It would have been like going to pick up a nugget of a thousand
pounds, or two or three times as much, for all I know. No trouble,
no - ”</p>
<p>“The petticoat’s the trouble,” Ricardo struck in.</p>
<p>He had resumed his noiseless, feline, oblique prowling, in which
an observer would have detected a new character of excitement, such
as a wild animal of the cat species, anxious to make a spring, might
betray. Schomberg saw nothing. It would probably have cheered
his drooping spirits; but in a general way he preferred not to look
at Ricardo. Ricardo, however, with one of his slanting, gliding,
restless glances, observed the bitter smile on Schomberg’s bearded
lips - the unmistakable smile of ruined hopes.</p>
<p>“You are a pretty unforgiving sort of chap,” he said,
stopping for a moment with an air of interest. “Hang me
if I ever saw anybody look so disappointed! I bet you would send
black plague to that island if you only knew how - eh, what? Plague
too good for them? Ha, ha, ha!”</p>
<p>He bent down to stare at Schomberg who sat unstirring with stony
eyes and set features, and apparently deaf to the rasping derision of
that laughter so close to his red fleshy ear.</p>
<p>“Black plague too good for them, ha, ha!” Ricardo
pressed the point on the tormented hotel-keeper. Schomberg kept
his eyes down obstinately.</p>
<p>“I don’t wish any harm to the girl - ” he muttered.</p>
<p>“But did she bolt from you? A fair bilk? Come!”</p>
<p>“Devil only knows what that villainous Swede had done to her
- what he promised her, how he frightened her. She couldn’t
have cared for him, I know.” Schomberg’s vanity clung
to the belief in some atrocious, extraordinary means of seduction employed
by Heyst. “Look how he bewitched that poor Morrison,”
he murmured.</p>
<p>“Ah, Morrison - got all his money, what?”</p>
<p>“Yes - and his life.”</p>
<p>“Terrible fellow, that Swedish baron! How is one to get
at him?”</p>
<p>Schomberg exploded.</p>
<p>“Three against one! Are you shy? Do you want me
to give you a letter of introduction?”</p>
<p>“You ought to look at yourself in a glass,” Ricardo said
quietly. “Dash me if you don’t get a stroke of some
kind presently. And this is the fellow who says women can do nothing!
That one will do for you, unless you manage to forget her.”</p>
<p>“I wish I could,” Schomberg admitted earnestly.
“And it’s all the doing of that Swede. I don’t
get enough sleep, Mr. Ricardo. And then, to finish me off, you
gentlemen turn up . . . as if I hadn’t enough worry.”</p>
<p>“That’s done you good,” suggested the secretary
with ironic seriousness. “Takes your mind off that silly
trouble. At your age too.”</p>
<p>He checked himself, as if in pity, and changing his tone:</p>
<p>“I would really like to oblige you while doing a stroke of
business at the same time.”</p>
<p>“A good stroke,” insisted Schomberg, as if it were mechanically.
In his simplicity he was not able to give up the idea which had entered
his head. An idea must be driven out by another idea, and with
Schomberg ideas were rare and therefore tenacious. “Minted
gold,” he murmured with a sort of anguish.</p>
<p>Such an expressive combination of words was not without effect upon
Ricardo. Both these men were amenable to the influence of verbal
suggestions. The secretary of “plain Mr. Jones” sighed
and murmured.</p>
<p>“Yes. But how is one to get at it?”</p>
<p>“Being three to one,” said Schomberg, “I suppose
you could get it for the asking.”</p>
<p>“One would think the fellow lived next door,” Ricardo
growled impatiently. “Hang it all, can’t you understand
a plain question? I have asked you the way.”</p>
<p>Schomberg seemed to revive.</p>
<p>“The way?”</p>
<p>The torpor of deceived hopes underlying his superficial changes of
mood had been pricked by these words which seemed pointed with purpose.</p>
<p>“The way is over the water, of course,” said the hotel-keeper.
“For people like you, three days in a good, big boat is nothing.
It’s no more than a little outing, a bit of a change. At
this season the Java Sea is a pond. I have an excellent, safe
boat - a ship’s life-boat - carry thirty, let alone three, and
a child could handle her. You wouldn’t get a wet face at
this time of the year. You might call it a pleasure-trip.”</p>
<p>“And yet, having this boat, you didn’t go after her yourself
- or after him? Well, you are a fine fellow for a disappointed
lover.”</p>
<p>Schomberg gave a start at the suggestion.</p>
<p>“I am not three men,” he said sulkily, as the shortest
answer of the several he could have given.</p>
<p>“Oh, I know your sort,” Ricardo let fall negligently.
“You are like most people - or perhaps just a little more peaceable
than the rest of the buying and selling gang that bosses this rotten
show. Well, well, you respectable citizen,” he went on,
“let us go thoroughly into the matter.”</p>
<p>When Schomberg had been made to understand that Mr. Jones’s
henchman was ready to discuss, in his own words, “this boat of
yours, with courses and distances,” and such concrete matters
of no good augury to that villainous Swede, he recovered his soldierly
bearing, squared his shoulders, and asked in his military manner:</p>
<p>“You wish, then, to proceed with the business?”</p>
<p>Ricardo nodded. He had a great mind to, he said. A gentleman
had to be humoured as much as possible; but he must be managed, too,
on occasions, for his own good. And it was the business of the
right sort of “follower” to know the proper time and the
proper methods of that delicate part of his duty. Having exposed
this theory Ricardo proceeded to the application.</p>
<p>“I’ve never actually lied to him,” he said, “and
I ain’t going to now. I shall just say nothing about the
girl. He will have to get over the shock the best he can.
Hang it all! Too much humouring won’t do here.”</p>
<p>“Funny thing,” Schomberg observed crisply.</p>
<p>“Is it? Ay, you wouldn’t mind taking a woman by
the throat in some dark corner and nobody by, I bet!”</p>
<p>Ricardo’s dreadful, vicious, cat-like readiness to get his
claws out at any moment startled Schomberg as usual. But it was
provoking too.</p>
<p>“And you?” he defended himself. “Don’t
you want me to believe you are up to anything?”</p>
<p>“I, my boy? Oh, yes. I am not that gentleman; neither
are you. Take ’em by the throat or chuck ’em under
the chin is all one to me - almost,” affirmed Ricardo, with something
obscurely ironical in his complacency. “Now, as to this
business. A three days’ jaunt in a good boat isn’t
a thing to frighten people like us. You are right, so far; but
there are other details.”</p>
<p>Schomberg was ready enough to enter into details. He explained
that he had a small plantation, with a fairly habitable hut on it, on
Madura. He proposed that his guest should start from town in his
boat, as if going for an excursion to that rural spot. The custom-house
people on the quay were used to see his boat go off on such trips.</p>
<p>From Madura, after some repose and on a convenient day, Mr. Jones
and party would make the real start. It would all be plain sailing.
Schomberg undertook to provision the boat. The greatest hardship
the voyagers need apprehend would be a mild shower of rain. At
that season of the year there were no serious thunderstorms.</p>
<p>Schomberg’s heart began to thump as he saw himself nearing
his vengeance. His speech was thick but persuasive.</p>
<p>“No risk at all - none whatever.”</p>
<p>Ricardo dismissed these assurances of safety with an impatient gesture.
He was thinking of other risks.</p>
<p>“The getting away from here is all right; but we may be sighted
at sea, and that may bring awkwardness later on. A ship’s
boat with three white men in her, knocking about out of sight of land,
is bound to make talk. Are we likely to be seen on our way?”</p>
<p>“No, unless by native craft,” said Schomberg.</p>
<p>Ricardo nodded, satisfied. Both these white men looked on native
life as a mere play of shadows. A play of shadows the dominant
race could walk through unaffected and disregarded in the pursuit of
its incomprehensible aims and needs. No. Native craft did
not count, of course. It was an empty, solitary part of the sea,
Schomberg expounded further. Only the Ternate mail-boat crossed
that region about the eighth of every month, regularly - nowhere near
the island though. Rigid, his voice hoarse, his heart thumping,
his mind concentrated on the success of his plan, the hotel-keeper multiplied
words, as if to keep as many of them as possible between himself and
the murderous aspect of his purpose.</p>
<p>“So, if you gentlemen depart from my plantation quietly at
sunset on the eighth - always best to make a start at night, with a
land breeze - it’s a hundred to one - What am I saying? - it’s
a thousand to one that no human eye will see you on the passage.
All you’ve got to do is keep her heading north-east for, say,
fifty hours; perhaps not quite so long. There will always be draft
enough to keep a boat moving; you may reckon on that; and then - ”</p>
<p>The muscles about his waist quivered under his clothes with eagerness,
with impatience, and with something like apprehension, the true nature
of which was not clear to him. And he did not want to investigate
it. Ricardo regarded him steadily, with those dry eyes of his
shining more like polished stones than living tissue.</p>
<p>“And then what?” he asked.</p>
<p>“And then - why, you will astonish <i>der herr baron</i> -
ha, ha!”</p>
<p>Schomberg seemed to force the words and the laugh out of himself
in a hoarse bass.</p>
<p>“And you believe he has all that plunder by him?” asked
Ricardo, rather perfunctorily, because the fact seemed to him extremely
probable when looked at all round by his acute mind.</p>
<p>Schomberg raised his hands and lowered them slowly.</p>
<p>“How can it be otherwise? He was going home, he was on
his way, in this hotel. Ask people. Was it likely he would
leave it behind him?”</p>
<p>Ricardo was thoughtful. Then, suddenly raising his head, he
remarked:</p>
<p>“Steer north-east for fifty hours, eh? That’s not
much of a sailing direction. I’ve heard of a port being
missed before on better information. Can’t you say what
sort of landfall a fellow may expect? But I suppose you have never
seen that island yourself?”</p>
<p>Schomberg admitted that he had not seen it, in a tone in which a
man congratulates himself on having escaped the contamination of an
unsavoury experience. No, certainly not. He had never had
any business to call there. But what of that? He could give
Mr. Ricardo as good a sea-mark as anybody need wish for. He laughed
nervously. Miss it! He defied anyone that came within forty
miles of it to miss the retreat of that villainous Swede.</p>
<p>“What do you think of a pillar of smoke by day and a loom of
fire at night? There’s a volcano in full blast near that
island - enough to guide almost a blind man. What more do you
want? An active volcano to steer by?”</p>
<p>These last words he roared out exultingly, then jumped up and glared.
The door to the left of the bar had swung open, and Mrs. Schomberg,
dressed for duty, stood facing him down the whole length of the room.
She clung to the handle for a moment, then came in and glided to her
place, where she sat down to stare straight before her, as usual.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div>
<h2>PART THREE</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div>
<h3>CHAPTER ONE</h3>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>Tropical nature had been kind to the failure of the commercial enterprise.
The desolation of the headquarters of the Tropical Belt Coal Company
had been screened from the side of the sea; from the side where prying
eyes - if any were sufficiently interested, either in malice or in sorrow
- could have noted the decaying bones of that once sanguine enterprise.</p>
<p>Heyst had been sitting among the bones buried so kindly in the grass
of two wet seasons’ growth. The silence of his surroundings,
broken only by such sounds as a distant roll of thunder, the lash of
rain through the foliage of some big trees, the noise of the wind tossing
the leaves of the forest, and of the short seas breaking against the
shore, favoured rather than hindered his solitary meditation.</p>
<p>A meditation is always - in a white man, at least - more or less
an interrogative exercise. Heyst meditated in simple terms on
the mystery of his actions; and he answered himself with the honest
reflection:</p>
<p>“There must be a lot of the original Adam in me, after all.”</p>
<p>He reflected, too, with the sense of making a discovery, that his
primeval ancestor is not easily suppressed. The oldest voice in
the world is just the one that never ceases to speak. If anybody
could have silenced its imperative echoes, it should have been Heyst’s
father, with his contemptuous, inflexible negation of all effort; but
apparently he could not. There was in the son a lot of that first
ancestor who, as soon as he could uplift his muddy frame from the celestial
mould, started inspecting and naming the animals of that paradise which
he was so soon to lose.</p>
<p>Action - the first thought, or perhaps the first impulse, on earth!
The barbed hook, baited with the illusions of progress, to bring out
of the lightless void the shoals of unnumbered generations!</p>
<p>“And I, the son of my father, have been caught too, like the
silliest fish of them all.” Heyst said to himself.</p>
<p>He suffered. He was hurt by the sight of his own life, which
ought to have been a masterpiece of aloofness. He remembered always
his last evening with his father. He remembered the thin features,
the great mass of white hair, and the ivory complexion. A five-branched
candlestick stood on a little table by the side of the easy chair.
They had been talking a long time. The noises of the street had
died out one by one, till at last, in the moonlight, the London houses
began to look like the tombs of an unvisited, unhonoured, cemetery of
hopes.</p>
<p>He had listened. Then, after a silence, he had asked - for
he was really young then:</p>
<p>“Is there no guidance?”</p>
<p>His father was in an unexpectedly soft mood on that night, when the
moon swam in a cloudless sky over the begrimed shadows of the town.</p>
<p>“You still believe in something, then?” he said in a
clear voice, which had been growing feeble of late. “You
believe in flesh and blood, perhaps? A full and equable contempt
would soon do away with that, too. But since you have not attained
to it, I advise you to cultivate that form of contempt which is called
pity. It is perhaps the least difficult - always remembering that
you, too, if you are anything, are as pitiful as the rest, yet never
expecting any pity for yourself.”</p>
<p>“What is one to do, then?” sighed the young man, regarding
his father, rigid in the high-backed chair.</p>
<p>“Look on - make no sound,” were the last words of the
man who had spent his life in blowing blasts upon a terrible trumpet
which filled heaven and earth with ruins, while mankind went on its
way unheeding.</p>
<p>That very night he died in his bed, so quietly that they found him
in his usual attitude of sleep, lying on his side, one hand under his
cheek, and his knees slightly bent. He had not even straightened
his legs.</p>
<p>His son buried the silenced destroyer of systems, of hopes, of beliefs.
He observed that the death of that bitter contemner of life did not
trouble the flow of life’s stream, where men and women go by thick
as dust, revolving and jostling one another like figures cut out of
cork and weighted with lead just sufficiently to keep them in their
proudly upright posture.</p>
<p>After the funeral, Heyst sat alone, in the dusk, and his meditation
took the form of a definite vision of the stream, of the fatuously jostling,
nodding, spinning figures hurried irresistibly along, and giving no
sign of being aware that the voice on the bank had been suddenly silenced
. . . Yes. A few obituary notices generally insignificant and
some grossly abusive. The son had read them all with mournful
detachment.</p>
<p>“This is the hate and rage of their fear,” he thought
to himself, “and also of wounded vanity. They shriek their
little shriek as they fly past. I suppose I ought to hate him
too . . . ”</p>
<p>He became aware of his eyes being wet. It was not that the
man was his father. For him it was purely a matter of hearsay
which could not in itself cause this emotion. No! It was
because he had looked at him so long that he missed him so much.
The dead man had kept him on the bank by his side. And now Heyst
felt acutely that he was alone on the bank of the stream. In his
pride he determined not to enter it.</p>
<p>A few slow tears rolled down his face. The rooms, filling with
shadows, seemed haunted by a melancholy, uneasy presence which could
not express itself. The young man got up with a strange sense
of making way for something impalpable that claimed possession, went
out of the house, and locked the door. A fortnight later he started
on his travels - to “look on and never make a sound.”</p>
<p>The elder Heyst had left behind him a little money and a certain
quantity of movable objects, such as books, tables, chairs, and pictures,
which might have complained of heartless desertion after many years
of faithful service; for there is a soul in things. Heyst, our
Heyst, had often thought of them, reproachful and mute, shrouded and
locked up in those rooms, far away in London with the sounds of the
street reaching them faintly, and sometimes a little sunshine, when
the blinds were pulled up and the windows opened from time to time in
pursuance of his original instructions and later reminders. It
seemed as if in his conception of a world not worth touching, and perhaps
not substantial enough to grasp, these objects familiar to his childhood
and his youth, and associated with the memory of an old man, were the
only realities, something having an absolute existence. He would
never have them sold, or even moved from the places they occupied when
he looked upon them last. When he was advised from London that
his lease had expired, and that the house, with some others as like
it as two peas, was to be demolished, he was surprisingly distressed.</p>
<p>He had entered by then the broad, human path of inconsistencies.
Already the Tropical Belt Coal Company was in existence. He sent
instructions to have some of the things sent out to him at Samburan,
just as any ordinary, credulous person would have done. They came,
torn out from their long repose - a lot of books, some chairs and tables,
his father’s portrait in oils, which surprised Heyst by its air
of youth, because he remembered his father as a much older man; a lot
of small objects, such as candlesticks, inkstands, and statuettes from
his father’s study, which surprised him because they looked so
old and so much worn.</p>
<p>The manager of the Tropical Belt Coal Company, unpacking them on
the veranda in the shade besieged by a fierce sunshine, must have felt
like a remorseful apostate before these relics. He handled them
tenderly; and it was perhaps their presence there which attached him
to the island when he woke up to the failure of his apostasy.
Whatever the decisive reason, Heyst had remained where another would
have been glad to be off. The excellent Davidson had discovered
the fact without discovering the reason, and took a humane interest
in Heyst’s strange existence, while at the same time his native
delicacy kept him from intruding on the other’s whim of solitude.
He could not possibly guess that Heyst, alone on the island, felt neither
more nor less lonely than in any other place, desert or populous.
Davidson’s concern was, if one may express it so, the danger of
spiritual starvation; but this was a spirit which had renounced all
outside nourishment, and was sustaining itself proudly on its own contempt
of the usual coarse ailments which life offers to the common appetites
of men.</p>
<p>Neither was Heyst’s body in danger of starvation, as Schomberg
had so confidently asserted. At the beginning of the company’s
operations the island had been provisioned in a manner which had outlasted
the need. Heyst did not need to fear hunger; and his very loneliness
had not been without some alleviation. Of the crowd of imported
Chinese labourers, one at least had remained in Samburan, solitary and
strange, like a swallow left behind at the migrating season of his tribe.</p>
<p>Wang was not a common coolie. He had been a servant to white
men before. The agreement between him and Heyst consisted in the
exchange of a few words on the day when the last batch of the mine coolies
was leaving Samburan. Heyst, leaning over the balustrade of the
veranda, was looking on, as calm in appearance as though he had never
departed from the doctrine that this world, for the wise, is nothing
but an amusing spectacle. Wang came round the house, and standing
below, raised up his yellow, thin face.</p>
<p>“All finished?” he asked. Heyst nodded slightly
from above, glancing towards the jetty. A crowd of blue-clad figures
with yellow faces and calves was being hustled down into the boats of
the chartered steamer lying well out, like a painted ship on a painted
sea; painted in crude colours, without shadows, without feeling, with
brutal precision.</p>
<p>“You had better hurry up if you don’t want to be left
behind.”</p>
<p>But the Chinaman did not move.</p>
<p>“We stop,” he declared. Heyst looked down at him
for the first time.</p>
<p>“You want to stop here?”</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>“What were you? What was your work here?”</p>
<p>“Mess-loom boy.”</p>
<p>“Do you want to stay with me here as my boy?” inquired
Heyst, surprised.</p>
<p>The Chinaman unexpectedly put on a deprecatory expression, and said,
after a marked pause:</p>
<p>“Can do.”</p>
<p>“You needn’t,” said Heyst, “unless you like.
I propose to stay on here - it may be for a very long time. I
have no power to make you go if you wish to remain, but I don’t
see why you should.”</p>
<p>“Catchee one piecee wife,” remarked Wang unemotionally,
and marched off, turning his back on the wharf and the great world beyond,
represented by the steamer waiting for her boats.</p>
<p>Heyst learned presently that Wang had persuaded one of the women
of Alfuro village, on the west shore of the island, beyond the central
ridge, to come over to live with him in a remote part of the company’s
clearing. It was a curious case, inasmuch as the Alfuros, having
been frightened by the sudden invasion of Chinamen, had blocked the
path over the ridge by felling a few trees, and had kept strictly on
their own side. The coolies, as a body, mistrusting the manifest
mildness of these harmless fisher-folk, had kept to their lines, without
attempting to cross the island. Wang was the brilliant exception.
He must have been uncommonly fascinating, in a way that was not apparent
to Heyst, or else uncommonly persuasive. The woman’s services
to Heyst were limited to the fact that she had anchored Wang to the
spot by her charms, which remained unknown to the white man, because
she never came near the houses. The couple lived at the edge of
the forest, and she could sometimes be seen gazing towards the bungalow
shading her eyes with her hand. Even from a distance she appeared
to be a shy, wild creature, and Heyst, anxious not to try her primitive
nerves unduly, scrupulously avoided that side of the clearing in his
strolls.</p>
<p>The day - or rather the first night - after his hermit life began,
he was aware of vague sounds of revelry in that direction. Emboldened
by the departure of the invading strangers, some Alfuros, the woman’s
friends and relations, had ventured over the ridge to attend something
in the nature of a wedding feast. Wang had invited them.
But this was the only occasion when any sound louder than the buzzing
of insects had troubled the profound silence of the clearing.
The natives were never invited again. Wang not, only knew how
to live according to conventional proprieties, but had strong personal
views as to the manner of arranging his domestic existence. After
a time Heyst perceived that Wang had annexed all the keys. Any
keys left lying about vanished after Wang had passed that way.
Subsequently some of them - those that did not belong to the store-rooms
and the empty bungalows, and could not be regarded as the common property
of this community of two - were returned to Heyst, tied in a bunch with
a piece of string. He found them one morning lying by the side
of his plate. He had not been inconvenienced by their absence,
because he never locked up anything in the way of drawers and boxes.
Heyst said nothing. Wang also said nothing. Perhaps he had
always been a taciturn man; perhaps he was influenced by the genius
of the locality, which was certainly that of silence. Till Heyst
and Morrison had landed in Black Diamond Bay, and named it, that side
of Samburan had hardly ever heard the sound of human speech. It
was easy to be taciturn with Heyst, who had plunged himself into an
abyss of meditation over books, and remained in it till the shadow of
Wang falling across the page, and the sound of a rough, low voice uttering
the Malay word “<i>makan</i>,” would force him to climb
out to a meal.</p>
<p>Wang in his native province in China might have been an aggressively,
sensitively genial person; but in Samburan he had clothed himself in
a mysterious stolidity and did not seem to resent not being spoken to
except in single words, at a rate which did not average half a dozen
per day. And he gave no more than he got. It is to be presumed
that if he suffered he made up for it with the Alfuro woman. He
always went back to her at the first fall of dusk, vanishing from the
bungalow suddenly at this hour, like a sort of topsy-turvy, day-hunting,
Chinese ghost with a white jacket and a pigtail. Presently, giving
way to a Chinaman’s ruling passion, he could be observed breaking
the ground near his hut, between the mighty stumps of felled trees,
with a miner’s pickaxe. After a time, he discovered a rusty
but serviceable spade in one of the empty store-rooms, and it is to
be supposed that he got on famously; but nothing of it could be seen,
because he went to the trouble of pulling to pieces one of the company’s
sheds in order to get materials for making a high and very close fence
round his patch, as if the growing of vegetables were a patented process,
or an awful and holy mystery entrusted to the keeping of his race.</p>
<p>Heyst, following from a distance the progress of Wang’s gardening
and of these precautions - there was nothing else to look at - was amused
at the thought that he, in his own person, represented the market for
its produce. The Chinaman had found several packets of seeds in
the store-rooms, and had surrendered to an irresistible impulse to put
them into the ground. He would make his master pay for the vegetables
which he was raising to satisfy his instinct. And, looking silently
at the silent Wang going about his work in the bungalow in his unhasty,
steady way; Heyst envied the Chinaman’s obedience to his instincts,
the powerful simplicity of purpose which made his existence appear almost
automatic in the mysterious precision of its facts.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h3>CHAPTER TWO</h3>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>During his master’s absence at Sourabaya, Wang had busied himself
with the ground immediately in front of the principal bungalow.
Emerging from the fringe of grass growing across the shore end of the
coal-jetty, Heyst beheld a broad, clear space, black and level, with
only one or two clumps of charred twigs, where the flame had swept from
the front of his house to the nearest trees of the forest.</p>
<p>“You took the risk of firing the grass?” Heyst asked.</p>
<p>Wang nodded. Hanging on the arm of the white man before whom
he stood was the girl called Alma; but neither from the Chinaman’s
eyes nor from his expression could anyone have guessed that he was in
the slightest degree aware of the fact.</p>
<p>“He has been tidying the place in his labour-saving way,”
explained Heyst, without looking at the girl, whose hand rested on his
forearm. “He’s the whole establishment, you see.
I told you I hadn’t even a dog to keep me company here.”</p>
<p>Wang had marched off towards the wharf.</p>
<p>“He’s like those waiters in that place,” she said.
That place was Schomberg’s hotel.</p>
<p>“One Chinaman looks very much like another,” Heyst remarked.
“We shall find it useful to have him here. This is the house.”</p>
<p>They faced, at some distance, the six shallow steps leading up to
the veranda. The girl had abandoned Heyst’s arm.</p>
<p>“This is the house,” he repeated.</p>
<p>She did not offer to budge away from his side, but stood staring
fixedly at the steps, as if they had been something unique and impracticable.
He waited a little, but she did not move.</p>
<p>“Don’t you want to go in?” he asked, without turning
his head to look at her. “The sun’s too heavy to stand
about here.” He tried to overcome a sort of fear, a sort
of impatient faintness, and his voice sounded rough. “You
had better go in,” he concluded.</p>
<p>They both moved then, but at the foot of the stairs Heyst stopped,
while the girl went on rapidly, as if nothing could stop her now.
She crossed the veranda swiftly, and entered the twilight of the big
central room opening upon it, and then the deeper twilight of the room
beyond. She stood still in the dusk, in which her dazzled eyes
could scarcely make out the forms of objects, and sighed a sigh of relief.
The impression of the sunlight, of sea and sky, remained with her like
a memory of a painful trial gone through - done with at last!</p>
<p>Meanwhile Heyst had walked back slowly towards the jetty; but he
did not get so far as that. The practical and automatic Wang had
got hold of one of the little trucks that had been used for running
baskets of coal alongside ships. He appeared pushing it before
him, loaded lightly with Heyst’s bag and the bundle of the girl’s
belongings, wrapped in Mrs. Schomberg’s shawl. Heyst turned
about and walked by the side of the rusty rails on which the truck ran.
Opposite the house Wang stopped, lifted the bag to his shoulder, balanced
it carefully, and then took the bundle in his hand.</p>
<p>“Leave those things on the table in the big room - understand?”</p>
<p>“Me savee,” grunted Wang, moving off.</p>
<p>Heyst watched the Chinaman disappear from the veranda. It was
not till he had seen Wang come out that he himself entered the twilight
of the big room. By that time Wang was out of sight at the back
of the house, but by no means out of hearing. The Chinaman could
hear the voice of him who, when there were many people there, was generally
referred to as “Number One.” Wang was not able to
understand the words, but the tone interested him.</p>
<p>“Where are you?” cried Number One.</p>
<p>Then Wang heard, much more faint, a voice he had never heard before
- a novel impression which he acknowledged by cocking his head slightly
to one side.</p>
<p>“I am here - out of the sun.”</p>
<p>The new voice sounded remote and uncertain. Wang heard nothing
more, though he waited for some time, very still, the top of his shaven
poll exactly level with the floor of the back veranda. His face
meanwhile preserved an inscrutable immobility. Suddenly he stooped
to pick up the lid of a deal candle-box which was lying on the ground
by his foot. Breaking it up with his fingers, he directed his
steps towards the cook-shed, where, squatting on his heels, he proceeded
to kindle a small fire under a very sooty kettle, possibly to make tea.
Wang had some knowledge of the more superficial rites and ceremonies
of white men’s existence, otherwise so enigmatically remote to
his mind, and containing unexpected possibilities of good and evil,
which had to be watched for with prudence and care.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h3>CHAPTER THREE</h3>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>That morning, as on all the others of the full tale of mornings since
his return with the girl to Samburan, Heyst came out on the veranda
and spread his elbows on the railing, in an easy attitude of proprietorship.
The bulk of the central ridge of the island cut off the bungalow from
sunrises, whether glorious or cloudy, angry or serene. The dwellers
therein were debarred from reading early the fortune of the new-born
day. It sprang upon them in its fulness with a swift retreat of
the great shadow when the sun, clearing the ridge, looked down, hot
and dry, with a devouring glare like the eye of an enemy. But
Heyst, once the Number One of this locality, while it was comparatively
teeming with mankind, appreciated the prolongation of early coolness,
the subdued, lingering half-light, the faint ghost of the departed night,
the fragrance of its dewy, dark soul captured for a moment longer between
the great glow of the sky and the intense blaze of the uncovered sea.</p>
<p>It was naturally difficult for Heyst to keep his mind from dwelling
on the nature and consequences of this, his latest departure from the
part of an unconcerned spectator. Yet he had retained enough of
his wrecked philosophy to prevent him from asking himself consciously
how it would end. But at the same time he could not help being
temperamentally, from long habit and from set purpose, a spectator still,
perhaps a little less naïve but (as he discovered with some surprise)
not much more far sighted than the common run of men. Like the
rest of us who act, all he could say to himself, with a somewhat affected
grimness, was:</p>
<p>“We shall see!”</p>
<p>This mood of grim doubt intruded on him only when he was alone.
There were not many such moments in his day now; and he did not like
them when they came. On this morning he had no time to grow uneasy.
Alma came out to join him long before the sun, rising above the Samburan
ridge, swept the cool shadow of the early morning and the remnant of
the night’s coolness clear off the roof under which they had dwelt
for more than three months already. She came out as on other mornings.
He had heard her light footsteps in the big room - the room where he
had unpacked the cases from London; the room now lined with the backs
of books halfway up on its three sides. Above the cases the fine
matting met the ceiling of tightly stretched white calico. In
the dusk and coolness nothing gleamed except the gilt frame of the portrait
of Heyst’s father, signed by a famous painter, lonely in the middle
of a wall.</p>
<p>Heyst did not turn round.</p>
<p>“Do you know what I was thinking of?” he asked.</p>
<p>“No,” she said. Her tone betrayed always a shade
of anxiety, as though she were never certain how a conversation with
him would end. She leaned on the guard-rail by his side.</p>
<p>“No,” she repeated. “What was it?”
She waited. Then, rather with reluctance than shyness, she asked:</p>
<p>“Were you thinking of me?”</p>
<p>“I was wondering when you would come out,” said Heyst,
still without looking at the girl - to whom, after several experimental
essays in combining detached letters and loose syllables, he had given
the name of Lena.</p>
<p>She remarked after a pause:</p>
<p>“I was not very far from you.”</p>
<p>“Apparently you were not near enough for me.”</p>
<p>“You could have called if you wanted me,” she said.
“And I wasn’t so long doing my hair.”</p>
<p>“Apparently it was too long for me.”</p>
<p>“Well, you were thinking of me, anyhow. I am glad of
it. Do you know, it seems to me, somehow, that if you were to
stop thinking of me I shouldn’t be in the world at all!”</p>
<p>He turned round and looked at her. She often said things which
surprised him. A vague smile faded away on her lips before his
scrutiny.</p>
<p>“What is it?” he asked. “It is a reproach?”</p>
<p>“A reproach! Why, how could it be?” she defended
herself.</p>
<p>“Well, what did it mean?” he insisted.</p>
<p>“What I said - just what I said. Why aren’t you
fair?”</p>
<p>“Ah, this is at least a reproach!”</p>
<p>She coloured to the roots of her hair.</p>
<p>“It looks as if you were trying to make out that I am disagreeable,”
she murmured. “Am I? You will make me afraid to open
my mouth presently. I shall end by believing I am no good.”</p>
<p>Her head drooped a little. He looked at her smooth, low brow,
the faintly coloured checks, and the red lips parted slightly, with
the gleam of her teeth within.</p>
<p>“And then I won’t be any good,” she added with
conviction. “That I won’t! I can only be what
you think I am.”</p>
<p>He made a slight movement. She put her hand on his arm, without
raising her head, and went on, her voice animated in the stillness of
her body:</p>
<p>“It is so. It couldn’t be any other way with a
girl like me and a man like you. Here we are, we two alone, and
I can’t even tell where we are.”</p>
<p>“A very well-known spot of the globe,” Heyst uttered
gently. “There must have been at least fifty thousand circulars
issued at the time - a hundred and fifty thousand, more likely.
My friend was looking after that, and his ideas were large and his belief
very strong. Of us two it was he who had the faith. A hundred
and fifty thousand, certainly.”</p>
<p>“What is it you mean?” she asked in a low tone.</p>
<p>“What should I find fault with you for?” Heyst went on.
“For being amiable, good, gracious - and pretty?”</p>
<p>A silence fell. Then she said:</p>
<p>“It’s all right that you should think that of me.
There’s no one here to think anything of us, good or bad.”</p>
<p>The rare timbre of her voice gave a special value to what she uttered.
The indefinable emotion which certain intonations gave him, he was aware,
was more physical than moral. Every time she spoke to him she
seemed to abandon to him something of herself - something excessively
subtle and inexpressible, to which he was infinitely sensible, which
he would have missed horribly if she were to go away. While he
was looking into her eyes she raised her bare forearm, out of the short
sleeve, and held it in the air till he noticed it and hastened to pose
his great bronze moustaches on the whiteness of the skin. Then
they went in.</p>
<p>Wang immediately appeared in front, and, squatting on his heels,
began to potter mysteriously about some plants at the foot of the veranda.
When Heyst and the girl came out again, the Chinaman had gone in his
peculiar manner, which suggested vanishing out of existence rather than
out of sight, a process of evaporation rather than of movement.
They descended the steps, looking at each other, and started off smartly
across the cleared ground; but they were not ten yards away when, without
perceptible stir or sound, Wang materialized inside the empty room.
The Chinaman stood still with roaming eyes, examining the walls as if
for signs, for inscriptions; exploring the floor as if for pitfalls,
for dropped coins. Then he cocked his head slightly at the profile
of Heyst’s father, pen in hand above a white sheet of paper on
a crimson tablecloth; and, moving forward noiselessly, began to clear
away the breakfast things.</p>
<p>Though he proceeded without haste, the unerring precision of his
movements, the absolute soundlessness of the operation, gave it something
of the quality of a conjuring trick. And, the trick having been
performed, Wang vanished from the scene, to materialize presently in
front of the house. He materialized walking away from it, with
no visible or guessable intention; but at the end of some ten paces
he stopped, made a half turn, and put his hand up to shade his eyes.
The sun had topped the grey ridge of Samburan. The great morning
shadow was gone; and far away in the devouring sunshine Wang was in
time to see Number One and the woman, two remote white specks against
the sombre line of the forest. In a moment they vanished.
With the smallest display of action, Wang also vanished from the sunlight
of the clearing.</p>
<p>Heyst and Lena entered the shade of the forest path which crossed
the island, and which, near its highest point had been blocked by felled
trees. But their intention was not to go so far. After keeping
to the path for some distance, they left it at a point where the forest
was bare of undergrowth, and the trees, festooned with creepers, stood
clear of one another in the gloom of their own making. Here and
there great splashes of light lay on the ground. They moved, silent
in the great stillness, breathing the calmness, the infinite isolation,
the repose of a slumber without dreams. They emerged at the upper
limit of vegetation, among some rocks; and in a depression of the sharp
slope, like a small platform, they turned about and looked from on high
over the sea, lonely, its colour effaced by sunshine, its horizon a
heat mist, a mere unsubstantial shimmer in the pale and blinding infinity
overhung by the darker blaze of the sky.</p>
<p>“It makes my head swim,” the girl murmured, shutting
her eyes and putting her hand on his shoulder.</p>
<p>Heyst, gazing fixedly to the southward, exclaimed:</p>
<p>“Sail ho!”</p>
<p>A moment of silence ensued.</p>
<p>“It must be very far away,” he went on. “I
don’t think you could see it. Some native craft making for
the Moluccas, probably. Come, we mustn’t stay here.”</p>
<p>With his arm round her waist, he led her down a little distance,
and they settled themselves in the shade; she, seated on the ground,
he a little lower, reclining at her feet.</p>
<p>“You don’t like to look at the sea from up there?”
he said after a time.</p>
<p>She shook her head. That empty space was to her the abomination
of desolation. But she only said again:</p>
<p>“It makes my head swim.”</p>
<p>“Too big?” he inquired.</p>
<p>“Too lonely. It makes my heart sink, too,” she
added in a low voice, as if confessing a secret.</p>
<p>“I’m am afraid,” said Heyst, “that you would
be justified in reproaching me for these sensations. But what
would you have?”</p>
<p>His tone was playful, but his eyes, directed at her face, were serious.
She protested.</p>
<p>“I am not feeling lonely with you - not a bit. It is
only when we come up to that place, and I look at all that water and
all that light - ”</p>
<p>“We will never come here again, then,” he interrupted
her.</p>
<p>She remained silent for a while, returning his gaze till he removed
it.</p>
<p>“It seems as if everything that there is had gone under,”
she said.</p>
<p>“Reminds you of the story of the deluge,” muttered the
man, stretched at her feet and looking at them. “Are you
frightened at it?”</p>
<p>“I should be rather frightened to be left behind alone.
When I say, I, of course I mean we.”</p>
<p>“Do you?” . . . Heyst remained silent for a while.
“The vision of a world destroyed,” he mused aloud.
“Would you be sorry for it?”</p>
<p>“I should be sorry for the happy people in it,” she said
simply.</p>
<p>His gaze travelled up her figure and reached her face, where he seemed
to detect the veiled glow of intelligence, as one gets a glimpse of
the sun through the clouds.</p>
<p>“I should have thought it’s they specially who ought
to have been congratulated. Don’t you?”</p>
<p>“Oh, yes - I understand what you mean; but there were forty
days before it was all over.”</p>
<p>“You seem to be in possession of all the details.”</p>
<p>Heyst spoke just to say something rather than to gaze at her in silence.
She was not looking at him.</p>
<p>“Sunday school,” she murmured. “I went regularly
from the time I was eight till I was thirteen. We lodged in the
north of London, off Kingsland Road. It wasn’t a bad time.
Father was earning good money then. The woman of the house used
to pack me off in the afternoon with her own girls. She was a
good woman. Her husband was in the post office. Sorter or
something. Such a quiet man. He used to go off after supper
for night-duty, sometimes. Then one day they had a row, and broke
up the home. I remember I cried when we had to pack up all of
a sudden and go into other lodgings. I never knew what it was,
though - ”</p>
<p>“The deluge,” muttered Heyst absently.</p>
<p>He felt intensely aware of her personality, as if this were the first
moment of leisure he had found to look at her since they had come together.
The peculiar timbre of her voice, with its modulations of audacity and
sadness, would have given interest to the most inane chatter.
But she was no chatterer. She was rather silent, with a capacity
for immobility, an upright stillness, as when resting on the concert
platform between the musical numbers, her feet crossed, her hands reposing
on her lap. But in the intimacy of their life her grey, unabashed
gaze forced upon him the sensation of something inexplicable reposing
within her; stupidity or inspiration, weakness or force - or simply
an abysmal emptiness, reserving itself even in the moments of complete
surrender.</p>
<p>During a long pause she did not look at him. Then suddenly,
as if the word “deluge” had stuck in her mind, she asked,
looking up at the cloudless sky:</p>
<p>“Does it ever rain here?”</p>
<p>“There is a season when it rains almost every day,” said
Heyst, surprised. “There are also thunderstorms. We
once had a ‘mud-shower.’”</p>
<p>“Mud-shower?”</p>
<p>“Our neighbour there was shooting up ashes. He sometimes
clears his red-hot gullet like that; and a thunderstorm came along at
the same time. It was very messy; but our neighbour is generally
well behaved - just smokes quietly, as he did that day when I first
showed you the smudge in the sky from the schooner’s deck.
He’s a good-natured, lazy fellow of a volcano.”</p>
<p>“I saw a mountain smoking like that before,” she said,
staring at the slender stem of a tree-fern some dozen feet in front
of her. “It wasn’t very long after we left England
- some few days, though. I was so ill at first that I lost count
of days. A smoking mountain - I can’t think how they called
it.”</p>
<p>“Vesuvius, perhaps,” suggested Heyst.</p>
<p>“That’s the name.”</p>
<p>“I saw it, too, years, ages ago,” said Heyst.</p>
<p>“On your way here?”</p>
<p>“No, long before I ever thought of coming into this part of
the world. I was yet a boy.”</p>
<p>She turned and looked at him attentively, as if seeking to discover
some trace of that boyhood in the mature face of the man with the hair
thin at the top and the long, thick moustaches. Heyst stood the
frank examination with a playful smile, hiding the profound effect these
veiled grey eyes produced - whether on his heart or on his nerves, whether
sensuous or spiritual, tender or irritating, he was unable to say.</p>
<p>“Well, princess of Samburan,” he said at last, “have
I found favour in your sight?”</p>
<p>She seemed to wake up, and shook her head.</p>
<p>“I was thinking,” she murmured very low.</p>
<p>“Thought, action - so many snares! If you begin to think
you will be unhappy.”</p>
<p>“I wasn’t thinking of myself!” she declared with
a simplicity which took Heyst aback somewhat.</p>
<p>“On the lips of a moralist this would sound like a rebuke,”
he said, half seriously; “but I won’t suspect you of being
one. Moralists and I haven’t been friends for many years.”</p>
<p>She had listened with an air of attention.</p>
<p>“I understood you had no friends,” she said. “I
am pleased that there’s nobody to find fault with you for what
you have done. I like to think that I am in no one’s way.”</p>
<p>Heyst would have said something, but she did not give him time.
Unconscious of the movement he made she went on:</p>
<p>“What I was thinking to myself was, why are you here?”</p>
<p>Heyst let himself sink on his elbow again.</p>
<p>“If by ‘you’ you mean ‘we’ - well,
you know why we are here.”</p>
<p>She bent her gaze down at him.</p>
<p>“No, it isn’t that. I meant before - all that time
before you came across me and guessed at once that I was in trouble,
with no one to turn to. And you know it was desperate trouble
too.”</p>
<p>Her voice fell on the last words, as if she would end there; but
there was something so expectant in Heyst’s attitude as he sat
at her feet, looking up at her steadily, that she continued, after drawing
a short, quick breath:</p>
<p>“It was, really. I told you I had been worried before
by bad fellows. It made me unhappy, disturbed - angry, too.
But oh, how I hated, hated, <i>hated</i> that man!”</p>
<p>“That man” was the florid Schomberg with the military
bearing, benefactor of white men (‘decent food to eat in decent
company’) - mature victim of belated passion. The girl shuddered.
The characteristic harmoniousness of her face became, as it were, decomposed
for an instant. Heyst was startled.</p>
<p>“Why think of it now?” he cried.</p>
<p>“It’s because I was cornered that time. It wasn’t
as before. It was worse, ever so much. I wished I could
die of my fright - and yet it’s only now that I begin to understand
what a horror it might have been. Yes, only now, since we - ”</p>
<p>Heyst stirred a little.</p>
<p>“Came here,” he finished.</p>
<p>Her tenseness relaxed, her flushed face went gradually back to its
normal tint.</p>
<p>“Yes,” she said indifferently, but at the same time she
gave him a stealthy glance of passionate appreciation; and then her
face took on a melancholy cast, her whole figure drooped imperceptibly.</p>
<p>“But you were coming back here anyhow?” she asked.</p>
<p>“Yes. I was only waiting for Davidson. Yes, I was
coming back here, to these ruins - to Wang, who perhaps did not expect
to see me again. It’s impossible to guess at the way that
Chinaman draws his conclusions, and how he looks upon one.”</p>
<p>“Don’t talk about him. He makes me feel uncomfortable.
Talk about yourself!”</p>
<p>“About myself? I see you are still busy with the mystery
of my existence here; but it isn’t at all mysterious. Primarily
the man with the quill pen in his hand in that picture you so often
look at is responsible for my existence. He is also responsible
for what my existence is, or rather has been. He was a great man
in his way. I don’t know much of his history. I suppose
he began like other people; took fine words for good, ringing coin and
noble ideals for valuable banknotes. He was a great master of
both, himself, by the way. Later he discovered - how am I to explain
it to you? Suppose the world were a factory and all mankind workmen
in it. Well, he discovered that the wages were not good enough.
That they were paid in counterfeit money.”</p>
<p>“I see!” the girl said slowly.</p>
<p>“Do you?”</p>
<p>Heyst, who had been speaking as if to himself, looked up curiously.</p>
<p>“It wasn’t a new discovery, but he brought his capacity
for scorn to bear on it. It was immense. It ought to have
withered this globe. I don’t know how many minds he convinced.
But my mind was very young then, and youth I suppose can be easily seduced
- even by a negation. He was very ruthless, and yet he was not
without pity. He dominated me without difficulty. A heartless
man could not have done so. Even to fools he was not utterly merciless.
He could be indignant, but he was too great for flouts and jeers.
What he said was not meant for the crowd; it could not be; and I was
flattered to find myself among the elect. They read his books,
but I have heard his living word. It was irresistible. It
was as if that mind were taking me into its confidence, giving me a
special insight into its mastery of despair. Mistake, no doubt.
There is something of my father in every man who lives long enough.
But they don’t say anything. They can’t. They
wouldn’t know how, or perhaps, they wouldn’t speak if they
could. Man on this earth is an unforeseen accident which does
not stand close investigation. However, that particular man died
as quietly as a child goes to sleep. But, after listening to him,
I could not take my soul down into the street to fight there.
I started off to wander about, an independent spectator - if that is
possible.”</p>
<p>For a long time the girl’s grey eyes had been watching his
face. She discovered that, addressing her, he was really talking
to himself. Heyst looked up, caught sight of her as it were, and
caught himself up, with a low laugh and a change of tone.</p>
<p>“All this does not tell you why I ever came here. Why,
indeed? It’s like prying into inscrutable mysteries which
are not worth scrutinizing. A man drifts. The most successful
men have drifted into their successes. I don’t want to tell
you that this is a success. You wouldn’t believe me if I
did. It isn’t; neither is it the ruinous failure it looks.
It proves nothing, unless perhaps some hidden weakness in my character
- and even that is not certain.”</p>
<p>He looked fixedly at her, and with such grave eyes that she felt
obliged to smile faintly at him, since she did not understand what he
meant. Her smile was reflected, still fainter, on his lips.</p>
<p>“This does not advance you much in your inquiry,” he
went on. “And in truth your question is unanswerable; but
facts have a certain positive value, and I will tell you a fact.
One day I met a cornered man. I use the word because it expresses
the man’s situation exactly, and because you just used it yourself.
You know what that means?”</p>
<p>“What do you say?” she whispered, astounded. “A
man!”</p>
<p>Heyst laughed at her wondering eyes.</p>
<p>“No! No! I mean in his own way.”</p>
<p>“I knew very well it couldn’t be anything like that,”
she observed under her breath.</p>
<p>“I won’t bother you with the story. It was a custom-house
affair, strange as it may sound to you. He would have preferred
to be killed outright - that is, to have his soul dispatched to another
world, rather than to be robbed of his substance, his very insignificant
substance, in this. I saw that he believed in another world because,
being cornered, as I have told you, he went down on his knees and prayed.
What do you think of that?”</p>
<p>Heyst paused. She looked at him earnestly.</p>
<p>“You didn’t make fun of him for that?” she said.</p>
<p>Heyst made a brusque movement of protest</p>
<p>“My dear girl, I am not a ruffian,” he cried. Then,
returning to his usual tone: “I didn’t even have to conceal
a smile. Somehow it didn’t look a smiling matter.
No, it was not funny; it was rather pathetic; he was so representative
of an the past victims of the Great Joke. But it is by folly alone
that the world moves, and so it is a respectable thing upon the whole.
And besides, he was what one would call a good man. I don’t
mean especially because he had offered up a prayer. No!
He was really a decent fellow, he was quite unfitted for this world,
he was a failure, a good man cornered - a sight for the gods; for no
decent mortal cares to look at that sort.” A thought seemed
to occur to him. He turned his face to the girl. “And
you, who have been cornered too - did you think of offering a prayer?”</p>
<p>Neither her eyes nor a single one of her features moved the least
bit. She only let fall the words:</p>
<p>“I am not what they call a good girl.”</p>
<p>“That sounds evasive,” said Heyst after a short silence.
“Well, the good fellow did pray and after he had confessed to
it I was struck by the comicality of the situation. No, don’t
misunderstand me - I am not alluding to his act, of course. And
even the idea of Eternity, Infinity, Omnipotence, being called upon
to defeat the conspiracy of two miserable Portuguese half-castes did
not move my mirth. From the point of view of the supplicant, the
danger to be conjured was something like the end of the world, or worse.
No! What captivated my fancy was that I, Axel Heyst, the most
detached of creatures in this earthly captivity, the veriest tramp on
this earth, an indifferent stroller going through the world’s
bustle - that I should have been there to step into the situation of
an agent of Providence. <i>I</i>, a man of universal scorn and
unbelief . . . ”</p>
<p>“You are putting it on,” she interrupted in her seductive
voice, with a coaxing intonation.</p>
<p>“No. I am not like that, born or fashioned, or both.
I am not for nothing the son of my father, of that man in the painting.
I am he, all but the genius. And there is even less in me than
I make out, because the very scorn is falling away from me year after
year. I have never been so amused as by that episode in which
I was suddenly called to act such an incredible part. For a moment
I enjoyed it greatly. It got him out of his corner, you know.”</p>
<p>“You saved a man for fun - is that what you mean? Just
for fun?”</p>
<p>“Why this tone of suspicion?” remonstrated Heyst.
“I suppose the sight of this particular distress was disagreeable
to me. What you call fun came afterwards, when it dawned on me
that I was for him a walking, breathing, incarnate proof of the efficacy
of prayer. I was a little fascinated by it - and then, could I
have argued with him? You don’t argue against such evidence,
and besides it would have looked as if I had wanted to claim all the
merit. Already his gratitude was simply frightful. Funny
position, wasn’t it? The boredom came later, when we lived
together on board his ship. I had, in a moment of inadvertence,
created for myself a tie. How to define it precisely I don’t
know. One gets attached in a way to people one has done something
for. But is that friendship? I am not sure what it was.
I only know that he who forms a tie is lost. The germ of corruption
has entered into his soul.”</p>
<p>Heyst’s tone was light, with the flavour of playfulness which
seasoned all his speeches and seemed to be of the very essence of his
thoughts. The girl he had come across, of whom he had possessed
himself, to whose presence he was not yet accustomed, with whom he did
not yet know how to live; that human being so near and still so strange,
gave him a greater sense of his own reality than he had ever known in
all his life.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h3>CHAPTER FOUR</h3>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>With her knees drawn up, Lena rested her elbows on them and held
her head in both her hands.</p>
<p>“Are you tired of sitting here?” Heyst asked.</p>
<p>An almost imperceptible negative movement of the head was all the
answer she made.</p>
<p>“Why are you looking so serious?” he pursued, and immediately
thought that habitual seriousness, in the long run, was much more bearable
than constant gaiety. “However, this expression suits you
exceedingly,” he added, not diplomatically, but because, by the
tendency of his taste, it was a true statement. “And as
long as I can be certain that it is not boredom which gives you this
severe air, I am willing to sit here and look at you till you are ready
to go.”</p>
<p>And this was true. He was still under the fresh sortilege of
their common life, the surprise of novelty, the flattered vanity of
his possession of this woman; for a man must feel that, unless he has
ceased to be masculine. Her eyes moved in his direction, rested
on him, then returned to their stare into the deeper gloom at the foot
of the straight tree-trunks, whose spreading crowns were slowly withdrawing
their shade. The warm air stirred slightly about her motionless
head. She would not look at him, from some obscure fear of betraying
herself. She felt in her innermost depths an irresistible desire
to give herself up to him more completely, by some act of absolute sacrifice.
This was something of which he did not seem to have an idea. He
was a strange being without needs. She felt his eyes fixed upon
her; and as he kept silent, she said uneasily - for she didn’t
know what his silences might mean:</p>
<p>“And so you lived with that friend - that good man?”</p>
<p>“Excellent fellow,” Heyst responded, with a readiness
that she did not expect. “But it was a weakness on my part.
I really didn’t want to, only he wouldn’t let me off, and
I couldn’t explain. He was the sort of man to whom you can’t
explain anything. He was extremely sensitive, and it would have
been a tigerish thing to do to mangle his delicate feelings by the sort
of plain speaking that would have been necessary. His mind was
like a white-walled, pure chamber, furnished with, say, six straw-bottomed
chairs, and he was always placing and displacing them in various combinations.
But they were always the same chairs. He was extremely easy to
live with; but then he got hold of this coal idea - or, rather, the
idea got hold of him, it entered into that scantily furnished chamber
of which I have just spoken, and sat on all the chairs. There
was no dislodging it, you know! It was going to make his fortune,
my fortune, everybody’s fortune. In past years, in moments
of doubt that will come to a man determined to remain free from absurdities
of existence, I often asked myself, with a momentary dread, in what
way would life try to get hold of me? And this was the way.
He got it into his head that he could do nothing without me. And
was I now, he asked me, to spurn and ruin him? Well, one morning
- I wonder if he had gone down on his knees to pray that night! - one
morning I gave in.”</p>
<p>Heyst tugged violently at a tuft of dried grass, and cast it away
from him with a nervous gesture.</p>
<p>“I gave in,” he repeated.</p>
<p>Looking towards him with a movement of her eyes only, the girl noticed
the strong feeling on his face with that intense interest which his
person awakened in her mind and in her heart. But it soon passed
away, leaving only a moody expression.</p>
<p>“It’s difficult to resist where nothing matters,”
he observed. “And perhaps there is a grain of freakishness
in my nature. It amused me to go about uttering silly, commonplace
phrases. I was never so well thought of in the islands till I
began to jabber commercial gibberish like the veriest idiot. Upon
my word, I believe that I was actually respected for a time. I
was as grave as an owl over it; I had to be loyal to the man.
I have been, from first to last, completely, utterly loyal to the best
of my ability. I thought he understood something about coal.
And if I had been aware that he knew nothing of it, as in fact he didn’t,
well - I don’t know what I could have done to stop him.
In one way or another I should have had to be loyal. Truth, work,
ambition, love itself, may be only counters in the lamentable or despicable
game of life, but when one takes a hand one must play the game.
No, the shade of Morrison needn’t haunt me. What’s
the matter? I say, Lena, why are you staring like that?
Do you feel ill?”</p>
<p>Heyst made as if to get on his feet. The girl extended her
arm to arrest him, and he remained staring in a sitting posture, propped
on one arm, observing her indefinable expression of anxiety, as if she
were unable to draw breath.</p>
<p>“What has come to you?” he insisted, feeling strangely
unwilling to move, to touch her.</p>
<p>“Nothing!” She swallowed painfully. “Of
course it can’t be. What name did you say? I didn’t
hear it properly.”</p>
<p>“Name?” repeated Heyst dazedly. “I only mentioned
Morrison. It’s the name of that man of whom I’ve been
speaking. What of it?”</p>
<p>“And you mean to say that he was your friend?”</p>
<p>“You have heard enough to judge for yourself. You know
as much of our connection as I know myself. The people in this
part of the world went by appearances, and called us friends, as far
as I can remember. Appearances - what more, what better can you
ask for? In fact you can’t have better. You can’t
have anything else.”</p>
<p>“You are trying to confuse me with your talk,” she cried.
“You can’t make fun of this.”</p>
<p>“Can’t? Well, no I can’t. It’s
a pity. Perhaps it would have been the best way,” said Heyst,
in a tone which for him could be called gloomy. “Unless
one could forget the silly business altogether.” His faint
playfulness of manner and speech returned, like a habit one has schooled
oneself into, even before his forehead had cleared completely.
“But why are you looking so hard at me? Oh, I don’t
object, and I shall try not to flinch. Your eyes - ”</p>
<p>He was looking straight into them, and as a matter of fact had forgotten
all about the late Morrison at that moment.</p>
<p>“No,” he exclaimed suddenly. “What an impenetrable
girl you are Lena, with those grey eyes of yours! Windows of the
soul, as some poet has said. The fellow must have been a glazier
by vocation. Well, nature has provided excellently for the shyness
of your soul.”</p>
<p>When he ceased speaking, the girl came to herself with a catch of
her breath. He heard her voice, the varied charm of which he thought
he knew so well, saying with an unfamiliar intonation:</p>
<p>“And that partner of yours is dead?”</p>
<p>“Morrison? Oh, yes, as I’ve told you, he - ”</p>
<p>“You never told me.”</p>
<p>“Didn’t I? I thought I did; or, rather, I thought
you must know. It seems impossible that anybody with whom I speak
should not know that Morrison is dead.”</p>
<p>She lowered her eyelids, and Heyst was startled by something like
an expression of horror on her face.</p>
<p>“Morrison!” she whispered in an appalled tone.
“Morrison!” Her head drooped. Unable to see
her features, Heyst could tell from her voice that for some reason or
other she was profoundly moved by the syllables of that unromantic name.
A thought flashed through his head - could she have known Morrison?
But the mere difference of their origins made it wildly improbable.</p>
<p>“This is very extraordinary!” he said. “Have
you ever heard the name before?”</p>
<p>Her head moved quickly several times in tiny affirmative nods, as
if she could not trust herself to speak, or even to look at him.
She was biting her lower lip.</p>
<p>“Did you ever know anybody of that name?” he asked.</p>
<p>The girl answered by a negative sign; and then at last she spoke,
jerkily, as if forcing herself against some doubt or fear. She
had heard of that very man, she told Heyst.</p>
<p>“Impossible!” he said positively. “You are
mistaken. You couldn’t have heard of him, it’s - ”</p>
<p>He stopped short, with the thought that to talk like this was perfectly
useless; that one doesn’t argue against thin air.</p>
<p>“But I did hear of him; only I didn’t know then, I couldn’t
guess, that it was your partner they were talking about.”</p>
<p>“Talking about my partner?” repeated Heyst slowly.</p>
<p>“No.” Her mind seemed almost as bewildered, as
full of incredulity, as his. “No. They were talking
of you really; only I didn’t know it.”</p>
<p>“Who were they?” Heyst raised his voice. “Who
was talking of me? Talking where?”</p>
<p>With the first question he had lifted himself from his reclining
position; at the last he was on his knees before her, their heads on
a level.</p>
<p>“Why, in that town, in that hotel. Where else could it
have been?” she said.</p>
<p>The idea of being talked about was always novel to Heyst’s
simplified conception of himself. For a moment he was as much
surprised as if he had believed himself to be a mere gliding shadow
among men. Besides, he had in him a half-unconscious notion that
he was above the level of island gossip.</p>
<p>“But you said first that it was of Morrison they talked,”
he remarked to the girl, sinking on his heels, and no longer much interested.
“Strange that you should have the opportunity to hear any talk
at all! I was rather under the impression that you never saw anybody
belonging to the town except from the platform.”</p>
<p>“You forget that I was not living with the other girls,”
she said. “After meals they used to go back to the Pavilion,
but I had to stay in the hotel and do my sewing, or what not, in the
room where they talked.”</p>
<p>“I didn’t think of that. By the by, you never told
me who they were.”</p>
<p>“Why, that horrible red-faced beast,” she said, with
all the energy of disgust which the mere thought of the hotel-keeper
provoked in her.</p>
<p>“Oh, Schomberg!” Heyst murmured carelessly.</p>
<p>“He talked to the boss - to Zangiacomo, I mean. I had
to sit there. That devil-woman sometimes wouldn’t let me
go away. I mean Mrs. Zangiacomo.”</p>
<p>“I guessed,” murmured Heyst. “She liked to
torment you in a variety of ways. But it is really strange that
the hotel-keeper should talk of Morrison to Zangiacomo. As far
as I can remember he saw very little of Morrison professionally.
He knew many others much better.”</p>
<p>The girl shuddered slightly.</p>
<p>“That was the only name I ever overheard. I would get
as far away from them as I could, to the other end of the room, but
when that beast started shouting I could not help hearing. I wish
I had never heard anything. If I had got up and gone out of the
room I don’t suppose the woman would have killed me for it; but
she would have rowed me in a nasty way. She would have threatened
me and called me names. That sort, when they know you are helpless,
there’s nothing to stop them. I don’t know how it
is, but bad people, real bad people that you can see are bad, they get
over me somehow. It’s the way they set about downing one.
I am afraid of wickedness.”</p>
<p>Heyst watched the changing expressions of her face. He encouraged
her, profoundly sympathetic, a little amused.</p>
<p>“I quite understand. You needn’t apologize for
your great delicacy in the perception of inhuman evil. I am a
little like you.”</p>
<p>“I am not very plucky,” she said.</p>
<p>“Well! I don’t know myself what I would do, what
countenance I would have before a creature which would strike me as
being evil incarnate. Don’t you be ashamed!”</p>
<p>She sighed, looked up with her pale, candid gaze and a timid expression
on her face, and murmured:</p>
<p>“You don’t seem to want to know what he was saying.”</p>
<p>“About poor Morrison? It couldn’t have been anything
bad, for the poor fellow was innocence itself. And then, you know,
he is dead, and nothing can possibly matter to him now.”</p>
<p>“But I tell you that it was of you he was talking!” she
cried.</p>
<p>“He was saying that Morrison’s partner first got all
there was to get out of him, and then, and then - well, as good as murdered
him - sent him out to die somewhere!”</p>
<p>“You believe that of me?” said Heyst, after a moment
of perfect silence.</p>
<p>“I didn’t know it had anything to do with you.
Schomberg was talking of some Swede. How was I to know?
It was only when you began telling me about how you came here - ”</p>
<p>“And now you have my version.” Heyst forced himself
to speak quietly. “So that’s how the business looked
from outside!” he muttered.</p>
<p>“I remember him saying that everybody in these parts knew the
story,” the girl added breathlessly.</p>
<p>“Strange that it should hurt me!” mused Heyst to himself;
“yet it does. I seem to be as much of a fool as those everybodies
who know the story and no doubt believe it. Can you remember any
more?” he addressed the girl in a grimly polite tone. “I’ve
often heard of the moral advantages of seeing oneself as others see
one. Let us investigate further. Can’t you recall
something else that everybody knows?”</p>
<p>“Oh! Don’t laugh!” she cried.</p>
<p>“Did I laugh? I assure you I was not aware of it.
I won’t ask you whether you believe the hotel-keeper’s version.
Surely you must know the value of human judgement!”</p>
<p>She unclasped her hands, moved them slightly, and twined her fingers
as before. Protest? Assent? Was there to be nothing
more? He was relieved when she spoke in that warm and wonderful
voice which in itself comforted and fascinated one’s heart, which
made her lovable.</p>
<p>“I heard this before you and I ever spoke to each other.
It went out of my memory afterwards. Everything went out of my
memory then; and I was glad of it. It was a fresh start for me,
with you - and you know it. I wish I had forgotten who I was -
that would have been best; and I very nearly did forget.”</p>
<p>He was moved by the vibrating quality of the last words. She
seemed to be talking low of some wonderful enchantment, in mysterious
terms of special significance. He thought that if she only could
talk to him in some unknown tongue, she would enslave him altogether
by the sheer beauty of the sound, suggesting infinite depths of wisdom
and feeling.</p>
<p>“But,” she went on, “the name stuck in my head,
it seems; and when you mentioned it - ”</p>
<p>“It broke the spell,” muttered Heyst in angry disappointment
as if he had been deceived in some hope.</p>
<p>The girl, from her position a little above him, surveyed with still
eyes the abstracted silence of the man on whom she now depended with
a completeness of which she had not been vividly conscious before, because,
till then, she had never felt herself swinging between the abysses of
earth and heaven in the hollow of his arm. What if he should grow
weary of the burden?</p>
<p>“And, moreover, nobody had ever believed that tale!”</p>
<p>Heyst came out with an abrupt burst of sound which made her open
her steady eyes wider, with an effect of immense surprise. It
was a purely mechanical effect, because she was neither surprised nor
puzzled. In fact, she could understand him better then than at
any moment since she first set eyes on him.</p>
<p>He laughed scornfully.</p>
<p>“What am I thinking of?” he cried. “As if
it could matter to me what anybody had ever said or believed, from the
beginning of the world till the crack of doom!”</p>
<p>“I never heard you laugh till today,” she observed.
“This is the second time!”</p>
<p>He scrambled to his feet and towered above her.</p>
<p>“That’s because, when one’s heart has been broken
into in the way you have broken into mine, all sorts of weaknesses are
free to enter - shame, anger, stupid indignation, stupid fears - stupid
laughter, too. I wonder what interpretation you are putting on
it?”</p>
<p>“It wasn’t gay, certainly,” she said. “But
why are you angry with me? Are you sorry you took me away from
those beasts? I told you who I was. You could see it.”</p>
<p>“Heavens!” he muttered. He had regained his command
of himself. “I assure you I could see much more than you
could tell me. I could see quite a lot that you don’t even
suspect yet, but you can’t be seen quite through.”</p>
<p>He sank to the ground by her side and took her hand. She asked
gently:</p>
<p>“What more do you want from me?”</p>
<p>He made no sound for a time.</p>
<p>“The impossible, I suppose,” he said very low, as one
makes a confidence, and pressing the hand he grasped.</p>
<p>It did not return the pressure. He shook his head as if to
drive away the thought of this, and added in a louder, light tone:</p>
<p>“Nothing less. And it isn’t because I think little
of what I’ve got already. Oh, no! It is because I
think so much of this possession of mine that I can’t have it
complete enough. I know it’s unreasonable. You can’t
hold back anything - now.”</p>
<p>“Indeed I couldn’t,” she whispered, letting her
hand lie passive in his tight grasp. “I only wish I could
give you something more, or better, or whatever it is you want.”</p>
<p>He was touched by the sincere accent of these simple words.</p>
<p>“I tell you what you can do - you can tell me whether you would
have gone with me like this if you had known of whom that abominable
idiot of a hotel-keeper was speaking. A murderer - no less!”</p>
<p>“But I didn’t know you at all then,” she cried.
“And I had the sense to understand what he was saying. It
wasn’t murder, really. I never thought it was.”</p>
<p>“What made him invent such an atrocity?” Heyst exclaimed.
“He seems a stupid animal. He <i>is</i> stupid. How
did he manage to hatch that pretty tale? Have I a particularly
vile countenance? Is black selfishness written all over my face?
Or is that sort of thing so universally human that it might be said
of anybody?”</p>
<p>“It wasn’t murder,” she insisted earnestly.</p>
<p>“I know. I understand. It was worse. As to
killing a man, which would be a comparatively decent thing to do, well
- I have never done that.”</p>
<p>“Why should you do it?” she asked in a frightened voice.</p>
<p>“My dear girl, you don’t know the sort of life I have
been leading in unexplored countries, in the wilds; it’s difficult
to give you an idea. There are men who haven’t been in such
tight places as I have found myself in who have had to - to shed blood,
as the saying is. Even the wilds hold prizes which tempt some
people; but I had no schemes, no plans - and not even great firmness
of mind to make me unduly obstinate. I was simply moving on, while
the others, perhaps, were going somewhere. An indifference as
to roads and purposes makes one meeker, as it were. And I may
say truly, too, that I never did care, I won’t say for life -
I had scorned what people call by that name from the first - but for
being alive. I don’t know if that is what men call courage,
but I doubt it very much.”</p>
<p>“You! You have no courage?” she protested.</p>
<p>“I really don’t know. Not the sort that always
itches for a weapon, for I have never been anxious to use one in the
quarrels that a man gets into in the most innocent way sometimes.
The differences for which men murder each other are, like everything
else they do, the most contemptible, the most pitiful things to look
back upon. No, I’ve never killed a man or loved a woman
- not even in my thoughts, not even in my dreams.”</p>
<p>He raised her hand to his lips, and let them rest on it for a space,
during which she moved a little closer to him. After the lingering
kiss he did not relinquish his hold.</p>
<p>“To slay, to love - the greatest enterprises of life upon a
man! And I have no experience of either. You must forgive
me anything that may have appeared to you awkward in my behaviour, inexpressive
in my speeches, untimely in my silences.”</p>
<p>He moved uneasily, a little disappointed by her attitude, but indulgent
to it, and feeling, in this moment of perfect quietness, that in holding
her surrendered hand he had found a closer communion than they had ever
achieved before. But even then there still lingered in him a sense
of incompleteness not altogether overcome - which, it seemed, nothing
ever would overcome - the fatal imperfection of all the gifts of life,
which makes of them a delusion and a snare.</p>
<p>All of a sudden he squeezed her hand angrily. His delicately
playful equanimity, the product of kindness and scorn, had perished
with the loss of his bitter liberty.</p>
<p>“Not murder, you say! I should think not. But when
you led me to talk just now, when the name turned up, when you understood
that it was of me that these things had been said, you showed a strange
emotion. I could see it.”</p>
<p>“I was a bit startled,” she said.</p>
<p>“At the baseness of my conduct?” he asked.</p>
<p>“I wouldn’t judge you, not for anything.”</p>
<p>“Really?”</p>
<p>“It would be as if I dared to judge everything that there is.”
With her other hand she made a gesture that seemed to embrace in one
movement the earth and the heaven. “I wouldn’t do
such a thing.”</p>
<p>Then came a silence, broken at last by Heyst:</p>
<p>“I! I! do a deadly wrong to my poor Morrison!”
he cried. “I, who could not bear to hurt his feelings.
I, who respected his very madness! Yes, this madness, the wreck
of which you can see lying about the jetty of Diamond Bay. What
else could I do? He insisted on regarding me as his saviour; he
was always restraining the eternal obligation on the tip of his tongue,
till I was burning with shame at his gratitude. What could I do?
He was going to repay me with this infernal coal, and I had to join
him as one joins a child’s game in a nursery. One would
no more have thought of humiliating him than one would think of humiliating
a child. What’s the use of talking of all this! Of
course, the people here could not understand the truth of our relation
to each other. But what business of theirs was it? Kill
old Morrison! Well, it is less criminal, less base - I am not
saying it is less difficult - to kill a man than to cheat him in that
way. You understand that?”</p>
<p>She nodded slightly, but more than once and with evident conviction.
His eyes rested on her, inquisitive, ready for tenderness.</p>
<p>“But it was neither one nor the other,” he went on.
“Then, why I your emotion? All you confess is that you wouldn’t
judge me.”</p>
<p>She turned upon him her veiled, unseeing grey eyes in which nothing
of her wonder could be read.</p>
<p>“I said I couldn’t,” she whispered.</p>
<p>“But you thought that there was no smoke without fire!”
the playfulness of tone hardly concealed his irritation. “What
power there must be in words, only imperfectly heard - for you did not
listen with particular care, did you? What were they? What
evil effort of invention drove them into that idiot’s mouth out
of his lying throat? If you were to try to remember, they would
perhaps convince me, too.”</p>
<p>“I didn’t listen,” she protested. “What
was it to me what they said of anybody? He was saying that there
never were such loving friends to look at as you two; then, when you
got all you wanted out of him and got thoroughly tired of him, too,
you kicked him out to go home and die.”</p>
<p>Indignation, with an undercurrent of some other feeling, rang in
these quoted words, uttered in her pure and enchanting voice.
She ceased abruptly and lowered her long, dark lashes, as if mortally
weary, sick at heart.</p>
<p>“Of course, why shouldn’t you get tired of that or any
other - company? You aren’t like anyone else, and - and
the thought of it made me unhappy suddenly; but indeed, I did not believe
anything bad of you. I - ”</p>
<p>A brusque movement of his arm, flinging her hand away, stopped her
short. Heyst had again lost control of himself. He would
have shouted, if shouting had been in his character.</p>
<p>“No, this earth must be the appointed hatching planet of calumny
enough to furnish the whole universe. I feel a disgust at my own
person, as if I had tumbled into some filthy hole. Pah!
And you - all you can say is that you won’t judge me; that you
- ”</p>
<p>She raised her head at this attack, though indeed he had not turned
to her.</p>
<p>“I don’t believe anything bad of you,” she repeated.
“I couldn’t.”</p>
<p>He made a gesture as if to say:</p>
<p>“That’s sufficient.”</p>
<p>In his soul and in his body he experienced a nervous reaction from
tenderness. All at once, without transition, he detested her.
But only for a moment. He remembered that she was pretty, and,
more, that she had a special grace in the intimacy of life. She
had the secret of individuality which excites - and escapes.</p>
<p>He jumped up and began to walk to and fro. Presently his hidden
fury fell into dust within him, like a crazy structure, leaving behind
emptiness, desolation, regret. His resentment was not against
the girl, but against life itself - that commonest of snares, in which
he felt himself caught, seeing clearly the plot of plots and unconsoled
by the lucidity of his mind.</p>
<p>He swerved and, stepping up to her, sank to the ground by her side.
Before she could make a movement or even turn her head his way, he took
her in his arms and kissed her lips. He tasted on them the bitterness
of a tear fallen there. He had never seen her cry. It was
like another appeal to his tenderness - a new seduction. The girl
glanced round, moved suddenly away, and averted her face. With
her hand she signed imperiously to him to leave her alone - a command
which Heyst did not obey.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h3>CHAPTER FIVE</h3>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>When she opened her eyes at last and sat up, Heyst scrambled quickly
to his feet and went to pick up her cork helmet, which had rolled a
little way off. Meanwhile she busied herself in doing up her hair,
plaited on the top of her head in two heavy, dark tresses, which had
come loose. He tendered her the helmet in silence, and waited
as if unwilling to hear the sound of his own voice.</p>
<p>“We had better go down now,” he suggested in a low tone.</p>
<p>He extended his hand to help her up. He had the intention to
smile, but abandoned it at the nearer sight of her still face, in which
was depicted the infinite lassitude of her soul. On their way
to regain the forest path they had to pass through the spot from which
the view of the sea could be obtained. The flaming abyss of emptiness,
the liquid, undulating glare, the tragic brutality of the light, made
her long for the friendly night, with its stars stilled by an austere
spell; for the velvety dark sky and the mysterious great shadow of the
sea, conveying peace to the day-weary heart. She put her hand
to her eyes. Behind her back Heyst spoke gently.</p>
<p>“Let us get on, Lena.”</p>
<p>She walked ahead in silence. Heyst remarked that they had never
been out before during the hottest hours. It would do her no good,
he feared. This solicitude pleased and soothed her. She
felt more and more like herself - a poor London girl playing in an orchestra,
and snatched out from the humiliations, the squalid dangers of a miserable
existence, by a man like whom there was not, there could not be, another
in this world. She felt this with elation, with uneasiness, with
an intimate pride - and with a peculiar sinking of the heart.</p>
<p>“I am not easily knocked out by any such thing as heat,”
she said decisively.</p>
<p>“Yes, but I don’t forget that you’re not a tropical
bird.”</p>
<p>“You weren’t born in these parts, either,” she
returned.</p>
<p>“No, and perhaps I haven’t even your physique.
I am a transplanted being. Transplanted! I ought to call
myself uprooted - an unnatural state of existence; but a man is supposed
to stand anything.”</p>
<p>She looked back at him and received a smile. He told her to
keep in the shelter of the forest path, which was very still and close,
full of heat if free from glare. Now and then they had glimpses
of the company’s old clearing blazing with light, in which the
black stumps of trees stood charred, without shadows, miserable and
sinister. They crossed the open in a direct line for the bungalow.
On the veranda they fancied they had a glimpse of the vanishing Wang,
though the girl was not at all sure that she had seen anything move.
Heyst had no doubts.</p>
<p>“Wang has been looking out for us. We are late.”</p>
<p>“Was he? I thought I saw something white for a moment,
and then I did not see it any more.”</p>
<p>“That’s it - he vanishes. It’s a very remarkable
gift in that Chinaman.”</p>
<p>“Are they all like that?” she asked with naïve curiosity
and uneasiness.</p>
<p>“Not in such perfection,” said Heyst, amused.</p>
<p>He noticed with approval that she was not heated by the walk.
The drops of perspiration on her forehead were like dew on the cool,
white petal of a flower. He looked at her figure of grace and
strength, solid and supple, with an ever-growing appreciation.</p>
<p>“Go in and rest yourself for a quarter of an hour; and then
Mr. Wang will give us something to eat,” he said.</p>
<p>They had found the table laid. When they came together again
and sat down to it, Wang materialized without a sound, unheard, uncalled,
and did his office. Which being accomplished, at a given moment
he was not.</p>
<p>A great silence brooded over Samburan - the silence of the great
heat that seems pregnant with fatal issues, like the silence of ardent
thought. Heyst remained alone in the big room. The girl
seeing him take up a book, had retreated to her chamber. Heyst
sat down under his father’s portrait; and the abominable calumny
crept back into his recollection. The taste of it came on his
lips, nauseating and corrosive like some kinds of poison. He was
tempted to spit on the floor, naïvely, in sheer unsophisticated
disgust of the physical sensation. He shook his head, surprised
at himself. He was not used to receive his intellectual impressions
in that way - reflected in movements of carnal emotion. He stirred
impatiently in his chair, and raised the book to his eyes with both
hands. It was one of his father’s. He opened it haphazard,
and his eyes fell on the middle of the page. The elder Heyst had
written of everything in many books - of space and of time, of animals
and of stars; analysing ideas and actions, the laughter and the frowns
of men, and the grimaces of their agony. The son read, shrinking
into himself, composing his face as if under the author’s eye,
with a vivid consciousness of the portrait on his right hand, a little
above his head; a wonderful presence in its heavy frame on the flimsy
wall of mats, looking exiled and at home, out of place and masterful,
in the painted immobility of profile.</p>
<p>And Heyst, the son, read:</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>Of the stratagems of life the most cruel is the consolation of love
- the most subtle, too; for the desire is the bed of dreams.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>He turned the pages of the little volume, “Storm and Dust,”
glancing here and there at the broken text of reflections, maxims, short
phrases, enigmatical sometimes and sometimes eloquent. It seemed
to him that he was hearing his father’s voice, speaking and ceasing
to speak again. Startled at first, he ended by finding a charm
in the illusion. He abandoned himself to the half-belief that
something of his father dwelt yet on earth - a ghostly voice, audible
to the ear of his own flesh and blood. With what strange serenity,
mingled with terrors, had that man considered the universal nothingness!
He had plunged into it headlong, perhaps to render death, the answer
that faced one at every inquiry, more supportable.</p>
<p>Heyst stirred, and the ghostly voice ceased; but his eyes followed
the words on the last page of the book:</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>Men of tormented conscience, or of a criminal imagination, are aware
of much that minds of a peaceful, resigned cast do not even suspect.
It is not poets alone who dare descend into the abyss of infernal regions,
or even who dream of such a descent. The most inexpressive of
human beings must have said to himself, at one time or another: “Anything
but this!” . . .</p>
<p>We all have our instants of clairvoyance. They are not very
helpful. The character of the scheme does not permit that or anything
else to be helpful. Properly speaking its character, judged by
the standards established by its victims, is infamous. It excuses
every violence of protest and at the same time never fails to crush
it, just as it crushes the blindest assent. The so-called wickedness
must be, like the so-called virtue, its own reward - to be anything
at all . . .</p>
<p>Clairvoyance or no clairvoyance, men love their captivity.
To the unknown force of negation they prefer the miserably tumbled bed
of their servitude. Man alone can give one the disgust of pity;
yet I find it easier to believe in the misfortune of mankind than in
its wickedness.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>These were the last words. Heyst lowered the book to his knees.
Lena’s voice spoke above his drooping head:</p>
<p>“You sit there as if you were unhappy.”</p>
<p>“I thought you were asleep,” he said.</p>
<p>“I was lying down right enough, but I never closed my eyes.”</p>
<p>“The rest would have done you good after our walk. Didn’t
you try?”</p>
<p>“I was lying down, I tell you, but sleep I couldn’t.”</p>
<p>“And you made no sound! What want of sincerity.
Or did you want to be alone for a time?”</p>
<p>“I - alone?” she murmured.</p>
<p>He noticed her eyeing the book, and got up to put it back in the
bookcase. When he turned round, he saw that she had dropped into
the chair - it was the one she always used - and looked as if her strength
had suddenly gone from her, leaving her only her youth, which seemed
very pathetic, very much at his mercy. He moved quickly towards
the chair.</p>
<p>“Tired, are you? It’s my fault, taking you up so
high and keeping you out so long. Such a windless day, too!”</p>
<p>She watched his concern, her pose languid, her eyes raised to him,
but as unreadable as ever. He avoided looking into them for that
very reason. He forgot himself in the contemplation of those passive
arms, of these defenceless lips, and - yes, one had to go back to them
- of these wide-open eyes. Something wild in their grey stare
made him think of sea-birds in the cold murkiness of high latitudes.
He started when she spoke, all the charm of physical intimacy revealed
suddenly in that voice.</p>
<p>“You should try to love me!” she said.</p>
<p>He made a movement of astonishment.</p>
<p>“Try,” he muttered. “But it seems to me -
” He broke off, saying to himself that if he loved her,
he had never told her so in so many words. Simple words!
They died on his lips. “What makes you say that?”
he asked.</p>
<p>She lowered her eyelids and turned her head a little.</p>
<p>“I have done nothing,” she said in a low voice.
“It’s you who have been good, helpful, and tender to me.
Perhaps you love me for that - just for that; or perhaps you love me
for company, and because - well! But sometimes it seems to me
that you can never love me for myself, only for myself, as people do
love each other when it is to be for ever.” Her head drooped.
“Forever,” she breathed out again; then, still more faintly,
she added an entreating: “Do try!”</p>
<p>These last words went straight to his heart - the sound of them more
than the sense. He did not know what to say, either from want
of practice in dealing with women or simply from his innate honesty
of thought. All his defences were broken now. Life had him
fairly by the throat. But he managed a smile, though she was not
looking at him; yes, he did manage it - the well-known Heyst smile of
playful courtesy, so familiar to all sorts and conditions of men in
the islands.</p>
<p>“My dear Lena,” he said, “it looks as if you were
trying to pick a very unnecessary quarrel with me - of all people!”</p>
<p>She made no movement. With his elbows spread out he was twisting
the ends of his long moustaches, very masculine and perplexed, enveloped
in the atmosphere of femininity as in a cloud, suspecting pitfalls,
and as if afraid to move.</p>
<p>“I must admit, though,” he added, “that there is
no one else; and I suppose a certain amount of quarrelling is necessary
for existence in this world.”</p>
<p>That girl, seated in her chair in graceful quietude, was to him like
a script in an unknown language, or even more simply mysterious, like
any writing to the illiterate. As far as women went he was altogether
uninstructed and he had not the gift of intuition which is fostered
in the days of youth by dreams and visions, exercises of the heart fitting
it for the encounters of a world, in which love itself rests as much
on antagonism as on attraction. His mental attitude was that of
a man looking this way and that on a piece of writing which he is unable
to decipher, but which may be big with some revelation. He didn’t
know what to say. All he found to add was:</p>
<p>“I don’t even understand what I have done or left undone
to distress you like this.”</p>
<p>He stopped, struck afresh by the physical and moral sense of the
imperfections of their relations - a sense which made him desire her
constant nearness, before his eyes, under his hand, and which, when
she was out of his sight, made her so vague, so elusive and illusory,
a promise that could not be embraced and held.</p>
<p>“No! I don’t see clearly what you mean. Is
your mind turned towards the future?” he interpellated her with
marked playfulness, because he was ashamed to let such a word pass his
lips. But all his cherished negations were falling off him one
by one.</p>
<p>“Because if it is so there is nothing easier than to dismiss
it. In our future, as in what people call the other life, there
is nothing to be frightened of.”</p>
<p>She raised her eyes to him; and if nature had formed them to express
anything else but blank candour he would have learned how terrified
she was by his talk and the fact that her sinking heart loved him more
desperately than ever. He smiled at her.</p>
<p>“Dismiss all thought of it,” he insisted. “Surely
you don’t suspect after what I have heard from you, that I am
anxious to return to mankind. I! I! murder my poor Morrison!
It’s possible that I may be really capable of that which they
say I have done. The point is that I haven’t done it.
But it is an unpleasant subject to me. I ought to be ashamed to
confess it - but it is! Let us forget it. There’s
that in you, Lena, which can console me for worse things, for uglier
passages. And if we forget, there are no voices here to remind
us.”</p>
<p>She had raised her head before he paused.</p>
<p>“Nothing can break in on us here,” he went on and, as
if there had been an appeal or a provocation in her upward glance, he
bent down and took her under the arms, raising her straight out of the
chair into a sudden and close embrace. Her alacrity to respond,
which made her seem as light as a feather, warmed his heart at that
moment more than closer caresses had done before. He had not expected
that ready impulse towards himself which had been dormant in her passive
attitude. He had just felt the clasp of her arms round his neck,
when, with a slight exclamation - “He’s here!” - she
disengaged herself and bolted, away into her room.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h3>CHAPTER SIX</h3>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>Heyst was astounded. Looking all round, as if to take the whole
room to witness of this outrage, he became aware of Wang materialized
in the doorway. The intrusion was as surprising as anything could
be, in view of the strict regularity with which Wang made himself visible.
Heyst was tempted to laugh at first. This practical comment on
his affirmation that nothing could break in on them relieved the strain
of his feelings. He was a little vexed, too. The Chinaman
preserved a profound silence.</p>
<p>“What do you want?” asked Heyst sternly.</p>
<p>“Boat out there,” said the Chinaman.</p>
<p>“Where? What do you mean? Boat adrift in the straits?”</p>
<p>Some subtle change in Wang’s bearing suggested his being out
of breath; but he did not pant, and his voice was steady.</p>
<p>“No - row.”</p>
<p>It was Heyst now who was startled and raised his voice.</p>
<p>“Malay man, eh?”</p>
<p>Wang made a slight negative movement with his head.</p>
<p>“Do you hear, Lena?” Heyst called out. “Wang
says there is a boat in sight - somewhere near apparently. Where’s
that boat Wang?”</p>
<p>“Round the point,” said Wang, leaping into Malay unexpectedly,
and in a loud voice. “White men three.”</p>
<p>“So close as that?” exclaimed Heyst, moving out on the
veranda followed by Wang. “White men? Impossible!”</p>
<p>Over the clearing the shadows were already lengthening. The
sun hung low; a ruddy glare lay on the burnt black patch in front of
the bungalow, and slanted on the ground between the straight, tall,
mast-like trees soaring a hundred feet or more without a branch.
The growth of bushes cut off all view of the jetty from the veranda.
Far away to the right Wang’s hut, or rather its dark roof of mats,
could be seen above the bamboo fence which insured the privacy of the
Alfuro woman. The Chinaman looked that way swiftly. Heyst
paused, and then stepped back a pace into the room.</p>
<p>“White men, Lena, apparently. What are you doing?”</p>
<p>“I am just bathing my eyes a little,” the girl’s
voice said from the inner room.</p>
<p>“Oh, yes; all right!”</p>
<p>“Do you want me?”</p>
<p>“No. You had better - I am going down to the jetty.
Yes, you had better stay in. What an extraordinary thing!”</p>
<p>It was so extraordinary that nobody could possibly appreciate how
extraordinary it was but himself. His mind was full of mere exclamations,
while his feet were carrying him in the direction of the jetty.
He followed the line of the rails, escorted by Wang.</p>
<p>“Where were you when you first saw the boat?” he asked
over his shoulder.</p>
<p>Wang explained in Malay that he had gone to the shore end of the
wharf, to get a few lumps of coal from the big heap, when, happening
to raise his eyes from the ground, he saw the boat - a white man boat,
not a canoe. He had good eyes. He had seen the boat, with
the men at the oars; and here Wang made a particular gesture over his
eyes, as if his vision had received a blow. He had turned at once
and run to the house to report.</p>
<p>“No mistake, eh?” said Heyst, moving on. At the
very outer edge of the belt he stopped short. Wang halted behind
him on the path, till the voice of Number One called him sharply forward
into the open. He obeyed.</p>
<p>“Where’s that boat?” asked Heyst forcibly.
“I say - where is it?”</p>
<p>Nothing whatever was to be seen between the point and the jetty.
The stretch of Diamond Bay was like a piece of purple shadow, lustrous
and empty, while beyond the land, the open sea lay blue and opaque under
the sun. Heyst’s eyes swept all over the offing till they
met, far off, the dark cone of the volcano, with its faint plume of
smoke broadening and vanishing everlastingly at the top, without altering
its shape in the glowing transparency of the evening.</p>
<p>“The fellow has been dreaming,” he muttered to himself.</p>
<p>He looked hard at the Chinaman. Wang seemed turned into stone.
Suddenly, as if he had received a shock, he started, flung his arm out
with a pointing forefinger, and made guttural noises to the effect that
there, there, there, he had seen a boat.</p>
<p>It was very uncanny. Heyst thought of some strange hallucination.
Unlikely enough; but that a boat with three men in it should have sunk
between the point and the jetty, suddenly, like a stone, without leaving
as much on the surface as a floating oar, was still more unlikely.
The theory of a phantom boat would have been more credible than that.</p>
<p>“Confound it!” he muttered to himself.</p>
<p>He was unpleasantly affected by this mystery; but now a simple explanation
occurred to him. He stepped hastily out on the wharf. The
boat, if it had existed and had retreated, could perhaps be seen from
the far end of the long jetty.</p>
<p>Nothing was to be seen. Heyst let his eyes roam idly over the
sea. He was so absorbed in his perplexity that a hollow sound,
as of somebody tumbling about in a boat, with a clatter of oars and
spars, failed to make him move for a moment. When his mind seized
its meaning, he had no difficulty in locating the sound. It had
come from below - under the jetty!</p>
<p>He ran back for a dozen yards or so, and then looked over.
His sight plunged straight into the stern-sheets of a big boat, the
greater part of which was hidden from him by the planking of the jetty.
His eyes fell on the thin back of a man doubled up over the tiller in
a queer, uncomfortable attitude of drooping sorrow. Another man,
more directly below Heyst, sprawled on his back from gunwale to gunwale,
half off the after thwart, his head lower than his feet. This
second man glared wildly upward, and struggled to raise himself, but
to all appearance was much too drunk to succeed. The visible part
of the boat contained also a flat, leather trunk, on which the first
man’s long legs were tucked up nervelessly. A large earthenware
jug, with its wide mouth uncorked, rolled out on the bottom-boards from
under the sprawling man.</p>
<p>Heyst had never been so much astonished in his life. He stared
dumbly at the strange boat’s crew. From the first he was
positive that these men were not sailors. They wore the white
drill-suit of tropical civilization; but their apparition in a boat
Heyst could not connect with anything plausible. The civilization
of the tropics could have had nothing to do with it. It was more
like those myths, current in Polynesia, of amazing strangers, who arrive
at an island, gods or demons, bringing good or evil to the innocence
of the inhabitants - gifts of unknown things, words never heard before.</p>
<p>Heyst noticed a cork helmet floating alongside the boat, evidently
fallen from the head of the man doubled over the tiller, who displayed
a dark, bony poll. An oar, too, had been knocked overboard, probably
by the sprawling man, who was still struggling, between the thwarts.
By this time Heyst regarded the visitation no longer with surprise,
but with the sustained attention demanded by a difficult problem.
With one foot poised on the string-piece, and leaning on his raised
knee, he was taking in everything. The sprawling man rolled off
the thwart, collapsed, and, most unexpectedly, got on his feet.
He swayed dizzily, spreading his arms out and uttered faintly a hoarse,
dreamy “Hallo!” His upturned face was swollen, red,
peeling all over the nose and cheeks. His stare was irrational.
Heyst perceived stains of dried blood all over the front of his dirty
white coat, and also on one sleeve.</p>
<p>“What’s the matter? Are you wounded?”</p>
<p>The other glanced down, reeled - one of his feet was inside a large
pith hat - and, recovering himself, let out a dismal, grating sound
in the manner of a grim laugh.</p>
<p>“Blood - not mine. Thirst’s the matter. Exhausted’s
the matter. Done up. Drink, man! Give us water!”</p>
<p>Thirst was in the very tone of his words, alternating a broken croak
and a faint, throaty rustle which just reached Heyst’s ears.
The man in the boat raised his hands to be helped up on the jetty, whispering:</p>
<p>“I tried. I am too weak. I tumbled down.”</p>
<p>Wang was coming along the jetty slowly, with intent, straining eyes.</p>
<p>“Run back and bring a crowbar here. There’s one
lying by the coal-heap,” Heyst shouted to him.</p>
<p>The man standing in the boat sat down on the thwart behind him.
A horrible coughing laugh came through his swollen lips.</p>
<p>“Crowbar? What’s that for?” he mumbled, and
his head dropped on his chest mournfully.</p>
<p>Meantime, Heyst, as if he had forgotten the boat, started kicking
hard at a large brass tap projecting above the planks. To accommodate
ships that came for coal and happened to need water as well, a stream
had been tapped in the interior and an iron pipe led along the jetty.
It terminated with a curved end almost exactly where the strangers’
boat had been driven between the piles; but the tap was set fast.</p>
<p>“Hurry up!” Heyst yelled to the Chinaman, who was running
with the crowbar in his hand.</p>
<p>Heyst snatched it from him and, obtaining a leverage against the
string-piece, wrung the stiff tap round with a mighty jerk. “I
hope that pipe hasn’t got choked!” he muttered to himself
anxiously.</p>
<p>It hadn’t; but it did not yield a strong gush. The sound
of a thin stream, partly breaking on the gunwale of the boat and partly
splashing alongside, became at once audible. It was greeted by
a cry of inarticulate and savage joy. Heyst knelt on the string-piece
and peered down. The man who had spoken was already holding his
open mouth under the bright trickle. Water ran over his eyelids
and over his nose, gurgled down his throat, flowed over his chin.
Then some obstruction in the pipe gave way, and a sudden thick jet broke
on his face. In a moment his shoulders were soaked, the front
of his coat inundated; he streamed and dripped; water ran into his pockets,
down his legs, into his shoes; but he had clutched the end of the pipe,
and, hanging on with both hands, swallowed, spluttered, choked, snorted
with the noises of a swimmer. Suddenly a curious dull roar reached
Heyst’s ears. Something hairy and black flew from under
the jetty. A dishevelled head, coming on like a cannonball, took
the man at the pipe in flank, with enough force to tear his grip loose
and fling him headlong into the stern-sheets. He fell upon the
folded legs of the man at the tiller, who, roused by the commotion in
the boat, was sitting up, silent, rigid, and very much like a corpse.
His eyes were but two black patches, and his teeth glistened with a
death’s head grin between his retracted lips, no thicker than
blackish parchment glued over the gums.</p>
<p>From him Heyst’s eyes wandered to the creature who had replaced
the first man at the end of the water-pipe. Enormous brown paws
clutched it savagely; the wild, big head hung back, and in a face covered
with a wet mass of hair there gaped crookedly a wide mouth full of fangs.
The water filled it, welled up in hoarse coughs, ran down on each side
of the jaws and down the hairy throat, soaked the black pelt of the
enormous chest, naked under a torn check shirt, heaving convulsively
with a play of massive muscles carved in red mahogany.</p>
<p>As soon as the first man had recovered the breath knocked out of
him by the irresistible charge, a scream of mad cursing issued from
the stern-sheets. With a rigid, angular crooking of the elbow,
the man at the tiller put his hand back to his hip.</p>
<p>“Don’t shoot him, sir!” yelled the first man.
“Wait! Let me have that tiller. I will teach him to
shove himself in front of a <i>caballero</i>!”</p>
<p>Martin Ricardo flourished the heavy piece of wood, leaped forward
with astonishing vigour, and brought it down on Pedro’s head with
a crash that resounded all over the quiet sweep of Black Diamond Bay.
A crimson patch appeared on the matted hair, red veins appeared in the
water flowing all over his face, and it dripped in rosy drops off his
head. But the man hung on. Not till a second furious blow
descended did the hairy paws let go their grip and the squirming body
sink limply. Before it could touch the bottom-boards, a tremendous
kick in the ribs from Ricardo’s foot shifted it forward out of
sight, whence came the noise of a heavy thud, a clatter of spars, and
a pitiful grunt. Ricardo stooped to look under the jetty.</p>
<p>“Aha, dog! This will teach you to keep back where you
belong, you murdering brute, you slaughtering savage, you! You
infidel, you robber of churches! Next time I will rip you open
from neck to heel, you carrion-cater! <i>Esclavo</i>!”</p>
<p>He backed a little and straightened himself up.</p>
<p>“I don’t mean it really,” he remarked to Heyst,
whose steady eyes met his from above. He ran aft briskly.</p>
<p>“Come along, sir. It’s your turn. I oughtn’t
to have drunk first. ’S truth, I forgot myself! A
gentleman like you will overlook that, I know.” As he made
these apologies, Ricardo extended his hand. “Let me steady
you, sir.”</p>
<p>Slowly Mr. Jones unfolded himself in all his slenderness, rocked,
staggered, and caught Ricardo’s shoulder. His henchman assisted
him to the pipe, which went on gushing a clear stream of water, sparkling
exceedingly against the black piles and the gloom under the jetty.</p>
<p>“Catch hold, sir,” Ricardo advised solicitously.
“All right?”</p>
<p>He stepped back, and, while Mr. Jones revelled in the abundance of
water, he addressed himself to Heyst with a sort of justificatory speech,
the tone of which, reflecting his feelings, partook of purring and spitting.
They had been thirty hours tugging at the oars, he explained, and they
had been more than forty hours without water, except that the night
before they had licked the dew off the gunwales.</p>
<p>Ricardo did not explain to Heyst how it happened. At that precise
moment he had no explanation ready for the man on the wharf, who, he
guessed, must be wondering much more at the presence of his visitors
than at their plight.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h3>CHAPTER SEVEN</h3>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>The explanation lay in the two simple facts that the light winds
and strong currents of the Java Sea had drifted the boat about until
they partly lost their bearings; and that by some extra-ordinary mistake
one of the two jars put into the boat by Schomberg’s man contained
salt water. Ricardo tried to put some pathos into his tones.
Pulling for thirty hours with eighteen-foot oars! And the sun!
Ricardo relieved his feelings by cursing the sun. They had felt
their hearts and lungs shrivel within them. And then, as if all
that hadn’t been trouble enough, he complained bitterly, he had
had to waste his fainting strength in beating their servant about the
head with a stretcher. The fool had wanted to drink sea water,
and wouldn’t listen to reason. There was no stopping him
otherwise. It was better to beat him into insensibility than to
have him go crazy in the boat, and to be obliged to shoot him.
The preventive, administered with enough force to brain an elephant,
boasted Ricardo, had to be applied on two occasions - the second time
all but in sight of the jetty.</p>
<p>“You have seen the beauty,” Ricardo went on expansively,
hiding his lack of some sort of probable story under this loquacity.
“I had to hammer him away from the spout. Opened afresh
all the old broken spots on his head. You saw how hard I had to
hit. He has no restraint, no restraint at all. If it wasn’t
that he can be made useful in one way or another, I would just as soon
have let the governor shoot him.”</p>
<p>He smiled up at Heyst in his peculiar lip-retracting manner, and
added by way of afterthought:</p>
<p>“That’s what will happen to him in the end, if he doesn’t
learn to restrain himself. But I’ve taught him to mind his
manners for a while, anyhow!”</p>
<p>And again he addressed his quick grin up to the man on the wharf.
His round eyes had never left Heyst’s face ever since he began
to deliver his account of the voyage.</p>
<p>“So that’s how he looks!” Ricardo was saying to
himself.</p>
<p>He had not expected Heyst to be like this. He had formed for
himself a conception containing the helpful suggestion of a vulnerable
point. These solitary men were often tipplers. But no! -
this was not a drinking man’s face; nor could he detect the weakness
of alarm, or even the weakness of surprise, on these features, in those
steady eyes.</p>
<p>“We were too far gone to climb out,” Ricardo went on.
“I heard you walking along though. I thought I shouted;
I tried to. You didn’t hear me shout?”</p>
<p>Heyst made an almost imperceptible negative sign, which the greedy
eyes of Ricardo - greedy for all signs - did not miss.</p>
<p>“Throat too parched. We didn’t even care to whisper
to each other lately. Thirst chokes one. We might have died
there under this wharf before you found us.”</p>
<p>“I couldn’t think where you had gone to.”
Heyst was heard at last, addressing directly the newcomers from the
sea. “You were seen as soon as you cleared that point.”</p>
<p>“We were seen, eh?” grunted Mr. Ricardo. “We
pulled like machines - daren’t stop. The governor
sat at the tiller, but he couldn’t speak to us. She drove
in between the piles till she hit something, and we all tumbled off
the thwarts as if we had been drunk. Drunk - ha, ha! Too
dry, by George! We fetched in here with the very last of our strength,
and no mistake. Another mile would have done for us. When
I heard your footsteps, above, I tried to get up, and I fell down.”</p>
<p>“That was the first sound I heard,” said Heyst.</p>
<p>Mr Jones, the front of his soiled white tunic soaked and plastered
against his breast-bone, staggered away from the water-pipe. Steadying
himself on Ricardo’s shoulder, he drew a long breath, raised his
dripping head, and produced a smile of ghastly amiability, which was
lost upon the thoughtful Heyst. Behind his back the sun, touching
the water, was like a disc of iron cooled to a dull red glow, ready
to start rolling round the circular steel plate of the sea, which, under
the darkening sky, looked more solid than the high ridge of Samburan;
more solid than the point, whose long outlined slope melted into its
own unfathomable shadow blurring the dim sheen on the bay. The
forceful stream from the pipe broke like shattered glass on the boat’s
gunwale. Its loud, fitful, and persistent splashing revealed the
depths of the world’s silence.</p>
<p>“Great notion, to lead the water out here,” pronounced
Ricardo appreciatively.</p>
<p>Water was life. He felt now as if he could run a mile, scale
a ten-foot wall, sing a song. Only a few minutes ago he was next
door to a corpse, done up, unable to stand, to lift a hand; unable to
groan. A drop of water had done that miracle.</p>
<p>“Didn’t you feel life itself running and soaking into
you, sir?” he asked his principal, with deferential but forced
vivacity.</p>
<p>Without a word, Mr. Jones stepped off the thwart and sat down in
the stern-sheets.</p>
<p>“Isn’t that man of yours bleeding to death in the bows
under there?” inquired Heyst.</p>
<p>Ricardo ceased his ecstasies over the life-giving water and answered
in a tone of innocence:</p>
<p>“He? You may call him a man, but his hide is a jolly
sight tougher than the toughest alligator he ever skinned in the good
old days. You don’t know how much he can stand: I do.
We have tried him a long time ago. Olà, there! Pedro!
Pedro!” he yelled, with a force of lung testifying to the regenerative
virtues of water.</p>
<p>A weak “<i>Señor</i>?” came from under the wharf.</p>
<p>“What did I tell you?” said Ricardo triumphantly.
“Nothing can hurt him. He’s all right. But,
I say, the boat’s getting swamped. Can’t you turn
this water off before you sink her under us? She’s half
full already.”</p>
<p>At a sign from Heyst, Wang hammered at the brass tap on the wharf,
then stood behind Number One, crowbar in hand, motionless as before.
Ricardo was perhaps not so certain of Pedro’s toughness as he
affirmed; for he stooped, peering under the wharf, then moved forward
out of sight. The gush of water ceasing suddenly, made a silence
which became complete when the after-trickle stopped. Afar, the
sun was reduced to a red spark, glowing very low in the breathless immensity
of twilight. Purple gleams lingered on the water all round the
boat. The spectral figure in the stern-sheets spoke in a languid
tone:</p>
<p>“That - er - companion - er - secretary of mine is a queer
chap. I am afraid we aren’t presenting ourselves in a very
favourable light.”</p>
<p>Heyst listened. It was the conventional voice of an educated
man, only strangely lifeless. But more strange yet was this concern
for appearances, expressed, he did not know, whether in jest or in earnest.
Earnestness was hardly to be supposed under the circumstances, and no
one had ever jested in such dead tones. It was something which
could not be answered, and Heyst said nothing. The other went
on:</p>
<p>“Travelling as I do, I find a man of his sort extremely useful.
He has his little weaknesses, no doubt.”</p>
<p>“Indeed!” Heyst was provoked into speaking. “Weakness
of the arm is not one of them; neither is an exaggerated humanity, as
far as I can judge.”</p>
<p>“Defects of temper,” explained Mr. Jones from the stern-sheets.</p>
<p>The subject of this dialogue, coming out just then from under the
wharf into the visible part of the boat, made himself heard in his own
defence, in a voice full of life, and with nothing languid in his manner
on the contrary, it was brisk, almost jocose. He begged pardon
for contradicting. He was never out of temper with “our
Pedro.” The fellow was a Dago of immense strength and of
no sense whatever. This combination made him dangerous, and he
had to be treated accordingly, in a manner which he could understand.
Reasoning was beyond him.</p>
<p>“And so” - Ricardo addressed Heyst with animation - “you
mustn’t be surprised if - ”</p>
<p>“I assure you,” Heyst interrupted, “that my wonder
at your arrival in your boat here is so great that it leaves no room
for minor astonishments. But hadn’t you better land?”</p>
<p>“That’s the talk, sir!” Ricardo began to
bustle about the boat, talking all the time. Finding himself unable
to “size up” this man, he was inclined to credit him with
extraordinary powers of penetration, which, it seemed to him, would
be favoured by silence. Also, he feared some pointblank question.
He had no ready-made story to tell. He and his patron had put
off considering that rather important detail too long. For the
last two days, the horrors of thirst, coming on them unexpectedly, had
prevented consultation. They had had to pull for dear life.
But the man on the wharf, were he in league with the devil himself,
would pay for all their sufferings, thought Ricardo with an unholy joy.</p>
<p>Meantime, splashing in the water which covered the bottom-boards,
Ricardo congratulated himself aloud on the luggage being out of the
way of the wet. He had piled it up forward. He had roughly
tied up Pedro’s head. Pedro had nothing to grumble about.
On the contrary, he ought to be mighty thankful to him, Ricardo, for
being alive at all.</p>
<p>“Well, now, let me give you a leg up, sir,” he said cheerily
to his motionless principal in the stern-sheets. “All our
troubles are over - for a time, anyhow. Ain’t it luck to
find a white man on this island? I would have just as soon expected
to meet an angel from heaven - eh, Mr. Jones? Now then - ready,
sir? one, two, three, up you go!”</p>
<p>Helped from below by Ricardo, and from above by the man more unexpected
than an angel, Mr. Jones scrambled up and stood on the wharf by the
side of Heyst. He swayed like a reed. The night descending
on Samburan turned into dense shadow the point of land and the wharf
itself, and gave a dark solidity to the unshimmering water extending
to the last faint trace of light away to the west. Heyst stared
at the guests whom the renounced world had sent him thus at the end
of the day. The only other vestige of light left on earth lurked
in the hollows of the thin man’s eyes. They gleamed, mobile
and languidly evasive. The eyelids fluttered.</p>
<p>“You are feeling weak,” said Heyst.</p>
<p>“For the moment, a little,” confessed the other.</p>
<p>With loud panting, Ricardo scrambled on his hands and knees upon
the wharf, energetic and unaided. He rose up at Heyst’s
elbow and stamped his foot on the planks, with a sharp, provocative,
double beat, such as is heard sometimes in fencing-schools before the
adversaries engage their foils. Not that the renegade seaman Ricardo
knew anything of fencing. What he called “shooting-irons,”
were his weapons, or the still less aristocratic knife, such as was
even then ingeniously strapped to his leg. He thought of it, at
that moment. A swift stooping motion, then, on the recovery, a
ripping blow, a shove off the wharf, and no noise except a splash in
the water that would scarcely disturb the silence. Heyst would
have no time for a cry. It would be quick and neat, and immensely
in accord with Ricardo’s humour. But he repressed this gust
of savagery. The job was not such a simple one. This piece
had to be played to another tune, and in much slower time. He
returned to his note of talkative simplicity.</p>
<p>“Ay; and I too don’t feel as strong as I thought I was
when the first drink set me up. Great wonder-worker water is!
And to get it right here on the spot! It was heaven - hey, sir?”</p>
<p>Mr Jones, being directly addressed, took up his part in the concerted
piece:</p>
<p>“Really, when I saw a wharf on what might have been an uninhabited
island, I couldn’t believe my eyes. I doubted its existence.
I thought it was a delusion till the boat actually drove between the
piles, as you see her lying now.”</p>
<p>While he was speaking faintly, in a voice which did not seem to belong
to the earth, his henchman, in extremely loud and terrestrial accents,
was fussing about their belongings in the boat, addressing himself to
Pedro:</p>
<p>“Come, now - pass up the dunnage there! Move, yourself,
<i>hombre</i>, or I’ll have to get down again and give you a tap
on those bandages of yours, you growling bear, you!”</p>
<p>“Ah! You didn’t believe in the reality of the wharf?”
Heyst was saying to Mr. Jones.</p>
<p>“You ought to kiss my hands!”</p>
<p>Ricardo caught hold of an ancient Gladstone bag and swung it on the
wharf with a thump.</p>
<p>“Yes! You ought to burn a candle before me as they do
before the saints in your country. No saint has ever done so much
for you as I have, you ungrateful vagabond. Now then! Up
you get!”</p>
<p>Helped by the talkative Ricardo, Pedro scrambled up on the wharf,
where he remained for some time on all fours, swinging to and fro his
shaggy head tied up in white rags. Then he got up clumsily, like
a bulky animal in the dusk, balancing itself on its hind legs.</p>
<p>Mr Jones began to explain languidly to Heyst that they were in a
pretty bad state that morning, when they caught sight of the smoke of
the volcano. It nerved them to make an effort for their lives.
Soon afterwards they made out the island.</p>
<p>“I had just wits enough left in my baked brain to alter the
direction of the boat,” the ghostly voice went on. “As
to finding assistance, a wharf, a white man - nobody would have dreamed
of it. Simply preposterous!”</p>
<p>“That’s what I thought when my Chinaman came and told
me he had seen a boat with white men pulling up,” said Heyst.</p>
<p>“Most extraordinary luck,” interjected Ricardo, standing
by anxiously attentive to every word. “Seems a dream,”
he added. “A lovely dream!”</p>
<p>A silence fell on that group of three, as if everyone had become
afraid to speak, in an obscure sense of an impending crisis. Pedro
on one side of them and Wang on the other had the air of watchful spectators.
A few stars had come out pursuing the ebbing twilight. A light
draught of air tepid enough in the thickening twilight after the scorching
day, struck a chill into Mr. Jones in his soaked clothes.</p>
<p>“I may infer, then, that there is a settlement of white people
here?” he murmured, shivering visibly.</p>
<p>Heyst roused himself.</p>
<p>“Oh, abandoned, abandoned. I am alone here - practically
alone; but several empty houses are still standing. No lack of
accommodation. We may just as well - here, Wang, go back to the
shore and run the trolley out here.”</p>
<p>The last words having been spoken in Malay, he explained courteously
that he had given directions for the transport of the luggage.
Wang had melted into the night - in his soundless manner.</p>
<p>“My word! Rails laid down and all,” exclaimed Ricardo
softly, in a tone of admiration. “Well, I never!”</p>
<p>“We were working a coal-mine here,” said the late manager
of the Tropical Belt Coal Company. “These are only the ghosts
of things that have been.”</p>
<p>Mr Jones’s teeth were suddenly started chattering by another
faint puff of wind, a mere sigh from the west, where Venus cast her
rays on the dark edge of the horizon, like a bright lamp hung above
the grave of the sun.</p>
<p>“We might be moving on,” proposed Heyst. “My
Chinaman and that - ah - ungrateful servant of yours, with the broken
head, can load the things and come along after us.”</p>
<p>The suggestion was accepted without words. Moving towards the
shore, the three men met the trolley, a mere metallic rustle which whisked
past them, the shadowy Wang running noiselessly behind. Only the
sound of their footsteps accompanied them. It was a long time
since so many footsteps had rung together on that jetty. Before
they stepped on to the path trodden through the grass, Heyst said:</p>
<p>“I am prevented from offering you a share of my own quarters.”
The distant courtliness of this beginning arrested the other two suddenly,
as if amazed by some manifest incongruity. “I should regret
it more,” he went on, “if I were not in a position to give
you the choice of those empty bungalows for a temporary home.”</p>
<p>He turned round and plunged into the narrow track, the two others
following in single file.</p>
<p>“Queer start!” Ricardo took the opportunity for whispering,
as he fell behind Mr. Jones, who swayed in the gloom, enclosed by the
stalks of tropical grass, almost as slender as a stalk of grass himself.</p>
<p>In this order they emerged into the open space kept clear of vegetation
by Wang’s judicious system of periodic firing. The shapes
of buildings, unlighted, high-roofed, looked mysteriously extensive
and featureless against the increasing glitter of the stars. Heyst
was pleased at the absence of light in his bungalow. It looked
as uninhabited as the others. He continued to lead the way, inclining
to the right. His equable voice was heard:</p>
<p>“This one would be the best. It was our counting-house.
There is some furniture in it yet. I am pretty certain that you’ll
find a couple of camp bedsteads in one of the rooms.”</p>
<p>The high-pitched roof of the bungalow towered up very close, eclipsing
the sky.</p>
<p>“Here we are. Three steps. As you see, there’s
a wide veranda. Sorry to keep you waiting for a moment; the door
is locked, I think.”</p>
<p>He was heard trying it. Then he leaned against the rail, saying:</p>
<p>“Wang will get the keys.”</p>
<p>The others waited, two vague shapes nearly mingled together in the
darkness of the veranda, from which issued a sudden chattering of Mr.
Jones’s teeth, directly suppressed, and a slight shuffle of Ricardo’s
feet. Their guide and host, his back against the rail, seemed
to have forgotten their existence. Suddenly he moved, and murmured:</p>
<p>“Ah, here’s the trolley.”</p>
<p>Then he raised his voice in Malay, and was answered, “<i>Ya
tuan</i>,” from an indistinct group that could be made out in
the direction of the track.</p>
<p>“I have sent Wang for the key and a light,” he said,
in a voice that came out without any particular direction - a peculiarity
which disconcerted Ricardo.</p>
<p>Wang did not tarry long on his mission. Very soon from the
distant recesses of obscurity appeared the swinging lantern he carried.
It cast a fugitive ray on the arrested trolley with the uncouth figure
of the wild Pedro drooping over the load; then it moved towards the
bungalow and ascended the stairs. After working at the stiff lock,
Wang applied his shoulder to the door. It came open with explosive
suddenness, as if in a passion at being thus disturbed after two years’
repose. From the dark slope of a tall stand-up writing-desk a
forgotten, solitary sheet of paper flew up and settled gracefully on
the floor.</p>
<p>Wang and Pedro came and went through the offended door, bringing
the things off the trolley, one flitting swiftly in and out, the other
staggering heavily. Later, directed by a few quiet words from
Number One, Wang made several journeys with the lantern to the store-rooms,
bringing in blankets, provisions in tins, coffee, sugar, and a packet
of candles. He lighted one, and stuck it on the ledge of the stand-up
desk. Meantime Pedro, being introduced to some kindling-wood and
a bundle of dry sticks, had busied himself outside in lighting a fire,
on which he placed a ready-filled kettle handed to him by Wang impassively,
at arm’s length, as if across a chasm. Having received the
thanks of his guests, Heyst wished them goodnight and withdrew, leaving
them to their repose.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h3>CHAPTER EIGHT</h3>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>Heyst walked away slowly. There was still no light in his bungalow,
and he thought that perhaps it was just as well. By this time
he was much less perturbed. Wang had preceded him with the lantern,
as if in a hurry to get away from the two white men and their hairy
attendant. The light was not dancing along any more; it was standing
perfectly still by the steps of the veranda.</p>
<p>Heyst, glancing back casually, saw behind him still another light
- the light of the strangers’ open fire. A black, uncouth
form, stooping over it monstrously, staggered away into the outlying
shadows. The kettle had boiled, probably.</p>
<p>With that weird vision of something questionably human impressed
upon his senses, Heyst moved on a pace or two. What could the
people be who had such a creature for their familiar attendant?
He stopped. The vague apprehension, of a distant future, in which
he saw Lena unavoidably separated from him by profound and subtle differences;
the sceptical carelessness which had accompanied every one of his attempts
at action, like a secret reserve of his soul, fell away from him.
He no longer belonged to himself. There was a call far more imperious
and august. He came up to the bungalow, and at the very limit
of the lantern’s light, on the top step, he saw her feet and the
bottom part of her dress. The rest of her person was suggested
dimly as high as her waist. She sat on a chair, and the gloom
of the low eaves descended upon her head and shoulders. She didn’t
stir.</p>
<p>“You haven’t gone to sleep here?” he asked.</p>
<p>“Oh, no! I was waiting for you - in the dark.”</p>
<p>Heyst, on the top step, leaned against a wooden pillar, after moving
the lantern to one side.</p>
<p>“I have been thinking that it is just as well you had no light.
But wasn’t it dull for you to sit in the dark?”</p>
<p>“I don’t need a light to think of you.” Her
charming voice gave a value to this banal answer, which had also the
merit of truth. Heyst laughed a little, and said that he had had
a curios experience. She made no remark. He tried to figure
to himself the outlines of her easy pose. A spot of dim light
here and there hinted at the unfailing grace of attitude which was one
of her natural possessions.</p>
<p>She had thought of him, but not in connection with the strangers.
She had admired him from the first; she had been attracted by his warm
voice, his gentle eye, but she had felt him too wonderfully difficult
to know. He had given to life a savour, a movement, a promise
mingled with menaces, which she had not suspected were to be found in
it - or, at any rate, not by a girl wedded to misery as she was.
She said to herself that she must not be irritated because he seemed
too self-contained, and as if shut up in a world of his own. When
he took her in his arms, she felt that his embrace had a great and compelling
force, that he was moved deeply, and that perhaps he would not get tired
of her so very soon. She thought that he had opened to her the
feelings of delicate joy, that the very uneasiness he caused her was
delicious in its sadness, and that she would try to hold him as long
as she could - till her fainting arms, her sinking soul, could cling
to him no more.</p>
<p>“Wang’s not here, of course?” Heyst said suddenly.
She answered as if in her sleep.</p>
<p>“He put this light down here without stopping, and ran.”</p>
<p>“Ran, did he? H’m! Well, it’s considerably
later than his usual time to go home to his Alfuro wife; but to be seen
running is a sort of degradation for Wang, who has mastered the art
of vanishing. Do you think he was startled out of his perfection
by something?”</p>
<p>“Why should he be startled?”</p>
<p>Her voice remained dreamy, a little uncertain.</p>
<p>“I have been startled,” Heyst said.</p>
<p>She was not listening to him. The lantern at their feet threw
the shadows of her face upward. Her eyes glistened, as if frightened
and attentive, above a lighted chin and a very white throat.</p>
<p>“Upon my word,” mused Heyst, “now that I don’t
see them, I can hardly believe that those fellows exist!”</p>
<p>“And what about me?” she asked, so swiftly that he made
a movement like somebody pounced upon from an ambush. “When
you don’t see me, do you believe that I exist?”</p>
<p>“Exist? Most charmingly! My dear Lena, you don’t
know your own advantages. Why, your voice alone would be enough
to make you unforgettable!”</p>
<p>“Oh, I didn’t mean forgetting in that way. I dare
say if I were to die you would remember me right enough. And what
good would that be to anybody? It’s while I am alive that
I want - ”</p>
<p>Heyst stood by her chair, a stalwart figure imperfectly lighted.
The broad shoulders, the martial face that was like a disguise of his
disarmed soul, were lost in the gloom above the plane of light in which
his feet were planted. He suffered from a trouble with which she
had nothing to do. She had no general conception of the conditions
of the existence he had offered to her. Drawn into its peculiar
stagnation she remained unrelated to it because of her ignorance.</p>
<p>For instance, she could never perceive the prodigious improbability
of the arrival of that boat. She did not seem to be thinking of
it. Perhaps she had already forgotten the fact herself.
And Heyst resolved suddenly to say nothing more of it. It was
not that he shrank from alarming her. Not feeling anything definite
himself he could not imagine a precise effect being produced on her
by any amount of explanation. There is a quality in events which
is apprehended differently by different minds or even by the same mind
at different times. Any man living at all consciously knows that
embarrassing truth. Heyst was aware that this visit could bode
nothing pleasant. In his present soured temper towards all mankind
he looked upon it as a visitation of a particularly offensive kind.</p>
<p>He glanced along the veranda in the direction of the other bungalow.
The fire of sticks in front of it had gone out. No faint glow
of embers, not the slightest thread of light in that direction, hinted
at the presence of strangers. The darker shapes in the obscurity,
the dead silence, betrayed nothing of that strange intrusion.
The peace of Samburan asserted itself as on any other night. Everything
was as before, except - Heyst became aware of it suddenly - that for
a whole minute, perhaps, with his hand on the back of the girl’s
chair and within a foot of her person, he had lost the sense of her
existence, for the first time since he had brought her over to share
this invincible, this undefiled peace. He picked up the lantern,
and the act made a silent stir all along the veranda. A spoke
of shadow swung swiftly across her face, and the strong light rested
on the immobility of her features, as of a woman looking at a vision.
Her eyes were still, her lips serious. Her dress, open at the
neck, stirred slightly to her even breathing.</p>
<p>“We had better go in, Lena,” suggested Heyst, very low,
as if breaking a spell cautiously.</p>
<p>She rose without a word. Heyst followed her indoors.
As they passed through the living-room, he left the lantern burning
on the centre table.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h3>CHAPTER NINE</h3>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>That night the girl woke up, for the first time in her new experience,
with the sensation of having been abandoned to her own devices.
She woke up from a painful dream of separation brought about in a way
which she could not understand, and missed the relief of the waking
instant. The desolate feeling of being alone persisted.
She was really alone. A night-light made it plain enough, in the
dim, mysterious manner of a dream; but this was reality. It startled
her exceedingly.</p>
<p>In a moment she was at the curtain that hung in the doorway, and
raised it with a steady hand. The conditions of their life in
Samburan would have made peeping absurd; nor was such a thing in her
character. This was not a movement of curiosity, but of downright
alarm - the continued distress and fear of the dream. The night
could not have been very far advanced. The light of the lantern
was burning strongly, striping the floor and walls of the room with
thick black bands. She hardly knew whether she expected to see
Heyst or not; but she saw him at once, standing by the table in his
sleeping-suit, his back to the doorway. She stepped in noiselessly
with her bare feet, and let the curtain fall behind her. Something
characteristic in Heyst’s attitude made her say, almost in a whisper:</p>
<p>“You are looking for something.”</p>
<p>He could not have heard her before; but he didn’t start at
the unexpected whisper. He only pushed the drawer of the table
in and, without even looking over his shoulder, asked quietly, accepting
her presence as if he had been aware of all her movements:</p>
<p>“I say, are you certain that Wang didn’t go through this
room this evening?”</p>
<p>“Wang? When?”</p>
<p>“After leaving the lantern, I mean.”</p>
<p>“Oh, no. He ran on. I watched him.”</p>
<p>“Or before, perhaps - while I was with these boat people?
Do you know? Can you tell?”</p>
<p>“I hardly think so. I came out as the sun went down,
and sat outside till you came back to me.”</p>
<p>“He could have popped in for an instant through the back veranda.”</p>
<p>“I heard nothing in here,” she said. “What
is the matter?”</p>
<p>“Naturally you wouldn’t hear. He can be as quiet
as a shadow, when he likes. I believe he could steal the pillows
from under our heads. He might have been here ten minutes ago.”</p>
<p>“What woke you up? Was it a noise?”</p>
<p>“Can’t say that. Generally one can’t tell,
but is it likely, Lena? You are, I believe, the lighter sleeper
of us two. A noise loud enough to wake me up would have awakened
you, too. I tried to be as quiet as I could. What roused
you?”</p>
<p>“I don’t know - a dream, perhaps. I woke up crying.”</p>
<p>“What was the dream?”</p>
<p>Heyst, with one hand resting on the table, had turned in her direction,
his round, uncovered head set on a fighter’s muscular neck.
She left his question unanswered, as if she had not heard it.</p>
<p>“What is it you have missed?” she asked in her turn,
very grave.</p>
<p>Her dark hair, drawn smoothly back, was done in two thick tresses
for the night. Heyst noticed the good form of her brow, the dignity
of its width, its unshining whiteness. It was a sculptural forehead.
He had a moment of acute appreciation intruding upon another order of
thoughts. It was as if there could be no end of his discoveries
about that girl, at the most incongruous moments.</p>
<p>She had on nothing but a hand-woven cotton sarong - one of Heyst’s
few purchases, years ago, in Celebes, where they are made. He
had forgotten all about it till she came, and then had found it at the
bottom of an old sandalwood trunk dating back to pre-Morrison days.
She had quickly learned to wind it up under her armpits with a safe
twist, as Malay village girls do when going down to bathe in a river.
Her shoulders and arms were bare; one of her tresses, hanging forward,
looked almost black against the white skin. As she was taller
than the average Malay woman, the sarong ended a good way above her
ankles. She stood poised firmly, half-way between the table and
the curtained doorway, the insteps of her bare feet gleaming like marble
on the overshadowed matting of the floor. The fall of her lighted
shoulders, the strong and fine modelling of her arms hanging down her
sides, her immobility, too, had something statuesque, the charm of art
tense with life. She was not very big - Heyst used to think of
her, at first, as “that poor little girl,” - but revealed
free from the shabby banality of a white platform dress, in the simple
drapery of the sarong, there was that in her form and in the proportions
of her body which suggested a reduction from a heroic size.</p>
<p>She moved forward a step.</p>
<p>“What is it you have missed?” she asked again.</p>
<p>Heyst turned his back altogether on the table. The black spokes
of darkness over the floor and the walls, joining up on the ceiling
in a path of shadow, were like the bars of a cage about them.
It was his turn to ignore a question.</p>
<p>“You woke up in a fright, you say?” he said.</p>
<p>She walked up to him, exotic yet familiar, with her white woman’s
face and shoulders above the Malay sarong, as if it were an airy disguise,
but her expression was serious.</p>
<p>“No,” she replied. “It was distress, rather.
You see, you weren’t there, and I couldn’t tell why you
had gone away from me. A nasty dream - the first I’ve had,
too, since - ”</p>
<p>“You don’t believe in dreams, do you?” asked Heyst.</p>
<p>“I once knew a woman who did. Leastwise, she used to
tell people what dreams mean, for a shilling.”</p>
<p>“Would you go now and ask her what this dream means?”
inquired Heyst jocularly.</p>
<p>“She lived in Camberwell. She was a nasty old thing!”</p>
<p>Heyst laughed a little uneasily.</p>
<p>“Dreams are madness, my dear. It’s things that
happen in the waking world, while one is asleep, that one would be glad
to know the meaning of.”</p>
<p>“You have missed something out of this drawer,” she said
positively.</p>
<p>“This or some other. I have looked into every single
one of them and come back to this again, as people do. It’s
difficult to believe the evidence of my own senses; but it isn’t
there. Now, Lena, are you sure that you didn’t - ”</p>
<p>“I have touched nothing in the house but what you have given
me.”</p>
<p>“Lena!” he cried.</p>
<p>He was painfully affected by this disclaimer of a charge which he
had not made. It was what a servant might have said - an inferior
open to suspicion - or, at any rate, a stranger. He was angry
at being so wretchedly misunderstood; disenchanted at her not being
instinctively aware of the place he had secretly given her in his thoughts.</p>
<p>“After all,” he said to himself, “we are strangers
to each other.”</p>
<p>And then he felt sorry for her. He spoke calmly:</p>
<p>“I was about to say, are you sure you have no reason to think
that the Chinaman has been in this room tonight?”</p>
<p>“You suspect him?” she asked, knitting her eyebrows.</p>
<p>“There is no one else to suspect. You may call it a certitude.”</p>
<p>“You don’t want to tell me what it is?” she inquired,
in the equable tone in which one takes a fact into account.</p>
<p>Heyst only smiled faintly.</p>
<p>“Nothing very precious, as far as value goes,” he replied.</p>
<p>“I thought it might have been money,” she said.</p>
<p>“Money!” exclaimed Heyst, as if the suggestion had been
altogether preposterous. She was so visibly surprised that he
hastened to add: “Of course, there is some money in the house
- there, in that writing-desk, the drawer on the left. It’s
not locked. You can pull it right out. There is a recess,
and the board at the back pivots: a very simple hiding-place, when you
know the way to it. I discovered it by accident, and I keep our
store of sovereigns in there. The treasure, my dear, is not big
enough to require a cavern.”</p>
<p>He paused, laughed very low, and returned her steady stare.</p>
<p>“The loose silver, some guilders and dollars, I have always
kept in that unlocked left drawer. I have no doubt Wang knows
what there is in it, but he isn’t a thief, and that’s why
I - no, Lena, what I’ve missed is not gold or jewels; and that’s
what makes the fact interesting - which the theft of money cannot be.”</p>
<p>She took a long breath, relieved to hear that it was not money.
A great curiosity was depicted on her face, but she refrained from pressing
him with questions. She only gave him one of her deep-gleaming
smiles.</p>
<p>“It isn’t me so it must be Wang. You ought to make
him give it back to you.”</p>
<p>Heyst said nothing to that naïve and practical suggestion, for
the object that he missed from the drawer was his revolver.</p>
<p>It was a heavy weapon which he had owned for many years and had never
used in his life. Ever since the London furniture had arrived
in Samburan, it had been reposing in the drawer of the table.
The real dangers of life, for him, were not those which could be repelled
by swords or bullets. On the other hand neither his manner nor
his appearance looked sufficiently inoffensive to expose him to light-minded
aggression.</p>
<p>He could not have explained what had induced him to go to the drawer
in the middle of the night. He had started up suddenly - which
was very unusual with him. He had found himself sitting up and
extremely wide awake all at once, with the girl reposing by his side,
lying with her face away from him, a vague, characteristically feminine
form in the dim light. She was perfectly still.</p>
<p>At that season of the year there were no mosquitoes in Samburan,
and the sides of the mosquito net were looped up. Heyst swung
his feet to the floor, and found himself standing there, almost before
he had become aware of his intention to get up.</p>
<p>Why he did this he did not know. He didn’t wish to wake
her up, and the slight creak of the broad bedstead had sounded very
loud to him. He turned round apprehensively and waited for her
to move, but she did not stir. While he looked at her, he had
a vision of himself lying there too, also fast asleep, and - it occurred
to him for the first time in his life - very defenceless. This
quite novel impression of the dangers of slumber made him think suddenly
of his revolver. He left the bedroom with noiseless footsteps.
The lightness of the curtain he had to lift as he passed out, and the
outer door, wide open on the blackness of the veranda - for the roof
eaves came down low, shutting out the starlight - gave him a sense of
having been dangerously exposed, he could not have said to what.
He pulled the drawer open. Its emptiness cut his train of self-communion
short. He murmured to the assertive fact:</p>
<p>“Impossible! Somewhere else!”</p>
<p>He tried to remember where he had put the thing; but those provoked
whispers of memory were not encouraging. Foraging in every receptacle
and nook big enough to contain a revolver, he came slowly to the conclusion
that it was not in that room. Neither was it in the other.
The whole bungalow consisted of the two rooms and a profuse allowance
of veranda all round. Heyst stepped out on the veranda.</p>
<p>“It’s Wang, beyond a doubt,” he thought, staring
into the night. “He has got hold of it for some reason.”</p>
<p>There was nothing to prevent that ghostly Chinaman from materializing
suddenly at the foot of the stairs, or anywhere, at any moment, and
toppling him over with a dead sure shot. The danger was so irremediable
that it was not worth worrying about, any more than the general precariousness
of human life. Heyst speculated on this added risk. How
long had he been at the mercy of a slender yellow finger on the trigger?
That is, if that was the fellow’s reason for purloining the revolver.</p>
<p>“Shoot and inherit,” thought Heyst. “Very
simple.” Yet there was in his mind a marked reluctance to
regard the domesticated grower of vegetables in the light of a murderer.</p>
<p>“No, it wasn’t that. For Wang could have done it
any time this last twelve months or more - ”</p>
<p>Heyst’s mind had worked on the assumption that Wang had possessed
himself of the revolver during his own absence from Samburan; but at
that period of his speculation his point of view changed. It struck
him with the force of manifest certitude that the revolver had been
taken only late in the day, or on that very night. Wang, of course.
But why? So there had been no danger in the past. It was
all ahead.</p>
<p>“He has me at his mercy now,” thought Heyst, without
particular excitement.</p>
<p>The sentiment he experienced was curiosity. He forgot himself
in it: it was as if he were considering somebody else’s strange
predicament. But even that sort of interest was dying out when,
looking to his left, he saw the accustomed shapes of the other bungalows
looming in the night, and remembered the arrival of the thirsty company
in the boat. Wang would hardly risk such a crime in the presence
of other white men. It was a peculiar instance of the “safety
in numbers,” principle, which somehow was not much to Heyst’s
taste.</p>
<p>He went in gloomily, and stood over the empty drawer in deep and
unsatisfactory thought. He had just made up his mind that he must
breathe nothing of this to the girl, when he heard her voice behind
him. She had taken him by surprise, but he resisted the impulse
to turn round at once under the impression that she might read his trouble
in his face. Yes, she had taken him by surprise, and for that
reason the conversation which began was not exactly as he would have
conducted it if he had been prepared for her pointblank question.
He ought to have said at once: “I’ve missed nothing.”
It was a deplorable thing that he should have let it come so far as
to have her ask what it was he missed. He closed the conversation
by saying lightly:</p>
<p>“It’s an object of very small value. Don’t
worry about it - it isn’t worth while. The best you can
do is to go and lie down again, Lena.”</p>
<p>Reluctant she turned away, and only in the doorway asked: “And
you?”</p>
<p>“I think I shall smoke a cheroot on the veranda. I don’t
feel sleepy for the moment.”</p>
<p>“Well, don’t be long.”</p>
<p>He made no answer. She saw him standing there, very still,
with a frown on his brow, and slowly dropped the curtain.</p>
<p>Heyst did really light a cheroot before going out again on the veranda.
He glanced up from under the low eaves, to see by the stars how the
night went on. It was going very slowly. Why it should have
irked him he did not know, for he had nothing to expect from the dawn;
but everything round him had become unreasonable, unsettled, and vaguely
urgent, laying him under an obligation, but giving him no line of action.
He felt contemptuously irritated with the situation. The outer
world had broken upon him; and he did not know what wrong he had done
to bring this on himself, any more than he knew what he had done to
provoke the horrible calumny about his treatment of poor Morrison.
For he could not forget this. It had reached the ears of one who
needed to have the most perfect confidence in the rectitude of his conduct.</p>
<p>“And she only half disbelieves it,” he thought, with
hopeless humiliation.</p>
<p>This moral stab in the back seemed to have taken some of his strength
from him, as a physical wound would have done. He had no desire
to do anything - neither to bring Wang to terms in the matter of the
revolver nor to find out from the strangers who they were, and how their
predicament had come about. He flung his glowing cigar away into
the night. But Samburan was no longer a solitude wherein he could
indulge in all his moods. The fiery parabolic path the cast-out
stump traced in the air was seen from another veranda at a distant of
some twenty yards. It was noted as a symptom of importance by
an observer with his faculties greedy for signs, and in a state of alertness
tense enough almost to hear the grass grow.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h3>CHAPTER TEN</h3>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>The observer was Martin Ricardo. To him life was not a matter
of passive renunciation, but of a particularly active warfare.
He was not mistrustful of it, he was not disgusted with it, still less
was he inclined to be suspicious of its disenchantments; but he was
vividly aware that it held many possibilities of failure. Though
very far from being a pessimist, he was not a man of foolish illusions.
He did not like failure, not only because of its unpleasant and dangerous
consequences, but also because of its damaging effect upon his own appreciation
of Martin Ricardo. And this was a special job, of his own contriving,
and of considerable novelty. It was not, so to speak, in his usual
line of business - except, perhaps, from a moral standpoint, about which
he was not likely to trouble his head. For these reasons Martin
Ricardo was unable to sleep.</p>
<p>Mr Jones, after repeated shivering fits, and after drinking much
hot tea, had apparently fallen into deep slumber. He had very
peremptorily discouraged attempts at conversation on the part of his
faithful follower. Ricardo listened to his regular breathing.
It was all very well for the governor. He looked upon it as a
sort of sport. A gentleman naturally would. But this ticklish
and important job had to be pulled off at all costs, both for honour
and for safety. Ricardo rose quietly, and made his way on the
veranda. He could not lie still. He wanted to go out for
air, and he had a feeling that by the force of his eagerness even the
darkness and the silence could be made to yield something to his eyes
and ears.</p>
<p>He noted the stars, and stepped back again into the dense darkness.
He resisted the growing impulse to go out and steal towards the other
bungalow. It would have been madness to start prowling in the
dark on unknown ground. And for what end? Unless to relieve
the oppression. Immobility lay on his limbs like a leaden garment.
And yet he was unwilling to give up. He persisted in his objectless
vigil. The man of the island was keeping quiet.</p>
<p>It was at that moment that Ricardo’s eyes caught the vanishing
red trail of light made by the cigar - a startling revelation of the
man’s wakefulness. He could not suppress a low “Hallo!”
and began to sidle along towards the door, with his shoulders rubbing
the wall. For all he knew, the man might have been out in front
by this time, observing the veranda. As a matter of fact, after
flinging away the cheroot, Heyst had gone indoors with the feeling of
a man who gives up an unprofitable occupation. But Ricardo fancied
he could hear faint footfalls on the open ground, and dodged quickly
into the room. There he drew breath, and meditated for a while.
His next step was to feel for the matches on the tall desk, and to light
the candle. He had to communicate to his governor views and reflections
of such importance that it was absolutely necessary for him to watch
their effect on the very countenance of the hearer. At first he
had thought that these matters could have waited till daylight; but
Heyst’s wakefulness, disclosed in that startling way, made him
feel suddenly certain that there could be no sleep for him that night.</p>
<p>He said as much to his governor. When the little dagger-like
flame had done its best to dispel the darkness, Mr. Jones was to be
seen reposing on a camp bedstead, in a distant part of the room.
A railway rug concealed his spare form up to his very head, which rested
on the other railway rug rolled up for a pillow. Ricardo plumped
himself down cross-legged on the floor, very close to the low bedstead;
so that Mr. Jones - who perhaps had not been so very profoundly asleep
- on opening his eyes found them conveniently levelled at the face of
his secretary.</p>
<p>“Eh? What is it you say? No sleep for you tonight?
But why can’t you let <i>me</i> sleep? Confound your fussiness!”</p>
<p>“Because that there fellow can’t sleep - that’s
why. Dash me if he hasn’t been doing a think just now!
What business has he to think in the middle of the night?”</p>
<p>“How do you know?”</p>
<p>“He was out, sir - up in the middle of the night. My
own eyes saw it.”</p>
<p>“But how do you know that he was up to think?” inquired
Mr. Jones. “It might have been anything - toothache, for
instance. And you may have dreamed it for all I know. Didn’t
you try to sleep?”</p>
<p>“No, sir. I didn’t even try to go to sleep.”</p>
<p>Ricardo informed his patron of his vigil on the veranda, and of the
revelation which put an end to it. He concluded that a man up
with a cigar in the middle of the night must be doing a think.</p>
<p>Mr Jones raised himself on his elbow. This sign of interest
comforted his faithful henchman.</p>
<p>“Seems to me it’s time we did a little think ourselves,”
added Ricardo, with more assurance. Long as they had been together
the moods of his governor were still a source of anxiety to his simple
soul.</p>
<p>“You are always making a fuss,” remarked Mr. Jones, in
a tolerant tone.</p>
<p>“Ay, but not for nothing, am I? You can’t say that,
sir. Mine may not be a gentleman’s way of looking round
a thing, but it isn’t a fool’s way, either. You’ve
admitted that much yourself at odd times.”</p>
<p>Ricardo was growing warmly argumentative. Mr. Jones interrupted
him without heat.</p>
<p>“You haven’t roused me to talk about yourself, I presume?”</p>
<p>“No, sir.” Ricardo remained silent for a minute,
with the tip of his tongue caught between his teeth. “I
don’t think I could tell you anything about myself that you don’t
know,” he continued. There was a sort of amused satisfaction
in his tone which changed completely as he went on. “It’s
that man, over there, that’s got to be talked over. I don’t
like him.”</p>
<p>He, failed to observe the flicker of a ghastly smile on his governor’s
lips.</p>
<p>“Don’t you?” murmured Mr. Jones, whose face, as
he reclined on his elbow, was on a level with the top of his follower’s
head.</p>
<p>“No, sir,” said Ricardo emphatically. The candle
from the other side of the room threw his monstrous black shadow on
the wall. “He - I don’t know how to say it - he isn’t
hearty-like.”</p>
<p>Mr Jones agreed languidly in his own manner:</p>
<p>“He seems to be a very self-possessed man.”</p>
<p>“Ay, that’s it. Self - ” Ricardo choked with
indignation. “I would soon let out some of his self-possession
through a hole between his ribs, if this weren’t a special job!”</p>
<p>Mr Jones had been making his own reflections, for he asked:</p>
<p>“Do you think he is suspicious?”</p>
<p>“I don’t see very well what he can be suspicious of,”
pondered Ricardo. “Yet there he was doing a think.
And what could be the object of it? What made him get out of his
bed in the middle of the night. ’Tain’t fleas, surely.”</p>
<p>“Bad conscience, perhaps,” suggested Mr. Jones jocularly.</p>
<p>His faithful secretary suffered from irritation, and did not see
the joke. In a fretful tone he declared that there was no such
thing as conscience. There was such a thing as funk; but there
was nothing to make that fellow funky in any special way. He admitted,
however, that the man might have been uneasy at the arrival of strangers,
because of all that plunder of his put away somewhere.</p>
<p>Ricardo glanced here and there, as if he were afraid of being overheard
by the heavy shadows cast by the dim light all over the room.
His patron, very quiet, spoke in a calm whisper:</p>
<p>“And perhaps that hotel-keeper has been lying to you about
him. He may be a very poor devil indeed.”</p>
<p>Ricardo shook his head slightly. The Schombergian theory of
Heyst had become in him a profound conviction, which he had absorbed
as naturally as a sponge takes up water. His patron’s doubts
were a wanton denying of what was self-evident; but Ricardo’s
voice remained as before, a soft purring with a snarling undertone.</p>
<p>“I am sup-prised at you, sir! It’s the very way
them tame ones - the common ’yporcrits of the world - get on.
When it comes to plunder drifting under one’s very nose, there’s
not one of them that would keep his hands off. And I don’t
blame them. It’s the way they do it that sets my back up.
Just look at the story of how he got rid of that pal of his! Send
a man home to croak of a cold on the chest - that’s one of your
tame tricks. And d’you mean to say, sir, that a man that’s
up to it wouldn’t bag whatever he could lay his hands in his ’yporcritical
way? What was all that coal business? Tame citizen dodge;
’yporcrisy - nothing else. No, no, sir! The thing
is to extract it from him as neatly as possible. That’s
the job; and it isn’t so simple as it looks. I reckon you
have looked at it all round, sir, before you took up the notion of this
trip.”</p>
<p>“No.” Mr. Jones was hardly audible, staring far
away from his couch. “I didn’t think about it much.
I was bored.”</p>
<p>“Ay, that you were - bad. I was feeling pretty desperate
that afternoon, when that bearded softy of a landlord got talking to
me about this fellow here. Quite accidentally, it was. Well,
sir, here we are after a mighty narrow squeak. I feel all limp
yet; but never mind - his swag will pay for the lot!”</p>
<p>“He’s all alone here,” remarked Mr. Jones in a
hollow murmur.</p>
<p>“Ye-es, in a way. Yes, alone enough. Yes, you may
say he is.”</p>
<p>“There’s that Chinaman, though.”</p>
<p>“Ay, there’s the Chink,” assented Ricardo rather
absentmindedly.</p>
<p>He was debating in his mind the advisability of making a clean breast
of his knowledge of the girl’s existence. Finally he concluded
he wouldn’t. The enterprise was difficult enough without
complicating it with an upset to the sensibilities of the gentleman
with whom he had the honour of being associated. Let the discovery
come of itself, he thought, and then he could swear that he had known
nothing of that offensive presence.</p>
<p>He did not need to lie. He had only to hold his tongue.</p>
<p>“Yes,” he muttered reflectively, “there’s
that Chink, certainly.”</p>
<p>At bottom, he felt a certain ambiguous respect for his governor’s
exaggerated dislike of women, as if that horror of feminine presence
were a sort of depraved morality; but still morality, since he counted
it as an advantage. It prevented many undesirable complications.
He did not pretend to understand it. He did not even try to investigate
this idiosyncrasy of his chief. All he knew was that he himself
was differently inclined, and that it did not make him any happier or
safer. He did not know how he would have acted if he had been
knocking about the world on his own. Luckily he was a subordinate,
not a wage-slave but a follower - which was a restraint. Yes!
The other sort of disposition simplified matters in general; it wasn’t
to be gainsaid. But it was clear that it could also complicate
them - as in this most important and, in Ricardo’s view, already
sufficiently delicate case. And the worst of it was that one could
not tell exactly in what precise manner it would act.</p>
<p>It was unnatural, he thought somewhat peevishly. How was one
to reckon up the unnatural? There were no rules for that.
The faithful henchman of plain Mr. Jones, foreseeing many difficulties
of a material order, decided to keep the girl out of the governor’s
knowledge, out of his sight, too, for as long a time as it could be
managed. That, alas, seemed to be at most a matter of a few hours;
whereas Ricardo feared that to get the affair properly going would take
some days. Once well started, he was not afraid of his gentleman
failing him. As is often the case with lawless natures, Ricardo’s
faith in any given individual was of a simple, unquestioning character.
For man must have some support in life.</p>
<p>Cross-legged, his head drooping a little and perfectly still, he
might have been meditating in a bonze-like attitude upon the sacred
syllable “Om.” It was a striking illustration of the
untruth of appearances, for his contempt for the world was of a severely
practical kind. There was nothing oriental about Ricardo but the
amazing quietness of his pose. Mr. Jones was also very quiet.
He had let his head sink on the rolled-up rug, and lay stretched out
on his side with his back to the light. In that position the shadows
gathered in the cavities of his eyes made them look perfectly empty.
When he spoke, his ghostly voice had only to travel a few inches straight
into Ricardo’s left ear.</p>
<p>“Why don’t you say something, now that you’ve got
me awake?”</p>
<p>“I wonder if you were sleeping as sound as you are trying to
make out, sir,” said the unmoved Ricardo.</p>
<p>“I wonder,” repeated Mr. Jones. “At any rate,
I was resting quietly!”</p>
<p>“Come, sir!” Ricardo’s whisper was alarmed.
“You don’t mean to say you’re going to be bored?”</p>
<p>“No.”</p>
<p>“Quite right!” The secretary was very much relieved.
“There’s no occasion to be, I can tell you, sir,”
he whispered earnestly. “Anything but that! If I didn’t
say anything for a bit, it ain’t because there isn’t plenty
to talk about. Ay, more than enough.”</p>
<p>“What’s the matter with you?” breathed out his
patron. “Are you going to turn pessimist?”</p>
<p>“Me turn? No, sir! I ain’t of those that
turn. You may call me hard names, if you like, but you know very
well that I ain’t a croaker.” Ricardo changed his
tone. “If I said nothing for a while, it was because I was
meditating over the Chink, sir.”</p>
<p>“You were? Waste of time, my Martin. A Chinaman
is unfathomable.”</p>
<p>Ricardo admitted that this might be so. Anyhow, a Chink was
neither here nor there, as a general thing, unfathomable as he might
be; but a Swedish baron wasn’t - couldn’t be! The
woods were full of such barons.</p>
<p>“I don’t know that he is so tame,” was Mr. Jones’s
remark, in a sepulchral undertone.</p>
<p>“How do you mean, sir? He ain’t a rabbit, of course.
You couldn’t hypnotize him, as I saw you do to more than one Dago,
and other kinds of tame citizens, when it came to the point of holding
them down to a game.”</p>
<p>“Don’t you reckon on that,” murmured plain Mr.
Jones seriously.</p>
<p>“No, sir, I don’t, though you have a wonderful power
of the eye. It’s a fact.”</p>
<p>“I have a wonderful patience,” remarked Mr. Jones dryly.</p>
<p>A dim smile flitted over the lips of the faithful Ricardo who never
raised his head.</p>
<p>“I don’t want to try you too much, sir, but this is like
no other job we ever turned our minds to.”</p>
<p>“Perhaps not. At any rate let us think so.”</p>
<p>A weariness with the monotony of life was reflected in the tone of
this qualified assent. It jarred on the nerves of the sanguine
Ricardo.</p>
<p>“Let us think of the way to go to work,” he retorted
a little impatiently. “He’s a deep one. Just
look at the way he treated that chum of his. Did you ever hear
of anything so low? And the artfulness of the beast - the dirty,
tame artfulness!”</p>
<p>“Don’t you start moralizing, Martin,” said Mr.
Jones warningly. “As far as I can make out the story that
German hotel-keeper told you, it seems to show a certain amount of character;
- and independence from common feelings which is not usual. It’s
very remarkable, if true.”</p>
<p>“Ay, ay! Very remarkable. It’s mighty low
down, all the same,” muttered, Ricardo obstinately. “I
must say I am glad to think he will be paid off for it in a way that’ll
surprise him!”</p>
<p>The tip of his tongue appeared lively for an instant, as if trying
for the taste of that ferocious retribution on his compressed lips.
For Ricardo was sincere in his indignation before the elementary principle
of loyalty to a chum violated in cold blood, slowly, in a patient duplicity
of years. There are standards in villainy as in virtue, and the
act as he pictured it to himself acquired an additional horror from
the slow pace of that treachery so atrocious and so tame. But
he understood too the educated judgement of his governor, a gentleman
looking on all this with the privileged detachment of a cultivated mind,
of an elevated personality.</p>
<p>“Ay, he’s deep - he’s artful,” he mumbled
between his sharp teeth.</p>
<p>“Confound you!” Mr. Jones’s calm whisper crept
into his ear. “Come to the point.”</p>
<p>Obedient, the secretary shook off his thoughtfulness. There
was a similarity of mind between these two - one the outcast of his
vices, the other inspired by a spirit of scornful defiance, the aggressiveness
of a beast of prey looking upon all the tame creatures of the earth
as its natural victim. Both were astute enough, however, and both
were aware that they had plunged into this adventure without a sufficient
scrutiny of detail. The figure of a lonely man far from all assistance
had loomed up largely, fascinating and defenceless in the middle of
the sea, filling the whole field of their vision. There had not
seemed to be any need for thinking. As Schomberg had been saying:
“Three to one.”</p>
<p>But it did not look so simple now in the face of that solitude which
was like an armour for this man. The feeling voiced by the henchman
in his own way - “We don’t seem much forwarder now we are
here” was acknowledged by the silence of the patron. It
was easy enough to rip a fellow up or drill a hole in him, whether he
was alone or not, Ricardo reflected in low, confidential tones, but
-</p>
<p>“He isn’t alone,” Mr. Jones said faintly, in his
attitude of a man composed for sleep. “Don’t forget
that Chinaman.” Ricardo started slightly.</p>
<p>“Oh, ay - the Chink!”</p>
<p>Ricardo had been on the point of confessing about the girl; but no!
He wanted his governor to be unperturbed and steady. Vague thoughts,
which he hardly dared to look in the face, were stirring his brain in
connection with that girl. She couldn’t be much account,
he thought. She could be frightened. And there were also
other possibilities. The Chink, however, could be considered openly.</p>
<p>“What I was thinking about it, sir,” he went on earnestly,
“is this - here we’ve got a man. He’s nothing.
If he won’t be good, he can be made quiet. That’s
easy. But then there’s his plunder. He doesn’t
carry it in his pocket.”</p>
<p>“I hope not,” breathed Mr. Jones.</p>
<p>“Same here. It’s too big, we know, but if he were
alone, he would not feel worried about it overmuch - I mean the safety
of the pieces. He would just put the lot into any box or drawer
that was handy.”</p>
<p>“Would he?”</p>
<p>“Yes, sir. He would keep it under his eye, as it were.
Why not? It is natural. A fellow doesn’t put his swag
underground, unless there’s a very good reason for it.”</p>
<p>“A very good reason, eh?”</p>
<p>“Yes, sir. What do you think a fellow is - a mole?”</p>
<p>From his experience, Ricardo declared that man was not a burrowing
beast. Even the misers very seldom buried their hoard, unless
for exceptional reasons. In the given situation of a man alone
on an island, the company of a Chink was a very good reason. Drawers
would not be safe, nor boxes, either, from a prying, slant-eyed Chink.
No, sir, unless a safe - a proper office safe. But the safe was
there in the room.</p>
<p>“Is there a safe in this room? I didn’t notice
it,” whispered Mr. Jones.</p>
<p>That was because the thing was painted white, like the walls of the
room; and besides, it was tucked away in the shadows of a corner.
Mr. Jones had been too tired to observe anything on his first coming
ashore; but Ricardo had very soon spotted the characteristic form.
He only wished he could believe that the plunder of treachery, duplicity,
and all the moral abominations of Heyst had been there. But no;
the blamed thing was open.</p>
<p>“It might have been there at one time or another,” he
commented gloomily, “but it isn’t there now.”</p>
<p>“The man did not elect to live in this house,” remarked
Mr. Jones. “And by the by, what could he have meant by speaking
of circumstances which prevented him lodging us in the other bungalow?
You remember what he said, Martin? Sounded cryptic.”</p>
<p>Martin, who remembered and understood the phrase as directly motived
by the existence of the girl, waited a little before saying:</p>
<p>“Some of his artfulness, sir; and not the worst of it either.
That manner of his to us, this asking no questions, is some more of
his artfulness. A man’s bound to be curious, and he is;
yet he goes on as if he didn’t care. He does care - or else
what was he doing up with a cigar in the middle of the night, doing
a think? I don’t like it.”</p>
<p>“He may be outside, observing the light here, and saying the
very same thing to himself of our own wakefulness,” gravely suggested
Ricardo’s governor.</p>
<p>“He may be, sir; but this is too important to be talked over
in the dark. And the light is all right, it can be accounted for.
There’s a light in this bungalow in the middle of the night because
- why, because you are not well. Not well, sir - that’s
what’s the matter, and you will have to act up to it.”</p>
<p>The consideration had suddenly occurred to the faithful henchman,
in the light of a felicitous expedient to keep his governor and the
girl apart as long as possible. Mr. Jones received the suggestion
without the slightest stir, even in the deep sockets of his eyes, where
a steady, faint gleam was the only thing telling of life and attention
in his attenuated body. But Ricardo, as soon as he had enunciated
his happy thought, perceived in it other possibilities more to the point
and of greater practical advantage.</p>
<p>“With your looks, sir, it will be easy enough,” he went
on evenly, as if no silence had intervened, always respectful, but frank,
with perfect simplicity of purpose. “All you’ve got
to do is just to lie down quietly. I noticed him looking sort
of surprised at you on the wharf, sir.”</p>
<p>At these words, a naïve tribute to the aspect of his physique,
even more suggestive of the grave than of the sick-bed, a fold appeared
on that side of the governor’s face which was exposed to the dim
light - a deep, shadowy, semicircular fold from the side of the nose
to bottom of the chin - a silent smile. By a side-glance Ricardo
had noted this play of features. He smiled, too, appreciative,
encouraged.</p>
<p>“And you as hard as nails all the time,” he went on.
“Hang me if anybody would believe you aren’t sick, if I
were to swear myself black in the face! Give us a day or two to
look into matters and size up that ’yporcrit.”</p>
<p>Ricardo’s eyes remained fixed on his crossed shins. The
chief, in his lifeless accents, approved.</p>
<p>“Perhaps it would be a good idea.”</p>
<p>“The Chink, he’s nothing. He can be made quiet
any time.”</p>
<p>One of Ricardo’s hands, reposing palm upwards on his folded
legs, made a swift thrusting gesture, repeated by the enormous darting
shadow of an arm very low on the wall. It broke the spell of perfect
stillness in the room. The secretary eyed moodily the wall from
which the shadow had gone. Anybody could be made quiet, he pointed
out. It was not anything that the Chink could do; no, it was the
effect that his company must have produced on the conduct of the doomed
man. A man! What was a man? A Swedish baron could
be ripped up, or else holed by a shot, as easily as any other creature;
but that was exactly what was to be avoided, till one knew where he
had hidden his plunder.</p>
<p>“I shouldn’t think it would be some sort of hole in his
bungalow,” argued Ricardo with real anxiety.</p>
<p>No. A house can be burnt - set on fire accidentally, or on
purpose, while a man’s asleep. Under the house - or in some
crack, cranny, or crevice? Something told him it wasn’t
that. The anguish of mental effort contracted Ricardo’s
brow. The skin of his head seemed to move in this travail of vain
and tormenting suppositions.</p>
<p>“What did you think a fellow is, sir - a baby?” he said,
in answer to Mr. Jones’s objections. “I am trying
to find out what I would do myself. He wouldn’t be likely
to be cleverer than I am.”</p>
<p>“And what do you know about yourself?”</p>
<p>Mr Jones seemed to watch his follower’s perplexities with amusement
concealed in a death-like composure.</p>
<p>Ricardo disregarded the question. The material vision of the
spoil absorbed all his faculties. A great vision! He seemed
to see it. A few small canvas bags tied up with thin cord, their
distended rotundity showing the inside pressure of the disk-like forms
of coins - gold, solid, heavy, eminently portable. Perhaps steel
cash-boxes with a chased design, on the covers; or perhaps a black and
brass box with a handle on the top, and full of goodness knows what.
Bank notes? Why not? The fellow had been going home; so
it was surely something worth going home with.</p>
<p>“And he may have put it anywhere outside - anywhere!”
cried Ricardo in a deadened voice, “in the forest - ”</p>
<p>That was it! A temporary darkness replaced the dim light of
the room. The darkness of the forest at night and in it the gleam
of a lantern, by which a figure is digging at the foot of a tree-trunk.
As likely as not, another figure holding that lantern - ha, feminine!
The girl!</p>
<p>The prudent Ricardo stifled a picturesque and profane exclamation,
partly joy, partly dismay. Had the girl been trusted or mistrusted
by that man? Whatever it was, it was bound to be wholly!
With women there could be no half-measures. He could not imagine
a fellow half-trusting a woman in that intimate relation to himself,
and in those particular circumstances of conquest and loneliness where
no confidences could appear dangerous since, apparently, there could
be no one she could give him away to. Moreover, in nine cases
out of ten the woman would be trusted. But, trusted or mistrusted,
was her presence a favourable or unfavourable condition of the problem?
That was the question!</p>
<p>The temptation to consult his chief, to talk over the weighty fact,
and get his opinion on it, was great indeed. Ricardo resisted
it; but the agony of his solitary mental conflict was extremely sharp.
A woman in a problem is an incalculable quantity, even if you have something
to go upon in forming your guess. How much more so when you haven’t
even once caught sight of her.</p>
<p>Swift as were his mental processes, he felt that a longer silence
was inadvisable. He hastened to speak:</p>
<p>“And do you see us, sir, you and I, with a couple of spades
having to tackle this whole confounded island?”</p>
<p>He allowed himself a slight movement of the arm. The shadow
enlarged it into a sweeping gesture.</p>
<p>“This seems rather discouraging, Martin,” murmured the
unmoved governor.</p>
<p>“We mustn’t be discouraged - that’s all!”
retorted his henchman. “And after what we had to go through
in that boat too! Why it would be - ”</p>
<p>He couldn’t find the qualifying words. Very calm, faithful,
and yet astute, he expressed his new-born hopes darkly.</p>
<p>“Something’s sure to turn up to give us a hint; only
this job can’t be rushed. You may depend on me to pick up
the least little bit of a hint; but you, sir - you’ve got to play
him very gently. For the rest you can trust me.”</p>
<p>“Yes; but I ask myself what <i>you</i> are trusting to.”</p>
<p>“Our luck,” said the faithful Ricardo. “Don’t
say a word against that. It might spoil the run of it.”</p>
<p>“You are a superstitious beggar. No, I won’t say
anything against it.”</p>
<p>“That’s right, sir. Don’t you even think
lightly of it. Luck’s not to be played with.”</p>
<p>“Yes, luck’s a delicate thing,” assented Mr. Jones
in a dreamy whisper.</p>
<p>A short silence ensued, which Ricardo ended in a discreet and tentative
voice.</p>
<p>“Talking of luck, I suppose he could be made to take a hand
with you, sir - two-handed picket or ekkarty, you being seedy and keeping
indoors - just to pass the time. For all we know, he may be one
of them hot ones once they start - ”</p>
<p>“Is it likely?” came coldly from the principal.
“Considering what we know of his history - say with his partner.”</p>
<p>“True, sir. He’s a cold-blooded beast; a cold-blooded,
inhuman - ”</p>
<p>“And I’ll tell you another thing that isn’t likely.
He would not be likely to let himself be stripped bare. We haven’t
to do with a young fool that can be led on by chaff or flattery, and
in the end simply overawed. This is a calculating man.”</p>
<p>Ricardo recognized that clearly. What he had in his mind was
something on a small scale, just to keep the enemy busy while he, Ricardo,
had time to nose around a bit.</p>
<p>“You could even lose a little money to him, sir,” he
suggested.</p>
<p>“I could.”</p>
<p>Ricardo was thoughtful for a moment.</p>
<p>“He strikes me, too, as the sort of man to start prancing when
one didn’t expect it. What do you think, sir? Is he
a man that would prance? That is, if something startled him.
More likely to prance than to run - what?”</p>
<p>The answer came at once, because Mr. Jones understood the peculiar
idiom of his faithful follower.</p>
<p>“Oh, without doubt! Without doubt!”</p>
<p>“It does me good to hear that you think so. He’s
a prancing beast, and so we mustn’t startle him - not till I have
located the stuff. Afterwards - ”</p>
<p>Ricardo paused, sinister in the stillness of his pose. Suddenly
he got up with a swift movement and gazed down at his chief in moody
abstraction. Mr. Jones did not stir.</p>
<p>“There’s one thing that’s worrying me,” began
Ricardo in a subdued voice.</p>
<p>“Only one?” was the faint comment from the motionless
body on the bedstead.</p>
<p>“I mean more than all the others put together.”</p>
<p>“That’s grave news.”</p>
<p>“Ay, grave enough. It’s this - how do you feel
in yourself, sir? Are you likely to get bored? I know them
fits come on you suddenly; but surely you can tell - ”</p>
<p>“Martin, you are an ass.”</p>
<p>The moody face of the secretary brightened up.</p>
<p>“Really, sir? Well, I am quite content to be on these
terms - I mean as long as you don’t get bored. It wouldn’t
do, sir.”</p>
<p>For coolness, Ricardo had thrown open his shirt and rolled up his
sleeves. He moved stealthily across the room, bare-footed, towards
the candle, the shadow of his head and shoulders growing bigger behind
him on the opposite wall, to which the face of plain Mr. Jones was turned.
With a feline movement, Ricardo glanced over his shoulder at the thin
back of the spectre reposing on the bed, and then blew out the candle.</p>
<p>“In fact, I am rather amused, Martin,” Mr. Jones said
in the dark.</p>
<p>He heard the sound of a slapped thigh and the jubilant exclamation
of his henchman:</p>
<p>“Good! That’s the way to talk, sir!”</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div>
<h2>PART FOUR</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div>
<h3>CHAPTER ONE</h3>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>Ricardo advanced prudently by short darts from one tree-trunk to
another, more in the manner of a squirrel than a cat. The sun
had risen some time before. Already the sparkle of open sea was
encroaching rapidly on the dark, cool, early-morning blue of Diamond
Bay; but the deep dusk lingered yet under the mighty pillars of the
forest, between which the secretary dodged.</p>
<p>He was watching Number One’s bungalow with an animal-like patience,
if with a very human complexity of purpose. This was the second
morning of such watching. The first one had not been rewarded
by success. Well, strictly speaking, there was no hurry.</p>
<p>The sun, swinging above the ridge all at once, inundated with light
the space of burnt grass in front of Ricardo and the face of the bungalow,
on which his eyes were fixed, leaving only the one dark spot of the
doorway. To his right, to his left, and behind him, splashes of
gold appeared in the deep shade of the forest, thinning the gloom under
the ragged roof of leaves.</p>
<p>This was not a very favourable circumstance for Ricardo’s purpose.
He did not wish to be detected in his patient occupation. For
what he was watching for was a sight of the girl - that girl! just a
glimpse across the burnt patch to see what she was like. He had
excellent eyes, and the distance was not so great. He would be
able to distinguish her face quite easily if she only came out on the
veranda; and she was bound to do that sooner or later. He was
confident that he could form some opinion about her - which, he felt,
was very necessary, before venturing on some steps to get in touch with
her behind that Swedish baron’s back. His theoretical view
of the girl was such that he was quite prepared, on the strength of
that distant examination, to show himself discreetly - perhaps even
make a sign. It all depended on his reading of the face.
She couldn’t be much. He knew that sort!</p>
<p>By protruding his head a little he commanded, through the foliage
of a festooning creeper, a view of the three bungalows. Irregularly
disposed along a flat curve, over the veranda rail of the farthermost
one hung a dark rug of a tartan pattern, amazingly conspicuous.
Ricardo could see the very checks. A brisk fire of sticks was
burning on the ground in front of the steps, and in the sunlight the
thin, fluttering flame had paled almost to invisibility - a mere rosy
stir under a faint wreath of smoke. He could see the white bandage
on the head of Pedro bending over it, and the wisps of black hair standing
up weirdly. He had wound that bandage himself, after breaking
that shaggy and enormous head. The creature balanced it like a
load, staggering towards the steps. Ricardo could see a small,
long-handled saucepan at the end of a great hairy paw.</p>
<p>Yes, he could see all that there was to be seen, far and near.
Excellent eyes! The only thing they could not penetrate was the
dark oblong of the doorway on the veranda under the low eaves of the
bungalow’s roof. And that was vexing. It was an outrage.
Ricardo was easily outraged. Surely she would come out presently!
Why didn’t she? Surely the fellow did not tie her up to
the bedpost before leaving the house!</p>
<p>Nothing appeared. Ricardo was as still as the leafy cables
of creepers depending in a convenient curtain from the mighty limb sixty
feet above his head. His very eyelids were still, and this unblinking
watchfulness gave him the dreamy air of a cat posed on a hearth-rug
contemplating the fire. Was he dreaming? There, in plain
sight, he had before him a white, blouse-like jacket, short blue trousers,
a pair of bare yellow calves, a pigtail, long and slender -</p>
<p>“The confounded Chink!” he muttered, astounded.</p>
<p>He was not conscious of having looked away; and yet right there,
in the middle of the picture, without having come round the right-hand
corner or the left-hand corner of the house, without falling from the
sky or surging up from the ground, Wang had become visible, large as
life, and engaged in the young-ladyish occupation of picking flowers.
Step by step, stooping repeatedly over the flower-beds at the foot of
the veranda, the startlingly materialized Chinaman passed off the scene
in a very commonplace manner, by going up the steps and disappearing
in the darkness of the doorway.</p>
<p>Only then the yellow eyes of Martin Ricardo lost their intent fixity.
He understood that it was time for him to be moving. That bunch
of flowers going into the house in the hand of a Chinaman was for the
breakfast-table. What else could it be for?</p>
<p>“I’ll give you flowers!” he muttered threateningly.
“You wait!”</p>
<p>Another moment, just for a glance towards the Jones bungalow, whence
he expected Heyst to issue on his way to that breakfast so offensively
decorated, and Ricardo began his retreat. His impulse, his desire,
was for a rush into the open, face to face with the appointed victim,
for what he called a “ripping up,” visualized greedily,
and always with the swift preliminary stooping movement on his part
- the forerunner of certain death to his adversary. This was his
impulse; and as it was, so to speak, constitutional, it was extremely
difficult to resist when his blood was up. What could be more
trying than to have to skulk and dodge and restrain oneself, mentally
and physically, when one’s blood was up? Mr. Secretary Ricardo
began his retreat from his post of observation behind a tree opposite
Heyst’s bungalow, using great care to remain unseen. His
proceedings were made easier by the declivity of the ground, which sloped
sharply down to the water’s edge. There, his feet feeling
the warmth of the island’s rocky foundation already heated by
the sun, through the thin soles of his straw slippers he was, as it
were, sunk out of sight of the houses. A short scramble of some
twenty feet brought him up again to the upper level, at the place where
the jetty had its root in the shore. He leaned his back against
one of the lofty uprights which still held up the company’s signboard
above the mound of derelict coal. Nobody could have guessed how
much his blood was up. To contain himself he folded his arms tightly
on his breast.</p>
<p>Ricardo was not used to a prolonged effort of self-control.
His craft, his artfulness, felt themselves always at the mercy of his
nature, which was truly feral and only held in subjection by the influence
of the “governor,” the prestige of a gentleman. It
had its cunning too, but it was being almost too severely tried since
the feral solution of a growl and a spring was forbidden by the problem.
Ricardo dared not venture out on the cleared ground. He dared
not.</p>
<p>“If I meet the beggar,” he thought, “I don’t
know what I mayn’t do. I daren’t trust myself.”</p>
<p>What exasperated him just now was his inability to understand Heyst.
Ricardo was human enough to suffer from the discovery of his limitations.
No, he couldn’t size Heyst up. He could kill him with extreme
ease - a growl and a spring - but that was forbidden! However,
he could not remain indefinitely under the funereal blackboard.</p>
<p>“I must make a move,” he thought.</p>
<p>He moved on, his head swimming a little with the repressed desire
of violence, and came out openly in front of the bungalows, as if he
had just been down to the jetty to look at the boat. The sunshine
enveloped him, very brilliant, very still, very hot. The three
buildings faced him. The one with the rug on the balustrade was
the most distant; next to it was the empty bungalow; the nearest, with
the flower-beds at the foot of its veranda, contained that bothersome
girl, who had managed so provokingly to keep herself invisible.
That was why Ricardo’s eyes lingered on that building. The
girl would surely be easier to “size up” than Heyst.
A sight of her, a mere glimpse, would have been something to go by,
a step nearer to the goal - the first real move, in fact. Ricardo
saw no other move. And any time she might appear on that veranda!</p>
<p>She did not appear; but, like a concealed magnet, she exercised her
attraction. As he went on, he deviated towards the bungalow.
Though his movements were deliberate, his feral instincts had such sway
that if he had met Heyst walking towards him, he would have had to satisfy
his need of violence. But he saw nobody. Wang was at the
back of the house, keeping the coffee hot against Number One’s
return for breakfast. Even the simian Pedro was out of sight,
no doubt crouching on the door-step, his red little eyes fastened with
animal-like devotion on Mr. Jones, who was in discourse with Heyst in
the other bungalow - the conversation of an evil spectre with a disarmed
man, watched by an ape.</p>
<p>His will having very little to do with it, Ricardo, darting swift
glances in all directions, found himself at the steps of the Heyst bungalow.
Once there, falling under an uncontrollable force of attraction, he
mounted them with a savage and stealthy action of his limbs, and paused
for a moment under the eaves to listen to the silence. Presently
he advanced over the threshold one leg - it seemed to stretch itself,
like a limb of india-rubber - planted his foot within, brought up the
other swiftly, and stood inside the room, turning his head from side
to side. To his eyes, brought in there from the dazzling sunshine,
all was gloom for a moment. His pupils, like a cat’s, dilating
swiftly, he distinguished an enormous quantity of books. He was
amazed; and he was put off too. He was vexed in his astonishment.
He had meant to note the aspect and nature of things, and hoped to draw
some useful inference, some hint as to the man. But what guess
could one make out of a multitude of books? He didn’t know
what to think; and he formulated his bewilderment in the mental exclamation:</p>
<p>“What the devil has this fellow been trying to set up here
- a school?”</p>
<p>He gave a prolonged stare to the portrait of Heyst’s father,
that severe profile ignoring the vanities of this earth. His eyes
gleamed sideways at the heavy silver candlesticks - signs of opulence.
He prowled as a stray cat entering a strange place might have done,
for if Ricardo had not Wang’s miraculous gift of materializing
and vanishing, rather than coming and going, he could be nearly as noiseless
in his less elusive movements. He noted the back door standing
just ajar; and an the time his slightly pointed ears, at the utmost
stretch of watchfulness, kept in touch with the profound silence outside
enveloping the absolute stillness of the house.</p>
<p>He had not been in the room two minutes when it occurred to him that
he must be alone in the bungalow. The woman, most likely, had
sneaked out and was walking about somewhere in the grounds at the back.
She had been probably ordered to keep out of sight. Why?
Because the fellow mistrusted his guests; or was it because he mistrusted
<i>her</i>?</p>
<p>Ricardo reflected that from a certain point of view it amounted nearly
to the same thing. He remembered Schomberg’s story.
He felt that running away with somebody only to get clear of that beastly,
tame, hotel-keeper’s attention was no proof of hopeless infatuation.
She could be got in touch with.</p>
<p>His moustaches stirred. For some time he had been looking at
a closed door. He would peep into that other room, and perhaps
see something more informing than a confounded lot of books. As
he crossed over, he thought recklessly:</p>
<p>“If the beggar comes in suddenly, and starts to prance, I’ll
rip him up and be done with it!”</p>
<p>He laid his hand on the handle, and felt the door come unlatched.
Before he pulled it open, he listened again to the silence. He
felt it all about him, complete, without a flaw.</p>
<p>The necessity of prudence had exasperated his self-restraint.
A mood of ferocity woke up in him, and, as always at such times, he
became physically aware of the sheeted knife strapped to his leg.
He pulled at the door with fierce curiosity. It came open without
a squeak of hinge, without a rustle, with no sound at all; and he found
himself glaring at the opaque surface of some rough blue stuff, like
serge. A curtain was fitted inside, heavy enough and long enough
not to stir.</p>
<p>A curtain! This unforeseen veil, baffling his curiosity checked
his brusqueness. He did not fling it aside with an impatient movement;
he only looked at it closely, as if its texture had to be examined before
his hand could touch such stuff. In this interval of hesitation,
he seemed to detect a flaw in the perfection of the silence, the faintest
possible rustle, which his ears caught and instantly, in the effort
of conscious listening, lost again. No! Everything was still
inside and outside the house, only he had no longer the sense of being
alone there.</p>
<p>When he put out his hand towards the motionless folds it was with
extreme caution, and merely to push the stuff aside a little, advancing
his head at the same time to peep within. A moment of complete
immobility ensued. Then, without anything else of him stirring,
Ricardo’s head shrank back on his shoulders, his arm descended
slowly to his side. There was a woman in there. The very
woman! Lighted dimly by the reflection of the outer glare, she
loomed up strangely big and shadowy at the other end of the long, narrow
room. With her back to the door, she was doing her hair with bare
arms uplifted. One of them gleamed pearly white; the other detached
its perfect form in black against the unshuttered, uncurtained square
window-hole. She was there, her fingers busy with her dark hair,
utterly unconscious, exposed and defenceless - and tempting.</p>
<p>Ricardo drew back one foot and pressed his elbows close to his sides;
his chest started heaving convulsively as if he were wrestling or running
a race; his body began to sway gently back and forth. The self-restraint
was at an end: his psychology must have its way. The instinct
for the feral spring could no longer be denied. Ravish or kill
- it was all one to him, as long as by the act he liberated the suffering
soul of savagery repressed for so long. After a quick glance over
his shoulder, which hunters of big game tell us no lion or tiger omits
to give before charging home, Ricardo charged, head down, straight at
the curtain. The stuff, tossed up violently by his rush, settled
itself with a slow, floating descent Into vertical folds, motionless,
without a shudder even, in the still, warm air.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h3>CHAPTER TWO</h3>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>The clock - which once upon a time had measured the hours of philosophic
meditation - could not have ticked away more than five seconds when
Wang materialized within the living-room. His concern primarily
was with the delayed breakfast, but at once his slanting eyes became
immovably fixed upon the unstirring curtain. For it was behind
it that he had located the strange, deadened scuffling sounds which
filled the empty room. The slanting eyes of his race could not
achieve a round, amazed stare, but they remained still, dead still,
and his impassive yellow face grew all at once careworn and lean with
the sudden strain of intense, doubtful, frightened watchfulness.
Contrary impulses swayed his body, rooted to the floor-mats. He
even went so far as to extend his hand towards the curtain. He
could not reach it, and he didn’t make the necessary step forward.</p>
<p>The mysterious struggle was going on with confused thuds of bare
feet, in a mute wrestling match, no human sound, hiss, groan, murmur,
or exclamation coming through the curtain. A chair fell over,
not with a crash but lightly, as if just grazed, and a faint metallic
ring of the tin bath succeeded. Finally the tense silence, as
of two adversaries locked in a deadly grip, was ended by the heavy,
dull thump of a soft body flung against the inner partition of planks.
It seemed to shake the whole bungalow. By that time, walking backward,
his eyes, his very throat, strained with fearful excitement, his extended
arm still pointing at the curtain, Wang had disappeared through the
back door. Once out in the compound, he bolted round the end of
the house. Emerging innocently between the two bungalows he lingered
and lounged in the open, where anybody issuing from any of the dwellings
was bound to see him - a self-possessed Chinaman idling there, with
nothing but perhaps an unserved breakfast on his mind.</p>
<p>It was at this time that Wang made up his mind to give up all connection
with Number One, a man not only disarmed but already half vanquished.
Till that morning he had had doubts as to his course of action, but
this overheard scuffle decided the question. Number One was a
doomed man - one of those beings whom it is unlucky to help. Even
as he walked in the open with a fine air of unconcern, Wang wondered
that no sound of any sort was to be heard inside the house. For
all he knew, the white woman might have been scuffling in there with
an evil spirit, which had of course killed her. For nothing visible
came out of the house he watched out of the slanting comer of his eye.
The sunshine and the silence outside the bungalow reigned undisturbed.</p>
<p>But in the house the silence of the big room would not have struck
an acute ear as perfect. It was troubled by a stir so faint that
it could hardly be called a ghost of whispering from behind the curtain.</p>
<p>Ricardo, feeling his throat with tender care, breathed out admiringly:</p>
<p>“You have fingers like steel. Jimminy! You have
muscles like a giant!”</p>
<p>Luckily for Lena, Ricardo’s onset had been so sudden - she
was winding her two heavy tresses round her head - that she had no time
to lower her arms. This, which saved them from being pinned to
her sides, gave her a better chance to resist. His spring had
nearly thrown her down. Luckily, again, she was standing so near
the wall that, though she was driven against it headlong, yet the shock
was not heavy enough to knock all the breath out of her body.
On the contrary, it helped her first instinctive attempt to drive her
assailant backward.</p>
<p>After the first gasp of a surprise that was really too over-powering
for a cry, she was never in doubt of the nature of her danger.
She defended herself in the full, clear knowledge of it, from the force
of instinct which is the true source of every great display of energy,
and with a determination which could hardly have been expected from
a girl who, cornered in a dim corridor by the red-faced, stammering
Schomberg, had trembled with shame, disgust, and fear; had drooped,
terrified, before mere words spluttered out odiously by a man who had
never in his life laid his big paw on her.</p>
<p>This new enemy’s attack was simple, straightforward violence.
It was not the slimy, underhand plotting to deliver her up like a slave,
which had sickened her heart and had made her feel in her loneliness
that her oppressors were too many for her. She was no longer alone
in the world now. She resisted without a moment of faltering,
because she was no longer deprived of moral support; because she was
a human being who counted; because she was no longer defending herself
for herself alone; because of the faith that had been born in her -
the faith in the man of her destiny, and perhaps in the Heaven which
had sent him so wonderfully to cross her path.</p>
<p>She had defended herself principally by maintaining a desperate,
murderous clutch on Ricardo’s windpipe, till she felt a sudden
relaxation of the terrific hug in which he stupidly and ineffectually
persisted to hold her. Then with a supreme effort of her arms
and of her suddenly raised knee, she sent him flying against the partition.
The cedar-wood chest stood in the way, and Ricardo, with a thump which
boomed hollow through the whole bungalow, fell on it in a sitting posture,
half strangled, and exhausted not so much by the efforts as by the emotions
of the struggle.</p>
<p>With the recoil of her exerted strength, she too reeled, staggered
back, and sat on the edge of the bed. Out of breath, but calm
and unabashed, she busied herself in readjusting under her arms the
brown and yellow figured Celebes sarong, the tuck of which had come
undone during the fight. Then, folding her bare arms tightly on
her breast, she leaned forward on her crossed legs, determined and without
fear.</p>
<p>Ricardo, leaning forward too, his nervous force gone, crestfallen
like a beast of prey that has missed its spring, met her big grey eyes
looking at him - wide open, observing, mysterious - from under the dark
arches of her courageous eyebrows. Their faces were not a foot
apart. He ceased feeling about his aching throat and dropped the
palms of his hands heavily on his knees. He was not looking at
her bare shoulders, at her strong arms; he was looking down at the floor.
He had lost one of his straw slippers. A chair with a white dress
on it had been overturned. These, with splashes of water on the
floor out of a brusquely misplaced sponge-bath, were the only traces
of the struggle.</p>
<p>Ricardo swallowed twice consciously, as if to make sure of his throat
before he spoke again:</p>
<p>“All right. I never meant to hurt you - though I am no
joker when it comes to it.”</p>
<p>He pulled up the leg of his pyjamas to exhibit the strapped knife.
She glanced at it without moving her head, and murmured with scornful
bitterness:</p>
<p>“Ah, yes - with that thing stuck in my side. In no other
way.”</p>
<p>He shook his head with a shamefaced smile.</p>
<p>“Listen! I am quiet now. Straight - I am.
I don’t need to explain why - you know how it is. And I
can see, now, this wasn’t the way with you.”</p>
<p>She made no sound. Her still, upward gaze had a patient, mournfulness
which troubled him like a suggestion of an inconceivable depth.
He added thoughtfully:</p>
<p>“You are not going to make a noise about this silly try of
mine?”</p>
<p>She moved her head the least bit.</p>
<p>“Jee-miny! You are a wonder - ” he murmured earnestly,
relieved more than she could have guessed.</p>
<p>Of course, if she had attempted to run out, he would have stuck the
knife between her shoulders, to stop her screaming; but all the fat
would have been in the fire, the business utterly spoiled, and the rage
of the governor - especially when he learned the cause - boundless.
A woman that does not make a noise after an attempt of that kind has
tacitly condoned the offence. Ricardo had no small vanities.
But clearly, if she would pass it over like this, then he could not
be so utterly repugnant to her. He felt flattered. And she
didn’t seem afraid of him either. He already felt almost
tender towards the girl - that plucky, fine girl who had not tried to
run screaming from him.</p>
<p>“We shall be friends yet. I don’t give you up.
Don’t think it. Friends as friends can be!” he whispered
confidently. “Jee-miny! You aren’t a tame one.
Neither am I. You will find that out before long.”</p>
<p>He could not know that if she had not run out, it was because that
morning, under the sum of growing uneasiness at the presence of the
incomprehensible visitors, Heyst had confessed to her that it was his
revolver he had been looking for in the night; that it was gone, that
he was a disarmed, defenceless man. She had hardly comprehended
the meaning of his confession. Now she understood better what
it meant. The effort of her self-control, her stillness, impressed
Ricardo. Suddenly she spoke:</p>
<p>“What are you after?”</p>
<p>He did not raise his eyes. His hands reposing on his knees,
his drooping head, something reflective in his pose, suggested the weariness
of a simple soul, the fatigue of a mental rather than physical contest.
He answered the direct question by a direct statement, as if he were
too tired to dissemble:</p>
<p>“After the swag.”</p>
<p>The word was strange to her. The veiled ardour of her grey
gaze from under the dark eyebrows never left Ricardo’s.</p>
<p>“A swag?” she murmured quietly. “What’s
that?”</p>
<p>“Why, swag, plunder - what your gentleman has been pinching
right and left for years - the pieces. Don’t you know?
This!”</p>
<p>Without looking up, he made the motion of counting money into the
palm of his hand. She lowered her eyes slightly to observe this
bit of pantomime, but returned them to his face at once. Then,
in a mere breath:</p>
<p>“How do you know anything about him?” she asked, concealing
her puzzled alarm. “What has it got to do with you?”</p>
<p>“Everything,” was Ricardo’s concise answer, in
a low, emphatic whisper. He reflected that this girl was really
his best hope. Out of the unfaded impression of past violence
there was growing the sort of sentiment which prevents a man from being
indifferent to a woman he has once held in his arms - if even against
her will - and still more so if she has pardoned the outrage.
It becomes then a sort of bond. He felt positively the need to
confide in her - a subtle trait of masculinity, this almost physical
need of trust which can exist side by side with the most brutal readiness
of suspicion.</p>
<p>“It’s a game of grab - see?” he went on, with a
new inflection of intimacy in his murmur. He was looking straight
at her now.</p>
<p>“That fat, tame slug of a gin-slinger, Schomberg, put us up
to it.”</p>
<p>So strong is the impression of helpless and persecuted misery, that
the girl who had fought down a savage assault without faltering could
not completely repress a shudder at the mere sound of the abhorred name.</p>
<p>Ricardo became more rapid and confidential:</p>
<p>“He wants to pay him off - pay both of you, at that; so he
told me. He was hot after you. He would have given all he
had into those hands of yours that have nearly strangled me. But
you couldn’t, eh? Nohow - what?” He paused.
“So, rather than - you followed a gentleman?”</p>
<p>He noticed a slight movement of her head and spoke quickly.</p>
<p>“Same here - rather than be a wage-slave. Only these
foreigners aren’t to be trusted. You’re too good for
him. A man that will rob his best chum?” She raised her
head. He went on, well pleased with his progress, whispering hurriedly:
“Yes. I know all about him. So you may guess how he’s
likely to treat a woman after a bit!”</p>
<p>He did not know that he was striking terror into her breast now.
Still the grey eyes remained fixed on him unmovably watchful, as if
sleepy under the white forehead. She was beginning to understand.
His words conveyed a definite, dreadful meaning to her mind, which he
proceeded to enlighten further in a convinced murmur.</p>
<p>“You and I are made to understand each other. Born alike,
bred alike, I guess. You are not tame. Same here!
You have been chucked out into this rotten world of ’yporcrits.
Same here!”</p>
<p>Her stillness, her appalled stillness, wore to him an air of fascinated
attention. He asked abruptly:</p>
<p>“Where is it?”</p>
<p>She made an effort to breathe out:</p>
<p>“Where’s what?”</p>
<p>His tone expressed excited secrecy.</p>
<p>“The swag - plunder - pieces. It’s a game of grab.
We must have it; but it isn’t easy, and so you will have to lend
a hand. Come! is it kept in the house?”</p>
<p>As often with women, her wits were sharpened by the very terror of
the glimpsed menace. She shook her head negatively.</p>
<p>“No.”</p>
<p>“Sure?”</p>
<p>“Sure,” she said.</p>
<p>“Ay! Thought so. Does your gentleman trust you?”</p>
<p>Again she shook her head.</p>
<p>“Blamed ’yporcrit,” he said feelingly, and then
reflected: “He’s one of the tame ones, ain’t he?”</p>
<p>“You had better find out for yourself,” she said.</p>
<p>“You trust me. I don’t want to die before you and
I have made friends.” This was said with a strange air of
feline gallantry. Then, tentatively: “But he could be brought
to trust you, couldn’t he?”</p>
<p>“Trust me?” she said, in a tone which bordered on despair,
but which he mistook for derision.</p>
<p>“Stand in with us,” he urged. “Give the chuck
to all this blamed ’yporcrisy. Perhaps, without being trusted,
you have managed to find out something already, eh?”</p>
<p>“Perhaps I have,” she uttered with lips that seemed to
her to be freezing fast.</p>
<p>Ricardo now looked at her calm face with something like respect.
He was even a little awed by her stillness, by her economy of words.
Womanlike, she felt the effect she had produced, the effect of knowing
much and of keeping all her knowledge in reserve. So far, somehow,
this had come, about of itself. Thus encouraged, directed in the
way of duplicity, the refuge of the weak, she made a heroically conscious
effort and forced her stiff, cold lips into a smile.</p>
<p>Duplicity - the refuge of the weak and the cowardly, but of the disarmed,
too! Nothing stood between the enchanted dream of her existence
and a cruel catastrophe but her duplicity. It seemed to her that
the man sitting there before her was an unavoidable presence, which
had attended all her life. He was the embodied evil of the world.
She was not ashamed of her duplicity. With a woman’s frank
courage, as soon as she saw that opening she threw herself into it without
reserve, with only one doubt - that of her own strength. She was
appalled by the situation; but already all her aroused femininity, understanding
that whether Heyst loved her or not she loved him, and feeling that
she had brought this on his head, faced the danger with a passionate
desire to defend her own.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h3>CHAPTER THREE</h3>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>To Ricardo the girl had been so unforeseen that he was unable to
bring upon her the light of his critical faculties. Her smile
appeared to him full of promise. He had not expected her to be
what she was. Who, from the talk he had heard, could expect to
meet a girl like this? She was a blooming miracle, he said to
himself, familiarly, yet with a tinge of respect. She was no meat
for the likes of that tame, respectable gin-slinger. Ricardo grew
hot with indignation. Her courage, her physical strength, demonstrated
at the cost of his discomfiture, commanded his sympathy. He felt
himself drawn to her by the proofs of her amazing spirit. Such
a girl! She had a strong soul; and her reflective disposition
to throw over her connection proved that she was no hypocrite.</p>
<p>“Is your gentleman a good shot?” he said, looking down
on the floor again, as if indifferent.</p>
<p>She hardly understood the phrase; but in its form it suggested some
accomplishment. It was safe to whisper an affirmative.</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>“Mine, too - and better than good,” Ricardo murmured,
and then, in a confidential burst: “I am not so good at it, but
I carry a pretty deadly thing about me, all the same!”</p>
<p>He tapped his leg. She was past the stage of shudders now.
Stiff all over, unable even to move her eyes, she felt an awful mental
tension which was like blank forgetfulness. Ricardo tried to influence
her in his own way.</p>
<p>“And my gentleman is not the sort that would drop me.
He ain’t no foreigner; whereas you, with your baron, you don’t
know what’s before you - or, rather, being a woman, you know only
too well. Much better not to wait for the chuck. Pile in
with us and get your share - of the plunder, I mean. You have
some notion about it already.”</p>
<p>She felt that if she as much as hinted by word or sign that there
was no such thing on the island, Heyst’s life wouldn’t be
worth half an hour’s purchase; but all power of combining words
had vanished in the tension of her mind. Words themselves were
too difficult to think of - all except the word “yes,” the
saving word! She whispered it with not a feature of her face moving.
To Ricardo the faint and concise sound proved a cool, reserved assent,
more worth having from that amazing mistress of herself than a thousand
words from any other woman. He thought with exultation that he
had come upon one in a million - in ten millions! His whisper
became frankly entreating.</p>
<p>“That’s good! Now all you’ve got to do is
to make sure where he keeps his swag. Only do be quick about it!
I can’t stand much longer this crawling-on-the-stomach business
so as not to scare your gentleman. What do you think a fellow
is - a reptile?”</p>
<p>She stared without seeing anyone, as a person in the night sits staring
and listening to deadly sounds, to evil incantations. And always
in her head there was that tension of the mind trying to get hold of
something, of a saving idea which seemed to be so near and could not
be captured. Suddenly she seized it. Yes - she had to get
that man out of the house. At that very moment, raised outside,
not very near, but heard distinctly, Heyst’s voice uttered the
words:</p>
<p>“Have you been looking out for me, Wang?”</p>
<p>It was for her like a flash of lightning framed in the darkness which
had beset her on all sides, showing a deadly precipice right under her
feet. With a convulsive movement she sat up straight, but had
no power to rise. Ricardo, on the contrary, was on his feet on
the instant, as noiseless as a cat. His yellow eyes gleamed, gliding
here and there; but he too seemed unable to make another movement.
Only his moustaches stirred visibly, like the feelers of some animal.</p>
<p>Wang’s answer, “<i>Ya tuan</i>,” was heard by the
two in the room, but more faintly. Then Heyst again:</p>
<p>“All right! You may bring the coffee in. Mem Putih
out in the room yet?”</p>
<p>To this question Wang made no answer.</p>
<p>Ricardo’s and the girl’s eyes met, utterly without expression,
all their faculties being absorbed in listening for the first sound
of Heyst’s footsteps, for any sound outside which would mean that
Ricardo’s retreat was cut off. Both understood perfectly
well that Wang must have gone round the house, and that he was now at
the back, making it impossible for Ricardo to slip out unseen that way
before Heyst came in at the front.</p>
<p>A darkling shade settled on the face of the devoted secretary.
Here was the business utterly spoiled! It was the gloom of anger,
and even of apprehension. He would perhaps have made a dash for
it through the back door, if Heyst had not been heard ascending the
front steps. He climbed them slowly, very slowly, like a man who
is discouraged or weary - or simply thoughtful; and Ricardo had a mental
vision of his face, with its martial moustache, the lofty forehead,
the impassive features, and the quiet, meditative eyes. Trapped!
Confound it! After all, perhaps the governor was right.
Women had to be shunned. Fooling with this one had apparently
ruined the whole business. For, trapped as he was he might just
as well kill, since, anyhow, to be seen was to be unmasked. But
he was too fair-minded to be angry with the girl.</p>
<p>Heyst had paused on the veranda, or in the very doorway.</p>
<p>“I shall be shot down like a dog if I ain’t quick,”
Ricardo muttered excitedly to the girl.</p>
<p>He stooped to get hold of his knife; and the next moment would have
hurled himself out through the curtain, nearly, as prompt and fully
as deadly to Heyst as an unexpected thunderbolt. The feel more
than the strength of the girl’s hand, clutching at his shoulder,
checked him. He swung round, crouching with a yellow upward glare.
Ah! Was she turning against him?</p>
<p>He would have stuck his knife into the hollow of her bare throat
if he had not seen her other hand pointing to the window. It was
a long opening, high up, close under the ceiling almost, with a single
pivoting shutter.</p>
<p>While he was still looking at it she moved noiselessly away, picking
up the overturned chair, and placed it under the wall. Then she
looked round; but he didn’t need to be beckoned to. In two
long, tiptoeing strides he was at her side.</p>
<p>“Be quick!” she gasped.</p>
<p>He seized her hand and wrung it with all the force of his dumb gratitude,
as a man does to a chum when there is no time for words. Then
he mounted the chair. Ricardo was short - too short to get over
without a noisy scramble. He hesitated an instant; she, watchful,
bore rigidly on the seat with her beautiful bare arms, while, light
and sure, he used the back of the chair as a ladder. The masses
of her brown hair fell all about her face.</p>
<p>Footsteps resounded in the next room, and Heyst’s voice, not
very loud, called her by name.</p>
<p>“Lena!”</p>
<p>“Yes! In a minute,” she answered with a particular
intonation which she knew would prevent Heyst from coming in at once.</p>
<p>When she looked up, Ricardo had vanished, letting himself down outside
so lightly that she had not heard the slightest noise. She stood
up then, bewildered, frightened, as if awakened from a drugged sleep,
with heavy, downcast, unseeing eyes, her fortitude tired out, her imagination
as if dead within her and unable to keep her fear alive.</p>
<p>Heyst moved about aimlessly in the other room. This sound roused
her exhausted wits. At once she began to think, hear, see; and
what she saw - or rather recognized, for her eyes had been resting on
it all the time - was Ricardo’s straw slipper, lost in the scuffle,
lying near the bath. She had just time to step forward and plant
her foot on it when the curtains shook, and, pushed aside, disclosed
Heyst in the doorway.</p>
<p>Out of the appeased enchantment of the senses she had found with
him, like a sort of bewitched state, his danger brought a sensation
of warmth to her breast. She felt something stir in there, something
profound, like a new sort of life.</p>
<p>The room was in partial darkness, Ricardo having accidentally swung
the pivoted shutter as he went out of the window. Heyst peered
from the doorway.</p>
<p>“Why, you haven’t done your hair yet,” he said.</p>
<p>“I won’t stop to do it now. I shan’t be long,”
she replied steadily, and remained still, feeling Ricardo’s slipper
under the sole of her foot.</p>
<p>Heyst, with a movement of retreat, let the curtain drop slowly.
On the instant she stooped for the slipper, and, with it in her hand,
spun round wildly, looking for some hiding-place; but there was no such
spot in the bare room. The chest, the leather bunk, a dress or
two of hers hanging on pegs - there was no place where the merest hazard
might not guide Heyst’s hand at any moment. Her wildly roaming
eyes were caught by the half-closed window. She ran to it, and
by raising herself on her toes was able to reach the shutter with her
fingertips. She pushed it square, stole back to the middle of
the room, and, turning about, swung her arm, regulating the force of
the throw so as not to let the slipper fly too far out and hit the edge
of the overhanging eaves. It was a task of the nicest judgement
for the muscles of those round arms, still quivering from the deadly
wrestle with a man, for that brain, tense with the excitement of the
situation and for the unstrung nerves flickering darkness before her
eyes. At last the slipper left her hand. As soon as it passed
the opening, it was out of her sight. She listened. She
did not hear it strike anything; it just vanished, as if it had wings
to fly on through the air. Not a sound! It had gone clear.</p>
<p>Her valiant arms hanging close against her side, she stood as if
turned into stone. A faint whistle reached her ears. The
forgetful Ricardo, becoming very much aware of his loss, had been hanging
about in great anxiety, which was relieved by the appearance of the
slipper flying from under the eaves; and now, thoughtfully, he had ventured
a whistle to put her mind at ease.</p>
<p>Suddenly the girl reeled forward. She saved herself from a
fall only by embracing with both arms one of the tall, roughly carved
posts holding the mosquito net above the bed. For a long time
she dung to it, with her forehead leaning against the wood. One
side of her loosened sarong had slipped down as low as her hip.
The long brown tresses of her hair fell in lank wisps, as if wet, almost
black against her white body. Her uncovered flank, damp with the
sweat of anguish and fatigue, gleamed coldly with the immobility of
polished marble in the hot, diffused light falling through the window
above her head - a dim reflection of the consuming, passionate blaze
of sunshine outside, all aquiver with the effort to set the earth on
fire, to burn it to ashes.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h3>CHAPTER FOUR</h3>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>Heyst, seated at the table with his chin on his breast, raised his
head at the faint rustle of Lena’s dress. He was startled
by the dead pallor of her cheeks, by something lifeless in her eyes,
which looked at him strangely, without recognition. But to his
anxious inquiries she answered reassuringly that there was nothing the
matter with her, really. She had felt giddy on rising. She
had even had a moment of faintness, after her bath. She had to
sit down to wait for it to pass. This had made her late dressing.</p>
<p>“I didn’t try to do my hair. I didn’t want
to keep you waiting any longer,” she said.</p>
<p>He was unwilling to press her with questions about her health, since
she seemed to make light of this indisposition. She had not done
her hair, but she had brushed it, and had tied it with a ribbon behind.
With her forehead uncovered, she looked very young, almost a child,
a careworn child; a child with something on its mind.</p>
<p>What surprised Heyst was the non-appearance of Wang. The Chinaman
had always materialized at the precise moment of his service, neither
too soon nor too late. This time the usual miracle failed.
What was the meaning of this?</p>
<p>Heyst raised his voice - a thing he disliked doing. It was
promptly answered from the compound:</p>
<p>“<i>Ada tuan</i>!”</p>
<p>Lena, leaning on her elbow, with her eyes on her plate, did not seem
to hear anything. When Wang entered with a tray, his narrow eyes,
tilted inward by the prominence of salient cheek-bones, kept her under
stealthy observation all the time. Neither the one nor the other
of that white couple paid the slightest attention to him and he withdrew
without having heard them exchange a single word. He squatted
on his heels on the back veranda. His Chinaman’s mind, very
clear but not far-reaching, was made up according to the plain reason
of things, such as it appeared to him in the light of his simple feeling
for self-preservation, untrammelled by any notions of romantic honour
or tender conscience. His yellow hands, lightly clasped, hung
idly between his knees. The graves of Wang’s ancestors were
far away, his parents were dead, his elder brother was a soldier in
the yamen of some Mandarin away in Formosa. No one near by had
a claim on his veneration or his obedience. He had been for years
a labouring restless vagabond. His only tie in the world was the
Alfuro woman, in exchange for whom he had given away some considerable
part of his hard-earned substance; and his duty, in reason, could be
to no one but himself.</p>
<p>The scuffle behind the curtain was a thing of bad augury for that
Number One for whom the Chinaman had neither love nor dislike.
He had been awed enough by that development to hang back with the coffee-pot
till at last the white man was induced to call him in. Wang went
in with curiosity. Certainly, the white woman looked as if she
had been wrestling with a spirit which had managed to tear half her
blood out of her before letting her go. As to the man, Wang had
long looked upon him as being in some sort bewitched; and now he was
doomed. He heard their voices in the room. Heyst was urging
the girl to go and lie down again. He was extremely concerned.
She had eaten nothing.</p>
<p>“The best thing for you. You really must!”</p>
<p>She sat listless, shaking her head from time to time negatively,
as if nothing could be any good. But he insisted; she saw the
beginning of wonder in his eyes, and suddenly gave way.</p>
<p>“Perhaps I had better.”</p>
<p>She did not want to arouse his wonder, which would lead him straight
to suspicion. He must not suspect!</p>
<p>Already, with the consciousness of her love for this man, of that
something rapturous and profound going beyond the mere embrace, there
was born in her a woman’s innate mistrust of masculinity, of that
seductive strength allied to an absurd, delicate shrinking from the
recognition of the naked necessity of facts, which never yet frightened
a woman worthy of the name. She had no plan; but her mind, quieted
down somewhat by the very effort to preserve outward composure for his
sake, perceived that her behaviour had secured, at any rate, a short
period of safety. Perhaps because of the similarity of their miserable
origin in the dregs of mankind, she had understood Ricardo perfectly.
He would keep quiet for a time now. In this momentarily soothing
certitude her bodily fatigue asserted itself, the more overpoweringly
since its cause was not so much the demand on her strength as the awful
suddenness of the stress she had had to meet. She would have tried
to overcome it from the mere instinct of resistance, if it had not been
for Heyst’s alternate pleadings and commands. Before this
eminently masculine fussing she felt the woman’s need to give
way, the sweetness of surrender.</p>
<p>“I will do anything you like,” she said.</p>
<p>Getting up, she was surprised by a wave of languid weakness that
came over her, embracing and enveloping her like warm water, with a
noise in her ears as of a breaking sea.</p>
<p>“You must help me along,” she added quickly.</p>
<p>While he put his arm round her waist - not by any means an uncommon
thing for him to do - she found a special satisfaction in the feeling
of being thus sustained. She abandoned all her weight to that
encircling and protecting pressure, while a thrill went through her
at the sudden thought that it was she who would have to protect him,
to be the defender of a man who was strong enough to lift her bodily,
as he was doing even then in his two arms. For Heyst had done
this as soon as they had crept through the doorway of the room.
He thought it was quicker and simpler to carry her the last step or
two. He had grown really too anxious to be aware of the effort.
He lifted her high and deposited her on the bed, as one lays a child
on its side in a cot. Then he sat down on the edge, masking his
concern with a smile which obtained no response from the dreamy immobility
of her eyes. But she sought his hand, seized it eagerly; and while
she was pressing it with all the force of which she was capable, the
sleep she needed overtook her suddenly, overwhelmingly, as it overtakes
a child in a cot, with her lips parted for a safe, endearing word which
she had thought of but had no time to utter.</p>
<p>The usual flaming silence brooded over Samburan.</p>
<p>“What in the world is this new mystery?” murmured Heyst
to himself, contemplating her deep slumber.</p>
<p>It was so deep, this enchanted sleep, that when some time afterwards
he gently tried to open her fingers and free his hand, he succeeded
without provoking the slightest stir.</p>
<p>“There is some very simple explanation, no doubt,” he
thought, as he stole out into the living-room.</p>
<p>Absent-mindedly he pulled a book out of the top shelf, and sat down
with it; but even after he had opened it on his knee, and had been staring
at the pages for a time, he had not the slightest idea of what it was
about. He stared and stared at the crowded, parallel lines.
It was only when, raising his eyes for no particular reason, he saw
Wang standing motionless on the other side of the table, that he regained
complete control of his faculties.</p>
<p>“Oh, yes,” he said, as if suddenly reminded of a forgotten
appointment of a not particularly welcome sort.</p>
<p>He waited a little, and then, with reluctant curiosity, forced himself
to ask the silent Wang what he had to say. He had some idea that
the matter of the vanished revolver would come up at last; but the guttural
sounds which proceeded from the Chinaman did not refer to that delicate
subject. His speech was concerned with cups, saucers, plates,
forks, and knives. All these things had been put away in the cupboards
on the back veranda, where they belonged, perfectly clean, “all
plopel.” Heyst wondered at the scrupulosity of a man who
was about to abandon him; for he was not surprised to hear Wang conclude
the account of his stewardship with the words:</p>
<p>“I go now.”</p>
<p>“Oh! You go now?” said Heyst, leaning back, his
book on his knees.</p>
<p>“Yes. Me no likee. One man, two man, three man
- no can do! Me go now.”</p>
<p>“What’s frightening you away like this?” asked
Heyst, while through his mind flashed the hope that something enlightening
might come from that being so unlike himself, taking contact with the
world with a simplicity and directness of which his own mind was not
capable. “Why?” he went on. “You are used
to white men. You know them well.”</p>
<p>“Yes. Me savee them,” assented Wang inscrutably.
“Me savee plenty.”</p>
<p>All that he really knew was his own mind. He had made it up
to withdraw himself and the Alfuro woman from the uncertainties of the
relations which were going to establish themselves between those white
men. It was Pedro who had been the first cause of Wang’s
suspicion and fear. The Chinaman had seen wild men. He had
penetrated, in the train of a Chinese pedlar, up one or two of the Bornean
rivers into the country of the Dyaks. He had also been in the
interior of Mindanao, where there are people who live in trees - savages,
no better than animals; but a hairy brute like Pedro, with his great
fangs and ferocious growls, was altogether beyond his conception of
anything that could be looked upon as human. The strong impression
made on him by Pedro was the prime inducement which had led Wang to
purloin the revolver. Reflection on the general situation, and
on the insecurity of Number One, came later, after he had obtained possession
of the revolver and of the box of cartridges out of the table drawer
in the living-room.</p>
<p>“Oh, you savee plenty about white men,” Heyst went on
in a slightly bantering tone, after a moment of silent reflection in
which he had confessed to himself that the recovery of the revolver
was not to be thought of, either by persuasion or by some more forcible
means. “You speak in that fashion, but you are frightened
of those white men over there.”</p>
<p>“Me no flightened,” protested Wang raucously, throwing
up his head - which gave to his throat a more strained, anxious appearance
than ever. “Me no likee,” he added in a quieter tone.
“Me velly sick.”</p>
<p>He put his hand over the region under the breast-bone.</p>
<p>“That,” said Heyst, serenely positive, “belong
one piecee lie. That isn’t proper man-talk at all.
And after stealing my revolver, too!”</p>
<p>He had suddenly decided to speak about it, because this frankness
could not make the situation much worse than it was. He did not
suppose for a moment that Wang had the revolver anywhere about his person;
and after having thought the matter over, he had arrived at the conclusion
that the Chinaman never meant to use the weapon against him. After
a slight start, because the direct charge had taken him unawares, Wang
tore open the front of his jacket with a convulsive show of indignation.</p>
<p>“No hab got. Look see!” he mouthed in pretended
anger.</p>
<p>He slapped his bare chest violently; he uncovered his very ribs,
all astir with the panting of outraged virtue; his smooth stomach heaved
with indignation. He started his wide blue breeches flapping about
his yellow calves. Heyst watched him quietly.</p>
<p>“I never said you had it on you,” he observed, without
raising his voice; “but the revolver is gone from where I kept
it.”</p>
<p>“Me no savee levolvel,” Wang said obstinately.</p>
<p>The book lying open on Heyst’s knee slipped suddenly and he
made a sharp movement to catch it up. Wang was unable to see the
reason of this because of the table, and leaped away from what seemed
to him a threatening symptom. When Heyst looked up, the Chinaman
was already at the door facing the room, not frightened, but alert.</p>
<p>“What’s the matter?” asked Heyst.</p>
<p>Wang nodded his shaven head significantly at the curtain closing
the doorway of the bedroom.</p>
<p>“Me no likee,” he repeated.</p>
<p>“What the devil do you mean?” Heyst was genuinely amazed.
“Don’t like what?”</p>
<p>Wang pointed a long lemon-coloured finger at the motionless folds.</p>
<p>“Two,” he said.</p>
<p>“Two what? I don’t understand.”</p>
<p>“Suppose you savee, you no like that fashion. Me savee
plenty. Me go now.”</p>
<p>Heyst had risen from his chair, but Wang kept his ground in the doorway
for a little longer. His almond-shaped eyes imparted to his face
an expression of soft and sentimental melancholy. The muscles
of his throat moved visibly while he uttered a distinct and guttural
“Goodbye” and vanished from Number One’s sight.</p>
<p>The Chinaman’s departure altered the situation. Heyst
reflected on what would be best to do in view of that fact. For
a long time he hesitated; then, shrugging his shoulders wearily, he
walked out on the veranda, down the steps, and continued at a steady
gait, with a thoughtful mien, in the direction of his guests’
bungalow. He wanted to make an important communication to them,
and he had no other object - least of all to give them the shock of
a surprise call. Nevertheless, their brutish henchman not being
on watch, it was Heyst’s fate to startle Mr. Jones and his secretary
by his sudden appearance in the doorway. Their conversation must
have been very interesting to prevent them from hearing the visitor’s
approach. In the dim room - the shutters were kept constantly
closed against the heat - Heyst saw them start apart. It was Mr.
Jones who spoke:</p>
<p>“Ah, here you are again! Come in, come in!”</p>
<p>Heyst, taking his hat off in the doorway, entered the room.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h3>CHAPTER FIVE</h3>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>Waking up suddenly, Lena looked, without raising her head from the
pillow, at the room in which she was alone. She got up quickly,
as if to counteract the awful sinking of her heart by the vigorous use
of her limbs. But this sinking was only momentary. Mistress
of herself from pride, from love, from necessity, and also because of
a woman’s vanity in self-sacrifice, she met Heyst, returning from
the strangers’ bungalow, with a dear glance and a smile.</p>
<p>The smile he managed to answer, but, noticing that he avoided her
eyes, she composed her lips and lowered her gaze. For the same
reason she hastened to speak to him in a tone of indifference, which
she put on without effort, as if she had grown adept in duplicity since
sunrise.</p>
<p>“You have been over there again?”</p>
<p>“I have. I thought - but you had better know first that
we have lost Wang for good.”</p>
<p>She repeated “For good?” as if she had not understood.</p>
<p>“For good or evil - I shouldn’t know which if you were
to ask me. He has dismissed himself. He’s gone.”</p>
<p>“You expected him to go, though, didn’t you?”</p>
<p>Heyst sat down on the other side of the table.</p>
<p>“Yes. I expected it as soon as I discovered that he had
annexed my revolver. He says he hasn’t taken it. That’s
untrue of course. A Chinaman would not see the sense of confessing
under any circumstances. To deny any charge is a principle of
right conduct; but he hardly expected to be believed. He was a
little enigmatic at the last, Lena. He startled me.”</p>
<p>Heyst paused. The girl seemed absorbed in her own thoughts.</p>
<p>“He startled me,” I repeated Heyst. She noted the
anxiety in his tone, and turned her head slightly to look at him across
the table.</p>
<p>“It must have been something - to startle you,” she said.
In the depth of her parted lips, like a ripe pomegranate, there was
a gleam of white teeth.</p>
<p>“It was only a single word - and some of his gestures.
He had been making a good deal of noise. I wonder we didn’t
wake you up. How soundly you can sleep! I say, do you feel
all right now?”</p>
<p>“As fresh as can be,” she said, treating him to another
deep gleam of a smile. “I heard no noise, and I’m
glad of it. The way he talks in his harsh voice frightens me.
I don’t like all these foreign people.”</p>
<p>“It was just before he went away - bolted out, I should say.
He nodded and pointed at the curtain to our room. He knew you
were there, of course. He seemed to think - he seemed to try to
give me to understand that you were in special - well, danger.
You know how he talks.”</p>
<p>She said nothing; she made no sound, only the faint tinge of colour
ebbed out of her cheek.</p>
<p>“Yes,” Heyst went on. “He seemed to try to
warn me. That must have been it Did he imagine I had forgotten
your existence? The only word he said was ‘two’.
It sounded so, at least. Yes, ‘two’ - and that he
didn’t like it.”</p>
<p>“What does that mean?” she whispered.</p>
<p>“We know what the word two means, don’t we, Lena?
We are two. Never were such a lonely two out of the world, my
dear! He might have tried to remind me that he himself has a woman
to look after. Why are you so pale, Lena?”</p>
<p>“Am I pale?” she asked negligently.</p>
<p>“You are.” Heyst was really anxious.</p>
<p>“Well, it isn’t from fright,” she protested truthfully.</p>
<p>Indeed, what she felt was a sort of horror which left her absolutely
in the full possession of all her faculties; more difficult to bear,
perhaps, for that reason, but not paralysing to her fortitude.</p>
<p>Heyst in his turn smiled at her.</p>
<p>“I really don’t know that there is any reason to be frightened.”</p>
<p>“I mean I am not frightened for myself.”</p>
<p>“I believe you are very plucky,” he said. The colour
had returned to her face. “I” continued Heyst, “am
so rebellious to outward impressions that I can’t say that much
about myself. I don’t react with sufficient distinctness.”
He changed his tone. “You know I went to see those men first
thing this morning.”</p>
<p>“I know. Be careful!” she murmured.</p>
<p>“I wonder how one can be careful! I had a long talk with
- but I don’t believe you have seen them. One of them is
a fantastically thin, long person, apparently ailing; I shouldn’t
wonder if he were really so. He makes rather a point of it in
a mysterious manner. I imagine he must have suffered from tropical
fevers, but not so much as he tries to make out. He’s what
people would call a gentleman. He seemed on the point of volunteering
a tale of his adventures - for which I didn’t ask him - but remarked
that it was a long story; some other time, perhaps.</p>
<p>“‘I suppose you would like to know who I am?’ he
asked me.</p>
<p>“I told him I would leave it to him, in a tone which, between
gentlemen, could have left no doubt in his mind. He raised himself
on his elbow - he was lying down on the camp-bed - and said:</p>
<p>“‘I am he who is - ’”</p>
<p>Lena seemed not to be listening; but when Heyst paused, she turned
her head quickly to him. He took it for a movement of inquiry,
but in this he was wrong. A great vagueness enveloped her impressions,
but all her energy was concentrated on the struggle that she wanted
to take upon herself, in a great exaltation of love and self-sacrifice,
which is woman’s sublime faculty; altogether on herself, every
bit of it, leaving him nothing, not even the knowledge of what she did,
if that were possible. She would have liked to lock him up by
some stratagem. Had she known of some means to put him to sleep
for days she would have used incantations or philtres without misgivings.
He seemed to her too good for such contacts, and not sufficiently equipped.
This last feeling had nothing to do with the material fact of the revolver
being stolen. She could hardly appreciate that fact at its full
value.</p>
<p>Observing her eyes fixed and as if sightless - for the concentration
on her purpose took all expression out of them - Heyst imagined it to
be the effect of a great mental effort.</p>
<p>“No use asking me what he meant, Lena; I don’t know,
and I did not ask him. The gentleman, as I have told you before,
seems devoted to mystification. I said nothing, and he laid down
his head again on the bundle of rugs he uses for a pillow. He
affects a state of great weakness, but I suspect that he’s perfectly
capable of leaping to his feet if he likes. Having been ejected,
he said, from his proper social sphere because he had refused to conform
to certain usual conventions, he was a rebel now, and was coming and
going up and down the earth. As I really did not want to listen
to all this nonsense, I told him that I had heard that sort of story
about somebody else before. His grin is really ghastly.
He confessed that I was very far from the sort of man he expected to
meet. Then he said:</p>
<p>“‘As to me, I am no blacker than the gentleman you are
thinking of, and I have neither more nor less determination.’”</p>
<p>Heyst looked across the table at Lena. Propped on her elbows,
and holding her head in both hands, she moved it a little with an air
of understanding.</p>
<p>“Nothing could be plainer, eh?” said Heyst grimly.
“Unless, indeed, this is his idea of a pleasant joke; for, when
he finished speaking, he burst into a loud long laugh. I didn’t
join him!”</p>
<p>“I wish you had,” she breathed out.</p>
<p>“I didn’t join him. It did not occur to me.
I am not much of a diplomatist. It would probably have been wise,
for, indeed, I believe he had said more than he meant to say, and was
trying to take it back by this affected jocularity. Yet when one
thinks of it, diplomacy without force in the background is but a rotten
reed to lean upon. And I don’t know whether I could have
done it if I had thought of it. I don’t know. It would
have been against the grain. Could I have done it? I have
lived too long within myself, watching the mere shadows and shades of
life. To deceive a man on some issue which could be decided quicker,
by his destruction while one is disarmed, helpless, without even the
power to run away - no! That seems to me too degrading.
And yet I have you here. I have your very existence in my keeping.
What do you say, Lena? Would I be capable of throwing you to the
lions to save my dignity?”</p>
<p>She got up, walked quickly round the table, posed herself on his
knees lightly, throwing one arm round his neck, and whispered in his
ear:</p>
<p>“You may if you like. And may be that’s the only
way I would consent to leave you. For something like that.
If it were something no bigger than your little finger.”</p>
<p>She gave him a light kiss on the lips and was gone before he could
detain her. She regained her seat and propped her elbows again
on the table. It was hard to believe that she had moved from the
spot at all. The fleeting weight of her body on his knees, the
hug round his neck, the whisper in his ear, the kiss on his lips, might
have been the unsubstantial sensations of a dream invading the reality
of waking life; a sort of charming mirage in the barren aridity of his
thoughts. He hesitated to speak till she said, businesslike:</p>
<p>“Well. And what then?”</p>
<p>Heyst gave a start.</p>
<p>“Oh, yes. I didn’t join him. I let him have
his laugh out by himself. He was shaking all over, like a merry
skeleton, under a cotton sheet he was covered with - I believe in order
to conceal the revolver that he had in his right hand. I didn’t
see it, but I have a distinct impression it was there in his fist.
As he had not been looking at me for some time, but staring into a certain
part of the room, I turned my head and saw a hairy, wild sort of creature
which they take about with them, squatting on its heels in the angle
of the walls behind me. He wasn’t there when I came in.
I didn’t like the notion of that watchful monster behind my back.
If I had been less at their mercy, I should certainly have changed my
position. As things are now, to move would have been a mere weakness.
So I remained where I was. The gentleman on the bed said he could
assure me of one thing; and that was that his presence here was no more
morally reprehensible than mine.</p>
<p>“‘We pursue the same ends,’ he said, ‘only
perhaps I pursue them with more openness than you - with more simplicity.’</p>
<p>“That’s what he said,” Heyst went on, after looking
at Lena in a sort of inquiring silence. “I asked him if
he knew beforehand that I was living here; but he only gave me a ghastly
grin. I didn’t press him for an answer, Lena. I thought
I had better not.”</p>
<p>On her smooth forehead a ray of light always seemed to rest.
Her loose hair, parted in the middle, covered the hands sustaining her
head. She seemed spellbound by the interest of the narrative.
Heyst did not pause long. He managed to continue his relation
smoothly enough, beginning afresh with a piece of comment.</p>
<p>“He would have lied impudently - and I detest being told a
lie. It makes me uncomfortable. It’s pretty clear
that I am not fitted for the affairs of the wide world. But I
did not want him to think that I accepted his presence too meekly, so
I said that his comings or goings on the earth were none of my business,
of course, except that I had a natural curiosity to know when he would
find it convenient to resume them.</p>
<p>“He asked me to look at the state he was in. Had I been
all alone here, as they think I am, I should have laughed at him.
But not being alone - I say, Lena, you are sure you haven’t shown
yourself where you could be seen?”</p>
<p>“Certain,” she said promptly.</p>
<p>He looked relieved.</p>
<p>“You understand, Lena, that when I ask you to keep so strictly
out of sight, it is because you are not for them to look at - to talk
about. My poor Lena! I can’t help that feeling.
Do you understand it?”</p>
<p>She moved her head slightly in a manner that was neither affirmative
nor negative.</p>
<p>“People will have to see me some day,” she said.</p>
<p>“I wonder how long it will be possible for you to keep out
of sight?” murmured Heyst thoughtfully. He bent over the
table. “Let me finish telling you. I asked him point
blank what it was he wanted with me; he appeared extremely unwilling
to come to the point. It was not really so pressing as all that,
he said. His secretary, who was in fact his partner, was not present,
having gone down to the wharf to look at their boat. Finally the
fellow proposed that he should put off a certain communication he had
to make till the day after tomorrow. I agreed; but I also told
him that I was not at all anxious to hear it. I had no conception
in what way his affairs could concern me.</p>
<p>“‘Ah, Mr. Heyst,’ he said, ‘you and I have
much more in common than you think.’”</p>
<p>Heyst struck the table with his fist unexpectedly.</p>
<p>“It was a jeer; I am sure it was!”</p>
<p>He seemed ashamed of this outburst and smiled faintly into the motionless
eyes of the girl.</p>
<p>“What could I have done - even if I had had my pockets full
of revolvers?”</p>
<p>She made an appreciative sign.</p>
<p>“Killing’s a sin, sure enough,” she murmured.</p>
<p>“I went away,” Heyst continued. “I left him
there, lying on his side with his eyes shut. When I got back here,
I found you looking ill. What was it, Lena? You did give
me a scare! Then I had the interview with Wang while you rested.
You were sleeping quietly. I sat here to consider all these things
calmly, to try to penetrate their inner meaning and their outward bearing.
It struck me that the two days we have before us have the character
of a sort of truce. The more I thought of it, the more I felt
that this was tacitly understood between Jones and myself. It
was to our advantage, if anything can be of advantage to people caught
so completely unawares as we are. Wang was gone. He, at
any rate, had declared himself, but as I did not know what he might
take it into his head to do, I thought I had better warn these people
that I was no longer responsible for the Chinaman. I did not want
Mr. Wang making some move which would precipitate the action against
us. Do you see my point of view?”</p>
<p>She made a sign that she did. All her soul was wrapped in her
passionate determination, in an exalted belief in herself - in the contemplation
of her amazing opportunity to win the certitude, the eternity, of that
man’s love.</p>
<p>“I never saw two men,” Heyst was saying, “more
affected by a piece of information than Jones and his secretary, who
was back in the bungalow by then. They had not heard me come up.
I told them I was sorry to intrude.</p>
<p>“‘Not at all! Not at all,’ said Jones.</p>
<p>“The secretary backed away into a corner and watched me like
a wary cat. In fact, they both were visibly on their guard.</p>
<p>“‘I am come,’ I told them, ‘to let you know
that my servant has deserted - gone off.’</p>
<p>“At first they looked at each other as if they had not understood
what I was saying; but very soon they seemed quite concerned.</p>
<p>“‘You mean to say your Chink’s cleared out?’
said Ricardo, coming forward from his corner. ‘Like this
- all at once? What did he do it for?’</p>
<p>“I said that a Chinaman had always a simple and precise reason
for what he did, but that to get such a reason out of him was not so
easy. All he told me, I said, was that he “didn’t
like”.</p>
<p>“They were extremely disturbed at this. Didn’t
like what, they wanted to know.</p>
<p>“‘The looks of you and your party,’ I told Jones.</p>
<p>“‘Nonsense!’ he cried out, and immediately Ricardo,
the short man, struck in.</p>
<p>“‘Told you that? What did he take you for, sir
- an infant? Or do you take us for kids? - meaning no offence.
Come, I bet you will tell us next that you’ve missed something.’”</p>
<p>“‘I didn’t mean to tell you anything of the sort,’
I said, ‘but as a matter of fact it is so.’</p>
<p>“He slapped his thigh.</p>
<p>“‘Thought so. What do you think of this trick,
governor?’</p>
<p>“Jones made some sort of sign to him, and then that extraordinary
cat-faced associate proposed that he and their servant should come out
and help me catch or kill the Chink.</p>
<p>“My object, I said, was not to get assistance. I did
not intend to chase the Chinaman. I had come only to warn them
that he was armed, and that he really objected to their presence on
the island. I wanted them to understand that I was not responsible
for anything that might happen.</p>
<p>“‘Do you mean to tell us,’ asked Ricardo, ‘that
there is a crazy Chink with a six-shooter broke loose on this island,
and that you don’t care?’</p>
<p>“Strangely enough they did not seem to believe my story.
They were exchanging significant looks all the time. Ricardo stole
up close to his principal; they had a confabulation together, and then
something happened which I did not expect. It’s rather awkward,
too.</p>
<p>“Since I would not have their assistance to get hold of the
Chink and recover my property, the least they could do was to send me
their servant. It was Jones who said that, and Ricardo backed
up the idea.</p>
<p>“‘Yes, yes - let our Pedro cook for all hands in your
compound! He isn’t so bad as he looks. That’s
what we will do!’</p>
<p>“He bustled out of the room to the veranda, and let out an
ear-splitting whistle for their Pedro. Having heard the brute’s
answering howl, Ricardo ran back into the room.</p>
<p>“‘Yes, Mr. Heyst. This will do capitally, Mr. Heyst.
You just direct him to do whatever you are accustomed to have done for
you in the way of attendance. See?’</p>
<p>“Lena, I confess to you that I was taken completely by surprise.
I had not expected anything of the sort. I don’t know what
I expected. I am so anxious about you that I can’t keep
away from these infernal scoundrels. And only two months ago I
would not have cared. I would have defied their scoundrelism as
much as I have scorned all the other intrusions of life. But now
I have you! You stole into my life, and - ”</p>
<p>Heyst drew a deep breath. The girl gave him a quick, wide-eyed
glance.</p>
<p>“Ah! That’s what you are thinking of - that you
have me!”</p>
<p>It was impossible to read the thoughts veiled by her steady grey
eyes, to penetrate the meaning of her silences, her words, and even
her embraces. He used to come out of her very arms with the feeling
of a baffled man.</p>
<p>“If I haven’t you, if you are not here, then where are
you?” cried Heyst. “You understand me very well.”</p>
<p>She shook her head a little. Her red lips, at which he looked
now, her lips as fascinating as the voice that came out of them, uttered
the words:</p>
<p>“I hear what you say; but what does it mean?”</p>
<p>“It means that I could lie and perhaps cringe for your sake.”</p>
<p>“No! No! Don’t you ever do that,” she
said in haste, while her eyes glistened suddenly. “You would
hate me for it afterwards!”</p>
<p>“Hate you?” repeated Heyst, who had recalled his polite
manner. “No! You needn’t consider the extremity
of the improbable - as yet. But I will confess to you that I -
how shall I call it? - that I dissembled. First I dissembled my
dismay at the unforeseen result of my idiotic diplomacy. Do you
understand, my dear girl?”</p>
<p>It was evident that she did not understand the word. Heyst
produced his playful smile, which contrasted oddly with the worried
character of his whole expression. His temples seemed to have
sunk in, his face looked a little leaner.</p>
<p>“A diplomatic statement, Lena, is a statement of which everything
is true, but the sentiment which seems to prompt it. I have never
been diplomatic in my relation with mankind - not from regard for its
feelings, but from a certain regard for my own. Diplomacy doesn’t
go well with consistent contempt. I cared little for life and
still less for death.”</p>
<p>“Don’t talk like that!”</p>
<p>“I dissembled my extreme longing to take these wandering scoundrels
by their throats,” he went on. “I have only two hands
- I wish I had a hundred to defend you - and there were three throats.
By that time their Pedro was in the room too. Had he seen me engaged
with their two throats, he would have been at mine like a fierce dog,
or any other savage and faithful brute. I had no difficulty in
dissembling my longing for the vulgar, stupid, and hopeless argument
of fight. I remarked that I really did not want a servant.
I couldn’t think of depriving them of their man’s services;
but they would not hear me. They had made up their minds.</p>
<p>“‘We shall send him over at once,’ Ricardo said,
‘to start cooking dinner for everybody. I hope you won’t
mind me coming to eat it with you in your bungalow; and we will send
the governor’s dinner over to him here.’</p>
<p>“I could do nothing but hold my tongue or bring on a quarrel
- some manifestation of their dark purpose, which we have no means to
resist. Of course, you may remain invisible this evening; but
with that atrocious-brute prowling all the time at the back of the house,
how long can your presence be concealed from these men?”</p>
<p>Heyst’s distress could be felt in his silence. The girl’s
head, sustained by her hands buried in the thick masses of her hair,
had a perfect immobility.</p>
<p>“You are certain you have not been seen so far?” he asked
suddenly.</p>
<p>The motionless head spoke.</p>
<p>“How can I be certain? You told me you wanted me to keep
out of the way. I kept out of the way. I didn’t ask
your reason. I thought you didn’t want people to know that
you had a girl like me about you.”</p>
<p>“What? Ashamed?” cried Heyst.</p>
<p>“It isn’t what’s right, perhaps - I mean for you
- is it?”</p>
<p>Heyst lifted his hands, reproachfully courteous.</p>
<p>“I look upon it as so very much right that I couldn’t
bear the idea of any other than sympathetic, respectful eyes resting
on you. I disliked and mistrusted these fellows from the first.
Didn’t you understand?”</p>
<p>“Yes; I did keep out of sight,” she said.</p>
<p>A silence fell. At last Heyst stirred slightly.</p>
<p>“All this is of very little importance now,” he said
with a sigh. “This is a question of something infinitely
worse than mere looks and thoughts, however base and contemptible.
As I have told you, I met Ricardo’s suggestions by silence.
As I was turning away he said:</p>
<p>“‘If you happen to have the key of that store-room of
yours on you, Mr. Heyst, you may just as well let me have it; I will
give it to our Pedro.’</p>
<p>“I had it on me, and I tendered it to him without speaking.
The hairy creature was at the door by then, and caught the key, which
Ricardo threw to him, better than any trained ape could have done.
I came away. All the time I had been thinking anxiously of you,
whom I had left asleep, alone here, and apparently ill.”</p>
<p>Heyst interrupted himself, with a listening turn of his head.
He had heard the faint sound of sticks being snapped in the compound.
He rose and crossed the room to look out of the back door.</p>
<p>“And here the creature is,” he said, returning to the
table. “Here he is, already attending to the fire.
Oh, my dear Lena!”</p>
<p>She had followed him with her eyes. She watched him go out
on the front veranda cautiously. He lowered stealthily a couple
of screens that hung between the column, and remained outside very still,
as if interested by something on the open ground. Meantime she
had risen in her turn, to take a peep into the compound. Heyst,
glancing over his shoulder, saw her returning to her seat. He
beckoned to her, and she continued to move, crossing the shady room,
pure and bright in her white dress, her hair loose, with something of
a sleep-walker in her unhurried motion, in her extended hand, in the
sightless effect of her grey eyes luminous in the half-light.
He had never seen such an expression in her face before. It had
dreaminess in it, intense attention, and something like sternness.
Arrested in the doorway by Heyst’s extended arm, she seemed to
wake up, flushed faintly - and this flush, passing off, carried away
with it the strange transfiguring mood. With a courageous gesture
she pushed back the heavy masses of her hair. The light clung
to her forehead. Her delicate nostrils quivered. Heyst seized
her arm and whispered excitedly:</p>
<p>“Slip out here, quickly! The screens will conceal you.
Only you must mind the stair-space. They are actually out - I
mean the other two. You had better see them before you - ”</p>
<p>She made a barely perceptible movement of recoil, checked at once,
and stood still. Heyst released her arm.</p>
<p>“Yes, perhaps I had better,” she said with unnatural
deliberation, and stepped out on the veranda to stand close by his side.</p>
<p>Together, one on each side of the screen, they peeped between the
edge of the canvas and the veranda-post entwined with creepers.
A great heat ascended from the sun-smitten ground, in an ever-rising
wave, as if from some secret store of earth’s fiery heart; for
the sky was growing cooler already, and the sun had declined sufficiently
for the shadows of Mr. Jones and his henchman to be projected towards
the bungalow side by side - one infinitely slender, the other short
and broad.</p>
<p>The two visitors stood still and gazed. To keep up the fiction
of his invalidism, Mr. Jones, the gentleman, leaned on the arm of Ricardo,
the secretary, the top of whose hat just came up to his governor’s
shoulder.</p>
<p>“Do you see them?” Heyst whispered into the girl’s
ear. “Here they are, the envoys of the outer world.
Here they are before you - evil intelligence, instinctive savagery,
arm in arm. The brute force is at the back. A trio of fitting
envoys perhaps - but what about the welcome? Suppose I were armed,
could I shoot these two down where they stand? Could I?”</p>
<p>Without moving her head, the girl felt for Heyst’s hand, pressed
it and thereafter did not let it go. He continued, bitterly playful:</p>
<p>“I don’t know. I don’t think so. There
is a strain in me which lays me under an insensate obligation to avoid
even the appearance of murder. I have never pulled a trigger or
lifted my hand on a man, even in self-defence.”</p>
<p>The suddenly tightened grip of her hand checked him.</p>
<p>“They are making a move,” she murmured.</p>
<p>“Can they be thinking of coming here?” Heyst wondered
anxiously.</p>
<p>“No, they aren’t coming this way,” she said; and
there was another pause. “They are going back to their house,”
she reported finally.</p>
<p>After watching them a little longer, she let go Heyst’s hand
and moved away from the screen. He followed her into the room.</p>
<p>“You have seen them now,” he began. “Think
what it was to me to see them land in the dusk, fantasms from the sea
- apparitions, chimeras! And they persist. That’s
the worst of it - they persist. They have no right to be - but
they are. They ought to have aroused my fury. But I have
refined everything away by this time - anger, indignation, scorn itself.
Nothing’s left but disgust. Since you have told me of that
abominable calumny, it has become immense - it extends even to myself.”
He looked up at her.</p>
<p>“But luckily I have you. And if only Wang had, not carried
off that miserable revolver - yes, Lena, here we are, we two!”</p>
<p>She put both her hands on his shoulders and looked straight into
his eyes. He returned her penetrating gaze. It baffled him.
He could not pierce the grey veil of her eyes; but the sadness of her
voice thrilled him profoundly.</p>
<p>“You are not reproaching me?” she asked slowly.</p>
<p>“Reproach? What a word between us! It could only
be myself - but the mention of Wang has given me an idea. I have
been, not exactly cringing, not exactly lying, but still dissembling.
You have been hiding yourself, to please me, but still you have been
hiding. All this is very dignified. Why shouldn’t
we try begging now? A noble art? Yes. Lena, we must
go out together. I couldn’t think of leaving you alone,
and I must - yes, I must speak to Wang. We shall go and seek that
man, who knows what he wants and how to secure what he wants.
We will go at once!”</p>
<p>“Wait till I put my hair up,” she agreed instantly, and
vanished behind the curtain.</p>
<p>When the curtain had fallen behind her, she turned her head back
with an expression of infinite and tender concern for him - for him
whom she could never hope to understand, and whom she was afraid she
could never satisfy, as if her passion were of a hopelessly lower quality,
unable to appease some exalted and delicate desire of his superior soul.
In a couple of minutes she reappeared. They left the house by
the door of the compound, and passed within three feet of the thunderstruck
Pedro, without even looking in his direction. He rose from stooping
over a fire of sticks, and, balancing himself clumsily, uncovered his
enormous fangs in gaping astonishment. Then suddenly he set off
rolling on his bandy legs to impart to his masters the astonishing discovery
of a woman.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h3>CHAPTER SIX</h3>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>As luck would have it, Ricardo was lounging alone on the veranda
of the former counting-house. He scented some new development
at once, and ran down to meet the trotting, bear-like figure.
The deep, growling noises it made, though they had only a very remote
resemblance to the Spanish language, or indeed to any sort of human
speech, were from long practice quite intelligible to Mr. Jones’s
secretary. Ricardo was rather surprised. He had imagined
that the girl would continue to keep out of sight. That line apparently
was given up. He did not mistrust her. How could he?
Indeed, he could not think of her existence calmly.</p>
<p>He tried to keep her image out of his mind so that he should be able
to use its powers with some approach to that coolness which the complex
nature of the situation demanded from him, both for his own sake and
as the faithful follower of plain Mr. Jones, gentleman.</p>
<p>He collected his wits and thought. This was a change of policy,
probably on the part of Heyst. If so, what could it mean?
A deep fellow! Unless it was her doing; in which case - h’m
- all right. Must be. She would know what she was doing.
Before him Pedro, lifting his feet alternately, swayed to and fro sideways
- his usual attitude of expectation. His little red eyes, lost
in the mass of hair, were motionless. Ricardo stared into them
with calculated contempt and said in a rough, angry voice:</p>
<p>“Woman! Of course there is. We know that without
you!” He gave the tame monster a push. “Git!
<i>Vamos</i>! Waddle! Get back and cook the dinner.
Which way did they go, then?”</p>
<p>Pedro extended a huge, hairy forearm to show the direction, and went
off on his bandy legs. Advancing a few steps, Ricardo was just
in time to see, above some bushes, two white helmets moving side by
side in the clearing. They disappeared. Now that he had
managed to keep Pedro from informing the governor that there was a woman
on the island, he could indulge in speculation as to the movements of
these people. His attitude towards Mr. Jones had undergone a spiritual
change, of which he himself was not yet fully aware.</p>
<p>That morning, before tiffin, after his escape from the Heyst bungalow,
completed in such an inspiring way by the recovery of the slipper, Ricardo
had made his way to their allotted house, reeling as he ran, his head
in a whirl. He was wildly excited by visions of inconceivable
promise. He waited to compose himself before he dared to meet
the governor. On entering the room, he found Mr. Jones sitting
on the camp bedstead like a tailor on his board, cross-legged, his long
back against the wall.</p>
<p>“I say, sir. You aren’t going to tell me you are
bored?”</p>
<p>“Bored! No! Where the devil have you been all this
time?”</p>
<p>“Observing - watching - nosing around. What else?
I knew you had company. Have you talked freely, sir?”</p>
<p>“Yes, I have,” muttered Mr. Jones.</p>
<p>“Not downright plain, sir?”</p>
<p>“No. I wished you had been here. You loaf all the
morning, and now you come in out of breath. What’s the matter?”</p>
<p>“I haven’t been wasting my time out there,” said
Ricardo. “Nothing’s the matter. I - I - might
have hurried a bit.” He was in truth still panting; only
it was not with running, but with the tumult of thoughts and sensations
long repressed, which had been set free by the adventure of the morning.
He was almost distracted by them now. He forgot himself in the
maze of possibilities threatening and inspiring. “And so
you had a long talk?” he said, to gain time.</p>
<p>“Confound you! The sun hasn’t affected your head,
has it? Why are you staring at me like a basilisk?”</p>
<p>“Beg pardon, sir. Wasn’t aware I stared,”
Ricardo apologized good-humouredly. “The sun might well
affect a thicker skull than mine. It blazes. Phew!
What do you think a fellow is, sir - a salamander?”</p>
<p>“You ought to have been here,” observed Mr. Jones.</p>
<p>“Did the beast give any signs of wanting to prance?”
asked Ricardo quickly, with absolutely genuine anxiety. “It
wouldn’t do, sir. You must play him easy for at least a
couple of days, sir. I have a plan. I have a notion that
I can find out a lot in a couple of days.”</p>
<p>“You have? In what way?”</p>
<p>“Why, by watching,” Ricardo answered slowly.</p>
<p>Mr Jones grunted.</p>
<p>“Nothing new, that. Watch, eh? Why not pray a little,
too?”</p>
<p>“Ha, ha, ha! That’s a good one,” burst out
the secretary, fixing Mr. Jones with mirthless eyes.</p>
<p>The latter dropped the subject indolently.</p>
<p>“Oh, you may be certain of at least two days,” he said.</p>
<p>Ricardo recovered himself. His eyes gleamed voluptuously.</p>
<p>“We’ll pull this off yet - clean - whole - right through,
if you will only trust me, sir.”</p>
<p>“I am trusting you right enough,” said Mr. Jones.
“It’s your interest, too.”</p>
<p>And, indeed, Ricardo was truthful enough in his statement.
He did absolutely believe in success now. But he couldn’t
tell his governor that he had intelligences in the enemy’s camp.
It wouldn’t do to tell him of the girl. Devil only knew
what he would do if he learned there was a woman about. And how
could he begin to tell of it? He couldn’t confess his sudden
escapade.</p>
<p>“We’ll pull it off, sir,” he said, with perfectly
acted cheerfulness. He experienced gusts of awful joy expanding
in his heart and hot like a fanned flame.</p>
<p>“We must,” pronounced Mr. Jones. “This thing,
Martin, is not like our other tries. I have a peculiar feeling
about this. It’s a different thing. It’s a sort
of test.”</p>
<p>Ricardo was impressed by the governor’s manner; for the first
time a hint of passion could be detected in him. But also a word
he used, the word “test,” had struck him as particularly
significant somehow. It was the last word uttered during that
morning’s conversation. Immediately afterwards Ricardo went
out of the room. It was impossible for him to keep still.
An elation in which an extraordinary softness mingled with savage triumph
would not allow it. It prevented his thinking, also. He
walked up and down the veranda far into the afternoon, eyeing the bungalow
at every turn. It gave no sign of being inhabited. Once
or twice he stopped dead short and looked down at his left slipper.
Each time he chuckled audibly. His restlessness kept on increasing
till at last it frightened him. He caught hold of the balustrade
of the veranda and stood still, smiling not at his thought but at the
strong sense of life within him. He abandoned himself to it carelessly,
even recklessly. He cared for no one, friend or enemy. At
that moment Mr. Jones called him by name from within. A shadow
fell on the secretary’s face.</p>
<p>“Here, sir,” he answered; but it was a moment before
he could make up his mind to go in.</p>
<p>He found the governor on his feet. Mr. Jones was tired of lying
down when there was no necessity for it. His slender form, gliding
about the room, came to a standstill.</p>
<p>“I’ve been thinking, Martin, of something you suggested.
At the time it did not strike me as practical; but on reflection it
seems to me that to propose a game is as good a way as any to let him
understand that the time has come to disgorge. It’s less
- how should I say? - vulgar. He will know what it means.
It’s not a bad form to give to the business - which in itself
is crude, Martin, crude.”</p>
<p>“Want to spare his feelings?” jeered the secretary in
such a bitter tone that Mr. Jones was really surprised.</p>
<p>“Why, it was your own notion, confound you!”</p>
<p>“Who says it wasn’t?” retorted Ricardo sulkily.
“But I am fairly sick of this crawling. No! No!
Get the exact bearings of his swag and then a rip up. That’s
plenty good enough for him.”</p>
<p>His passions being thoroughly aroused, a thirst for blood was allied
in him with a thirst for tenderness - yes, tenderness. A sort
of anxious, melting sensation pervaded and softened his heart when he
thought of that girl - one of his own sort. And at the same time
jealousy started gnawing at his breast as the image of Heyst intruded
itself on his fierce anticipation of bliss.</p>
<p>“The crudeness of your ferocity is positively gross, Martin,”
Mr. Jones said disdainfully. “You don’t even understand
my purpose. I mean to have some sport out of him. Just try
to imagine the atmosphere of the game - the fellow handling the cards
- the agonizing mockery of it! Oh, I shall appreciate this greatly.
Yes, let him lose his money instead of being forced to hand it over.
You, of course, would shoot him at once, but I shall enjoy the refinement
and the jest of it. He’s a man of the best society.
I’ve been hounded out of my sphere by people very much like that
fellow. How enraged and humiliated he will be! I promise
myself some exquisite moments while watching his play.”</p>
<p>“Ay, and suppose he suddenly starts prancing. He may
not appreciate the fun.”</p>
<p>“I mean you to be present,” Mr. Jones remarked calmly.</p>
<p>“Well, as long as I am free to plug him or rip him up whenever
I think the time has come, you are welcome to your bit of sport, sir.
I shan’t spoil it.”</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h3>CHAPTER SEVEN</h3>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>It was at this precise moment of their conversation that Heyst had
intruded on Mr. Jones and his secretary with his warning about Wang,
as he had related to Lena. When he left them, the two looked at
each other in wondering silence. My Jones was the first to break
it.</p>
<p>“I say, Martin!”</p>
<p>“Yes, sir.”</p>
<p>“What does this mean?”</p>
<p>“It’s some move. Blame me if I can understand.”</p>
<p>“Too deep for you?” Mr. Jones inquired dryly.</p>
<p>“It’s nothing but some of his infernal impudence,”
growled the secretary. “You don’t believe all that
about the Chink, do you, sir? ’Tain’t true.”</p>
<p>“It isn’t necessary for it to be true to have a meaning
for us. It’s the why of his coming to tell us this tale
that’s important.”</p>
<p>“Do you think he made it up to frighten us?” asked Ricardo.</p>
<p>Mr Jones scowled at him thoughtfully.</p>
<p>“The man looked worried,” he muttered, as if to himself.
“Suppose that Chinaman has really stolen his money! The
man looked very worried.”</p>
<p>“Nothing but his artfulness, sir,” protested Ricardo
earnestly, for the idea was too disconcerting to entertain. “Is
it likely that he would have trusted a Chink with enough knowledge to
make it possible?” he argued warmly. “Why, it’s
the very thing that he would keep close about. There’s something
else there. Ay, but what?”</p>
<p>“Ha, ha, ha!” Mr. Jones let out a ghostly, squeaky laugh.
“I’ve never been placed in such a ridiculous position before,”
he went on, with a sepulchral equanimity of tone. “It’s
you, Martin, who dragged me into it. However, it’s my own
fault too. I ought to - but I was really too bored to use my brain,
and yours is not to be trusted. You are a hothead!”</p>
<p>A blasphemous exclamation of grief escaped from Ricardo. Not
to be trusted! Hothead! He was almost tearful.</p>
<p>“Haven’t I heard you, sir, saying more than twenty times
since we got fired out from Manila that we should want a lot of capital
to work the East Coast with? You were always telling me that to
prime properly all them officials and Portuguese scallywags we should
have to lose heavily at first. Weren’t you always worrying
about some means of getting hold of a good lot of cash? It wasn’t
to be got hold of by allowing yourself to become bored in that rotten
Dutch town and playing a two-penny game with confounded beggarly bank
clerks and such like. Well, I’ve brought you here, where
there is cash to be got - and a big lot, to a moral,” he added
through his set teeth.</p>
<p>Silence fell. Each of them was staring into a different corner
of the room. Suddenly, with a slight stamp of his foot, Mr. Jones
made for the door. Ricardo caught him up outside.</p>
<p>“Put an arm through mine, sir,” he begged him gently
but firmly. “No use giving the game away. An invalid
may well come out for a breath of fresh air after the sun’s gone
down a bit. That’s it, sir. But where do you want
to go? Why did you come out, sir?”</p>
<p>Mr Jones stopped short.</p>
<p>“I hardly know myself,” he confessed in a hollow mutter,
staring intently at the Number One bungalow. “It’s
quite irrational,” he declared in a still lower tone.</p>
<p>“Better go in, sir,” suggested Ricardo. “What’s
that? Those screens weren’t down before. He’s
spying from behind them now, I bet - the dodging, artful, plotting beast!”</p>
<p>“Why not go over there and see if we can’t get to the
bottom of this game?” was the unexpected proposal uttered by Mr.
Jones. “He will have to talk to us.”</p>
<p>Ricardo repressed a start of dismay, but for a moment could not speak.
He only pressed the governor’s hand to his side instinctively.</p>
<p>“No, sir. What could you say? Do you expect to
get to the bottom of his lies? How could you make him talk?
It isn’t time yet to come to grips with that gent. You don’t
think I would hang back, do you? His Chink, of course, I’ll
shoot like a dog the moment I catch sight of him; but as to that Mr.
Blasted Heyst, the time isn’t yet. My head’s cooler
just now than yours. Let’s go in again. Why, we are
exposed here. Suppose he took it into his head to let off a gun
on us! He’s an unaccountable, ’yporcritical skunk.”</p>
<p>Allowing himself to be persuaded, Mr. Jones returned to his seclusion.
The secretary, however, remained on the veranda - for the purpose, he
said, of seeing whether that Chink wasn’t sneaking around; in
which case he proposed to take a long shot at the galoot and chance
the consequences. His real reason was that he wanted to be alone,
away from the governor’s deep-sunk eyes. He felt a sentimental
desire to indulge his fancies in solitude. A great change had
come over Mr. Ricardo since that morning. A whole side of him
which from prudence, from necessity, from loyalty, had been kept dormant,
was aroused now, colouring his thoughts and disturbing his mental poise
by the vision of such staggering consequences as, for instance, the
possibility of an active conflict with the governor. The appearance
of the monstrous Pedro with his news drew Ricardo out of a feeling of
dreaminess wrapped up in a sense of impending trouble. A woman?
Yes, there was one; and it made all the difference. After driving
away Pedro, and watching the white helmets of Heyst and Lena vanishing
among the bushes he stood lost in meditation.</p>
<p>“Where could they be off to like this?” he mentally asked
himself.</p>
<p>The answer found by his speculative faculties on their utmost stretch
was - to meet that Chink. For in the desertion of Wang Ricardo
did not believe. It was a lying yarn, the organic part of a dangerous
plot. Heyst had gone to combine some fresh move. But then
Ricardo felt sure that the girl was with him - the girl full of pluck,
full of sense, full of understanding; an ally of his own kind!</p>
<p>He went indoors briskly. Mr. Jones had resumed his cross-legged
pose at the head of the bed, with his back against the wall.</p>
<p>“Anything new?”</p>
<p>“No, sir.”</p>
<p>Ricardo walked about the room as if he had no care in the world.
He hummed snatches of song. Mr. Jones raised his waspish eyebrows,
at the sound. The secretary got down on his knees before an old
leather trunk, and, rummaging in there, brought out a small looking-glass.
He fell to examining his physiognomy in it with silent absorption.</p>
<p>“I think I’ll shave,” he decided, getting up.</p>
<p>He gave a sidelong glance to the governor, and repeated it several
times during the operation, which did not take long, and even afterwards,
when after putting away the implements, he resumed his walking, humming
more snatches of unknown songs. Mr. Jones preserved a complete
immobility, his thin lips compressed, his eyes veiled. His face
was like a carving.</p>
<p>“So you would like to try your hand at cards with that skunk,
sir?” said Ricardo, stopping suddenly and rubbing his hands.</p>
<p>Mr Jones gave no sign of having heard anything.</p>
<p>“Well, why not? Why shouldn’t he have the experience?
You remember in that Mexican town - what’s its name? - the robber
fellow they caught in the mountains and condemned to be shot?
He played cards half the night with the jailer and the sheriff.
Well, this fellow is condemned, too. He must give you your game.
Hang it all, a gentleman ought to have some little relaxation!
And you have been uncommonly patient, sir.”</p>
<p>“You are uncommonly volatile all of a sudden,” Mr. Jones
remarked in a bored voice. “What’s come to you?”</p>
<p>The secretary hummed for a while, and then said:</p>
<p>“I’ll try to get him over here for you tonight, after
dinner. If I ain’t here myself, don’t you worry, sir.
I shall be doing a bit of nosing around - see?”</p>
<p>“I see,” sneered Mr. Jones languidly. “But
what do you expect to see in the dark?”</p>
<p>Ricardo made no answer, and after another turn or two slipped out
of the room. He no longer felt comfortable alone with the governor.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h3>CHAPTER EIGHT</h3>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>Meantime Heyst and Lena, walking rather fast, approached Wang’s
hut. Asking the girl to wait, Heyst ascended the little ladder
of bamboos giving access to the door. It was as he had expected.
The smoky interior was empty, except for a big chest of sandalwood too
heavy for hurried removal. Its lid was thrown up, but whatever
it might have contained was no longer there. All Wang’s
possessions were gone. Without tarrying in the hut, Heyst came
back to the girl, who asked no questions, with her strange air of knowing
or understanding everything.</p>
<p>“Let us push on,” he said.</p>
<p>He went ahead, the rustle of her white skirt following him into the
shades of the forest, along the path of their usual walk. Though
the air lay heavy between straight denuded trunks, the sunlit patches
moved on the ground, and raising her eyes Lena saw far above her head
the flutter of the leaves, the surface shudder on the mighty limbs extended
horizontally in the perfect immobility of patience. Twice Heyst
looked over his shoulder at her. Behind the readiness of her answering
smile there was a fund of devoted, concentrated passion, burning with
the hope of a more perfect satisfaction. They passed the spot
where it was their practice to turn towards the barren summit of the
central hill. Heyst held steadily on his way towards the upper
limit of the forest. The moment they left its shelter, a breeze
enveloped them, and a great cloud, racing over the sun, threw a peculiar
sombre tint over everything. Heyst pointed up a precipitous, rugged
path clinging to the side of the hill. It ended in a barricade
of felled trees, a primitively conceived obstacle which must have cost
much labour to erect at just that spot.</p>
<p>“This,” Heyst, explained in his urbane tone, “is
a barrier against the march of civilization. The poor folk over
there did not like it, as it appeared to them in the shape of my company
- a great step forward, as some people used to call it with mistaken
confidence. The advanced foot has been drawn back, but the barricade
remains.”</p>
<p>They went on climbing slowly. The cloud had driven over, leaving
an added brightness on the face of the world.</p>
<p>“It’s a very ridiculous thing,” Heyst went on;
“but then it is the product of honest fear - fear of the unknown,
of the incomprehensible. It’s pathetic, too, in a way.
And I heartily wish, Lena, that we were on the other side of it.”</p>
<p>“Oh, stop, stop!” she cried, seizing his arm.</p>
<p>The face of the barricade they were approaching had been piled up
with a lot of fresh-cut branches. The leaves were still green.
A gentle breeze, sweeping over the top, stirred them a little; but what
had startled the girl was the discovery of several spear-blades protruding
from the mass of foliage. She had made them out suddenly.
They did not gleam, but she saw them with extreme distinctness, very
still, very vicious to look at.</p>
<p>“You had better let me go forward alone, Lena,” said
Heyst.</p>
<p>She tugged, persistently at his arm, but after a time, during which
he never ceased to look smilingly into her terrified eyes, he ended
by disengaging himself.</p>
<p>“It’s a sign rather than a demonstration,” he argued,
persuasively. “Just wait here a moment. I promise
not to approach near enough to be stabbed.”</p>
<p>As in a nightmare she watched Heyst go up the few yards of the path
as if he never meant to stop; and she heard his voice, like voices heard
in dreams, shouting unknown words in an unearthly tone. Heyst
was only demanding to see Wang. He was not kept waiting very long.
Recovering from the first flurry of her fright, Lena noticed a commotion
in the green top-dressing of the barricade. She exhaled a sigh
of relief when the spear-blades retreated out of sight, sliding inward
- the horrible things! in a spot facing Heyst a pair of yellow hands
parted the leaves, and a face filled the small opening - a face with
very noticeable eyes. It was Wang’s face, of course, with
no suggestion of a body belonging to it, like those cardboard faces
at which she remembered gazing as a child in the window of a certain
dim shop kept by a mysterious little man in Kingsland Road. Only
this face, instead of mere holes, had eyes which blinked. She
could see the beating of the eyelids. The hands on each side of
the face, keeping the boughs apart, also did not look as if they belonged
to any real body. One of them was holding a revolver - a weapon
which she recognized merely by intuition, never having seen such an
object before.</p>
<p>She leaned her shoulders against the rock of the perpendicular hillside
and kept her eyes on Heyst, with comparative composure, since the spears
were not menacing him any longer. Beyond the rigid and motionless
back he presented to her, she saw Wang’s unreal cardboard face
moving its thin lips and grimacing artificially. She was too far
down the path to hear the dialogue, carried on in an ordinary voice.
She waited patiently for its end. Her shoulders felt the warmth
of the rock; now and then a whiff of cooler air seemed to slip down
upon her head from above; the ravine at her feet, choked fun of vegetation,
emitted the faint, drowsy hum of insect life. Everything was very
quiet. She failed to notice the exact moment when Wang’s
head vanished from the foliage, taking the unreal hands away with it.
To her horror, the spear-blades came gliding slowly out. The very
hair on her head stirred; but before she had time to cry out, Heyst,
who seemed rooted to the ground, turned round abruptly and began to
move towards her. His great moustaches did not quite hide an ugly
but irresolute smile; and when he had come down near enough to touch
her, he burst out into a harsh laugh:</p>
<p>“Ha, ha, ha!”</p>
<p>She looked at him, uncomprehending. He cut short his laugh
and said curtly:</p>
<p>“We had better go down as we came.”</p>
<p>She followed him into the forest. The advance of the afternoon
had filled it with gloom. Far away a slant of light between the
trees closed the view. All was dark beyond. Heyst stopped.</p>
<p>“No reason to hurry, Lena,” he said in his ordinary,
serenely polite tones. “We return unsuccessful. I
suppose you know, or at least can guess, what was my object in coming
up there?”</p>
<p>“No, I can’t guess, dear,” she said, and smiled,
noticing with emotion that his breast was heaving as if he had been
out of breath. Nevertheless, he tried to command his speech, pausing
only a little between the words.</p>
<p>“No? I went up to find Wang. I went up” -
he gasped again here, but this was for the last time - “I made
you come with me because I didn’t like to leave you unprotected
in the proximity of those fellows.” Suddenly he snatched
his cork helmet off his head and dashed it on the ground. “No!”
he cried roughly. “All this is too unreal altogether.
It isn’t to be borne! I can’t protect you! I
haven’t the power.”</p>
<p>He glared at her for a moment, then hastened after his hat which
had bounded away to some distance. He came back looking at her
face, which was very white.</p>
<p>“I ought to beg your pardon for these antics,” he said,
adjusting his hat. “A movement of childish petulance!
Indeed, I feel very much like a child in my ignorance, in my powerlessness,
in my want of resource, in everything except in the dreadful consciousness
of some evil hanging over your head - yours!”</p>
<p>“It’s you they are after,” she murmured.</p>
<p>“No doubt, but unfortunately - ”</p>
<p>“Unfortunately - what?”</p>
<p>“Unfortunately, I have not succeeded with Wang,” he said.
“I failed to move his Celestial, heart - that is, if there is
such a thing. He told me with horrible Chinese reasonableness
that he could not let us pass the barrier, because we should be pursued.
He doesn’t like fights. He gave me to understand that he
would shoot me with my own revolver without any sort of compunction,
rather than risk a rude and distasteful contest with the strange barbarians
for my sake. He has preached to the villagers. They respect
him. He is the most remarkable man they have ever seen, and their
kinsman by marriage. They understand his policy. And anyway
only women and children and a few old fellows are left in the village.
This is the season when the men are away in trading vessels. But
it would have been all the same. None of them have a taste for
fighting - and with white men too! They are peaceable, kindly
folk and would have seen me shot with extreme satisfaction. Wang
seemed to think my insistence - for I insisted, you know - very stupid
and tactless. But a drowning man clutches at straws. We
were talking in such Malay as we are both equal to.</p>
<p>“‘Your fears are foolish,’ I said to him.</p>
<p>“‘Foolish? of course I am foolish,’ he replied.
‘If I were a wise man, I would be a merchant with a big hong in
Singapore, instead of being a mine coolie turned houseboy. But
if you don’t go away in time, I will shoot you before it grows
too dark to take aim. Not till then, Number One, but I will do
it then. Now - finish!’</p>
<p>“‘All right,’ I said. ‘Finish as far
as I am concerned; but you can have no objections to the <i>mem putih</i>
coming over to stay with the Orang Kaya’s women for a few days.
I will make a present in silver for it.’ Orang Kaya, is
the head man of the village, Lena,” added Heyst.</p>
<p>She looked at him in astonishment.</p>
<p>“You wanted me to go to that village of savages?” she
gasped. “You wanted me to leave you?”</p>
<p>“It would have given me a freer hand.”</p>
<p>Heyst stretched out his hands and looked at them for a moment, then
let them fall by his side. Indignation was expressed more in the
curve of her lips than in her clear eyes, which never wavered.</p>
<p>“I believe Wang laughed,” he went on. “He
made a noise like a turkey-cock.”</p>
<p>“‘That would be worse than anything,’ he told me.</p>
<p>“I was taken aback. I pointed out to him that he was
talking nonsense. It could not make any difference to his security
where you were, because the evil men, as he calls them, did not know
of your existence. I did not lie exactly, Lena, though I did stretch
the truth till it cracked; but the fellow seems to have an uncanny insight.
He shook his head. He assured me they knew all about you.
He made a horrible grimace at me.”</p>
<p>“It doesn’t matter,” said the girl. “I
didn’t want - I would not have gone.”</p>
<p>Heyst raised his eyes.</p>
<p>“Wonderful intuition! As I continued to press him, Wang
made that very remark about you. When he smiles, his face looks
like a conceited death’s head. It was his very last remark
that you wouldn’t want to. I went away then.”</p>
<p>She leaned back against a tree. Heyst faced her in the same
attitude of leisure, as if they had done with time and all the other
concerns of the earth. Suddenly, high above their heads the roof
of leaves whispered at them tumultuously and then ceased.</p>
<p>“That was a strange notion of yours, to send me away,”
she said. “Send me away? What for? Yes, what
for?”</p>
<p>“You seem indignant,” he remarked listlessly.</p>
<p>“To these savages, too!” she pursued. “And
you think I would have gone? You can do what you like with me
- but not that, not that!”</p>
<p>Heyst looked into the dim aisles of the forest. Everything
was so still now that the very ground on which they stood seemed to
exhale silence into the shade.</p>
<p>“Why be indignant?” he remonstrated. “It
has not happened. I gave up pleading with Wang. Here we
are, repulsed! Not only without power to resist the evil, but
unable to make terms for ourselves with the worthy envoys, the envoys
extraordinary of the world we thought we had done with for years and
years. And that’s bad, Lena, very bad.”</p>
<p>“It’s funny,” she said thoughtfully. “Bad?
I suppose it is. I don’t know that it is. But do you?
Do you? You talk as if you didn’t believe in it.”</p>
<p>She gazed at him earnestly.</p>
<p>“Do I? Ah! That’s it. I don’t
know how to talk. I have managed to refine everything away.
I’ve said to the Earth that bore me: ‘I am I and you are
a shadow.’ And, by Jove, it is so! But it appears
that such words cannot be uttered with impunity. Here I am on
a Shadow inhabited by Shades. How helpless a man is against the
Shades! How is one to intimidate, persuade, resist, assert oneself
against them? I have lost all belief in realities . . . Lena,
give me your hand.”</p>
<p>She looked at him surprised, uncomprehending.</p>
<p>“Your hand,” he cried.</p>
<p>She obeyed; he seized it with avidity as if eager to raise it to
his lips, but halfway up released his grasp. They looked at each
other for a time.</p>
<p>“What’s the matter, dear?” she whispered timidly.</p>
<p>“Neither force nor conviction,” Heyst muttered wearily
to himself. “How am I to meet this charmingly simple problem?”</p>
<p>“I am sorry,” she murmured.</p>
<p>“And so am I,” he confessed quickly. “And
the bitterest of this humiliation is its complete uselessness - which
I feel, I feel!”</p>
<p>She had never before seen him give such signs of feeling. Across
his ghastly face the long moustaches flamed in the shade. He spoke
suddenly:</p>
<p>“I wonder if I could find enough courage to creep among them
in the night, with a knife, and cut their throats one after another,
as they slept! I wonder - ”</p>
<p>She was frightened by his unwonted appearance more than by the words
in his mouth, and said earnestly:</p>
<p>“Don’t you try to do such a thing! Don’t
you think of it!”</p>
<p>“I don’t possess anything bigger than a penknife.
As to thinking of it, Lena, there’s no saying what one may think
of. I don’t think. Something in me thinks - something
foreign to my nature. What is the matter?”</p>
<p>He noticed her parted lips, and the peculiar stare in her eyes, which
had wandered from his face.</p>
<p>“There’s somebody after us. I saw something white
moving,” she cried.</p>
<p>Heyst did not turn his head; he only glanced at her out-stretched
arm.</p>
<p>“No doubt we are followed; we are watched.”</p>
<p>“I don’t see anything now,” she said.</p>
<p>“And it does not matter,” Heyst went on in his ordinary
voice. “Here we are in the forest. I have neither
strength nor persuasion. Indeed, it’s extremely difficult
to be eloquent before a Chinaman’s head stuck at one out of a
lot of brushwood. But can we wander among these big trees indefinitely?
Is this a refuge? No! What else is left to us? I did
think for a moment of the mine; but even there we could not remain very
long. And then that gallery is not safe. The props were
too weak to begin with. Ants have been at work there - ants after
the men. A death-trap, at best. One can die but once, but
there are many manners of death.”</p>
<p>The girl glanced about fearfully, in search of the watcher or follower
whom she had glimpsed once among the trees; but if he existed, he had
concealed himself. Nothing met her eyes but the deepening shadows
of the short vistas between the living columns of the still roof of
leaves. She looked at the man beside her expectantly, tenderly,
with suppressed affright and a sort of awed wonder.</p>
<p>“I have also thought of these people’s boat,” Heyst
went on. “We could get into that, and - only they have taken
everything out of her. I have seen her oars and mast in a corner
of their room. To shove off in an empty boat would be nothing
but a desperate expedition, supposing even that she would drift out
a good distance between the islands before the morning. It would
only be a complicated manner of committing suicide - to be found dead
in a boat, dead from sun and thirst. A sea mystery. I wonder
who would find us! Davidson, perhaps; but Davidson passed westward
ten days ago. I watched him steaming past one early morning, from
the jetty.”</p>
<p>“You never told me,” she said.</p>
<p>“He must have been looking at me through his big binoculars.
Perhaps, if I had raised my arm - but what did we want with Davidson
then, you and I? He won’t be back this way for three weeks
or more, Lena. I wish I had raised my arm that morning.”</p>
<p>“What would have been the good of it?” she sighed out.</p>
<p>“What good? No good, of course. We had no forebodings.
This seemed to be an inexpugnable refuge, where we could live untroubled
and learn to know each other.”</p>
<p>“It’s perhaps in trouble that people get to know each
other,” she suggested.</p>
<p>“Perhaps,” he said indifferently. “At any
rate, we would not have gone away from here with him; though I believe
he would have come in eagerly enough, and ready for any service he could
render. It’s that fat man’s nature - a delightful
fellow. You would not come on the wharf that time I sent the shawl
back to Mrs. Schomberg through him. He has never seen you.”</p>
<p>“I didn’t know that you wanted anybody ever to see me,”
she said.</p>
<p>He had folded his arms on his breast and hung his head.</p>
<p>“And I did not know that you cared to be seen as yet.
A misunderstanding evidently. An honourable misunderstanding.
But it does not matter now.”</p>
<p>He raised his head after a silence.</p>
<p>“How gloomy this forest has grown! Yet surely the sun
cannot have set already.”</p>
<p>She looked round; and as if her eyes had just been opened, she perceived
the shades of the forest surrounding her, not so much with gloom, but
with a sullen, dumb, menacing hostility. Her heart sank in the
engulfing stillness, at that moment she felt the nearness of death,
breathing on her and on the man with her. If there had been a
sudden stir of leaves, the crack of a dry branch, the faintest rustle,
she would have screamed aloud. But she shook off the unworthy
weakness. Such as she was, a fiddle-scraping girl picked up on
the very threshold of infamy, she would try to rise above herself, triumphant
and humble; and then happiness would burst on her like a torrent, flinging
at her feet the man whom she loved.</p>
<p>Heyst stirred slightly.</p>
<p>“We had better be getting back, Lena, since we can’t
stay all night in the woods - or anywhere else, for that matter.
We are the slaves of this infernal surprise which has been sprung on
us by - shall I say fate? - your fate, or mine.”</p>
<p>It was the man who had broken the silence, but it was the woman who
led the way. At the very edge of the forest she stopped, concealed
by a tree. He joined her cautiously.</p>
<p>“What is it? What do you see, Lena?” he whispered.</p>
<p>She said that it was only a thought that had come into her head.
She hesitated for a moment giving him over her shoulder a shining gleam
in her grey eyes. She wanted to know whether this trouble, this
danger, this evil, whatever it was, finding them out in their retreat,
was not a sort of punishment.</p>
<p>“Punishment?” repeated Heyst. He could not understand
what she meant. When she explained, he was still more surprised.
“A sort of retribution, from an angry Heaven?” he said in
wonder. “On us? What on earth for?”</p>
<p>He saw her pale face darken in the dusk. She had blushed.
Her whispering flowed very fast. It was the way they lived together
- that wasn’t right, was it? It was a guilty life.
For she had not been forced into it, driven, scared into it. No,
no - she had come to him of her own free will, with her whole soul yearning
unlawfully.</p>
<p>He was so profoundly touched that he could not speak for a moment.
To conceal his trouble, he assumed his best Heystian manner.</p>
<p>“What? Are our visitors then messengers of morality,
avengers of righteousness, agents of Providence? That’s
certainly an original view. How flattered they would be if they
could hear you!”</p>
<p>“Now you are making fun of me,” she said in a subdued
voice which broke suddenly.</p>
<p>“Are you conscious of sin?” Heyst asked gravely.
She made no answer. “For I am not,” he added; “before
Heaven, I am not!”</p>
<p>“You! You are different. Woman is the tempter.
You took me up from pity. I threw myself at you.”</p>
<p>“Oh, you exaggerate, you exaggerate. It was not so bad
as that,” he said playfully, keeping his voice steady with an
effort.</p>
<p>He considered himself a dead man already, yet forced to pretend that
he was alive for her sake, for her defence. He regretted that
he had no Heaven to which he could recommend this fair, palpitating
handful of ashes and dust - warm, living sentient his own - and exposed
helplessly to insult, outrage, degradation, and infinite misery of the
body.</p>
<p>She had averted her face from him and was still. He suddenly
seized her passive hand.</p>
<p>“You will have it so?” he said. “Yes?
Well, let us then hope for mercy together.”</p>
<p>She shook her head without looking at him, like an abashed child.</p>
<p>“Remember,” he went on incorrigible with his delicate
raillery, “that hope is a Christian virtue, and surely you can’t
want all the mercy for yourself.”</p>
<p>Before their eyes the bungalow across the cleared ground stood bathed
in a sinister light. An unexpected chill gust of wind made a noise
in the tree-tops. She snatched her hand away and stepped out into
the open; but before she had advanced more than three yards, she stood
still and pointed to the west.</p>
<p>“Oh look there!” she exclaimed.</p>
<p>Beyond the headland of Diamond Bay, lying black on a purple sea,
great masses of cloud stood piled up and bathed in a mist of blood.
A crimson crack like an open wound zigzagged between them, with a piece
of dark red sun showing at the bottom. Heyst cast an indifferent
glance at the ill-omened chaos of the sky.</p>
<p>“Thunderstorm making up. We shall hear it all night,
but it won’t visit us, probably. The clouds generally gather
round the volcano.”</p>
<p>She was not listening to him. Her eyes reflected the sombre
and violent hues of the sunset.</p>
<p>“That does not look much like a sign of mercy,” she said
slowly, as if to herself, and hurried on, followed by Heyst. Suddenly
she stopped. “I don’t care. I would do more
yet! And some day you’ll forgive me. You’ll
have to forgive me!”</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h3>CHAPTER NINE</h3>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>Stumbling up the steps, as if suddenly exhausted, Lena entered the
room and let herself fall on the nearest chair. Before following
her, Heyst took a survey of the surroundings from the veranda.
It was a complete solitude. There was nothing in the aspect of
this familiar scene to tell him that he and the girl were not completely
alone as they had been in the early days of their common life on this
abandoned spot, with only Wang discreetly materializing from time to
time and the uncomplaining memory of Morrison to keep them company.</p>
<p>After the cold gust of wind there was an absolute stillness of the
air. The thunder-charged mass hung unbroken beyond the low, ink-black
headland, darkening the twilight. By contrast, the sky at the
zenith displayed pellucid clearness, the sheen of a delicate glass bubble
which the merest movement of air might shatter. A little to the
left, between the black masses of the headland and of the forest, the
volcano, a feather of smoke by day and a cigar-glow at night, took its
first fiery expanding breath of the evening. Above it a reddish
star came out like an expelled spark from the fiery bosom of the earth,
enchanted into permanency by the mysterious spell of frozen spaces.</p>
<p>In front of Heyst the forest, already full of the deepest shades,
stood like a wall. But he lingered, watching its edge, especially
where it ended at the line of bushes, masking the land end of the jetty.
Since the girl had spoken of catching a glimpse of something white among
the trees, he believed pretty firmly that they had been followed in
their excursion up the mountain by Mr. Jones’s secretary.
No doubt the fellow had watched them out of the forest, and now, unless
he took the trouble to go back some distance and fetch a considerable
circuit inland over the clearing, he was bound to walk out into the
open space before the bungalows. Heyst did, indeed, imagine at
one time some movement between the trees, lost as soon as perceived.
He stated patiently, but nothing more happened. After all, why
should he trouble about these people’s actions? Why this
stupid concern for the preliminaries, since, when the issue was joined,
it would find him disarmed and shrinking from the ugliness and degradation
of it?</p>
<p>He turned and entered the room. Deep dusk reigned in there
already. Lena, near the door, did not move or speak. The
sheen of the white tablecloth was very obtrusive. The brute these
two vagabonds had tamed had entered on its service while Heyst and Lena
were away. The table was laid. Heyst walked up and down
the room several times. The girl remained without sound or movement
on the chair. But when Heyst, placing the two silver candelabra
on the table, struck a match to light the candles, she got up suddenly
and went into the bedroom. She came out again almost immediately,
having taken off her hat. Heyst looked at her over his shoulder.</p>
<p>“What’s the good of shirking the evil hour? I’ve
lighted these candles for a sign of our return. After all, we
might not have been watched - while returning, I mean. Of course
we were seen leaving the house.”</p>
<p>The girl sat down again. The great wealth of her hair looked
very dark above her colourless face. She raised her eyes, glistening
softly in the light with a sort of unreadable appeal, with a strange
effect of unseeing innocence.</p>
<p>“Yes,” said Heyst across the table, the fingertips of
one hand resting on the immaculate cloth. “A creature with
an antediluvian lower jaw, hairy like a mastodon, and formed like a
pre-historic ape, has laid this table. Are you awake, Lena?
Am I? I would pinch myself, only I know that nothing would do
away with this dream. Three covers. You know it is the shorter
of the two who’s coming - the gentleman who, in the play of his
shoulders as he walks, and in his facial structure, recalls a Jaguar.
Ah, you don’t know what a jaguar is? But you have had a
good look at these two. It’s the short one, you know, who’s
to be our guest.”</p>
<p>She made a sign with her head that she knew; Heyst’s insistence
brought Ricardo vividly before her mental vision. A sudden languor,
like the physical echo of her struggle with the man, paralysed all her
limbs. She lay still in the chair, feeling very frightened at
this phenomenon - ready to pray aloud for strength.</p>
<p>Heyst had started to pace the room.</p>
<p>“Our guest! There is a proverb - in Russia, I believe
- that when a guest enters the house, God enters the house. The
sacred virtue of hospitality! But it leads one into trouble as
well as any other.”</p>
<p>The girl unexpectedly got up from the chair, swaying her supple figure
and stretching her arms above her head. He stopped to look at
her curiously, paused, and then went on:</p>
<p>“I venture to think that God has nothing to do with such a
hospitality and with such a guest!”</p>
<p>She had jumped to her feet to react against the numbness, to discover
whether her body would obey her will. It did. She could
stand up, and she could move her arms freely. Though no physiologist,
she concluded that all that sudden numbness was in her head, not in
her limbs. Her fears assuaged, she thanked God for it mentally,
and to Heyst murmured a protest:</p>
<p>“Oh, yes! He’s got to do with everything - every
little thing. Nothing can happen - ”</p>
<p>“Yes,” he said hastily, “one of the two sparrows
can’t be struck to the ground - you are thinking of that.”
The habitual playful smile faded on the kindly lips under the martial
moustache. “Ah, you remember what you have been told - as
a child - on Sundays.”</p>
<p>“Yes, I do remember.” She sank into the chair again.
“It was the only decent bit of time I ever had when I was a kid,
with our landlady’s two girls, you know.”</p>
<p>“I wonder, Lena,” Heyst said, with a return to his urbane
playfulness, “whether you are just a little child, or whether
you represent something as old as the world.”</p>
<p>She surprised Heyst by saying dreamily:</p>
<p>“Well - and what about you?”</p>
<p>“I? I date later - much later. I can’t call
myself a child, but I am so recent that I may call myself a man of the
last hour - or is it the hour before last? I have been out of
it so long that I am not certain how far the hands of the clock have
moved since - since - ”</p>
<p>He glanced at the portrait of his father, exactly above the head
of the girl, as if it were ignoring her in its painted austerity of
feeling. He did not finish the sentence; but he did not remain
silent for long.</p>
<p>“Only what must be avoided are fallacious inferences, my dear
Lena - especially at this hour.”</p>
<p>“Now you are making fun of me again,” she said without
looking up.</p>
<p>“Am I?” he cried. “Making fun? No,
giving warning. Hang it all, whatever truth people told you in
the old days, there is also this one - that sparrows do fall to the
ground, that they are brought to the ground. This is no vain assertion,
but a fact. That’s why” - again his tone changed,
while he picked up the table knife and let it fall disdainfully - “that’s
why I wish these wretched round knives had some edge on them.
Absolute rubbish - neither edge, point, nor substance. I believe
one of these forks would make a better weapon at a pinch. But
can I go about with a fork in my pocket?” He gnashed his
teeth with a rage very real, and yet comic.</p>
<p>“There used to be a carver here, but it was broken and thrown
away a long time ago. Nothing much to carve here. It would
have made a noble weapon, no doubt; but - ”</p>
<p>He stopped. The girl sat very quiet, with downcast eyes.
As he kept silence for some time, she looked up and said thoughtfully:</p>
<p>“Yes, a knife - it’s a knife that you would want, wouldn’t
you, in case, in case - ”</p>
<p>He shrugged his shoulders.</p>
<p>“There must be a crowbar or two in the sheds; but I have given
up all the keys together. And then, do you see me walking about
with a crowbar in my hand? Ha, ha! And besides, that edifying
sight alone might start the trouble for all I know. In truth,
why has it not started yet?”</p>
<p>“Perhaps they are afraid of you,” she whispered, looking
down again.</p>
<p>“By Jove, it looks like it,” he assented meditatively.
“They do seem to hang back for some reason. Is that reason
prudence, or downright fear, or perhaps the leisurely method of certitude?”</p>
<p>Out in the black night, not very far from the bungalow, resounded
a loud and prolonged whistle. Lena’s hands grasped the sides
of the chair, but she made no movement. Heyst started, and turned
his face away from the door.</p>
<p>The startling sound had died away.</p>
<p>“Whistles, yells, omens, signals, portents - what do they matter?”
he said. “But what about the crowbar? Suppose I had
it! Could I stand in ambush at the side of the door - this door
- and smash the first protruding head, scatter blood and brains over
the floor, over these walls, and then run stealthily to the other door
to do the same thing - and repeat the performance for a third time,
perhaps? Could I? On suspicion, without compunction, with
a calm and determined purpose? No, it is not in me. I date
too late. Would you like to see me attempt this thing while that
mysterious prestige of mine lasts - or their not less mysterious hesitation?”</p>
<p>“No, no!” she whispered ardently, as if compelled to
speak by his eyes fixed on her face. “No, it’s a knife
you want to defend yourself with - to defend - there will be time -
”</p>
<p>“And who knows if it isn’t really my duty?” he
began again, as if he had not heard her disjointed words at all.
“It may be - my duty to you, to myself. For why should I
put up with the humiliation of their secret menaces? Do you know
what the world would say?”</p>
<p>He emitted a low laugh, which struck her with terror. She would
have got up, but he stooped so low over her that she could not move
without first pushing him away.</p>
<p>“It would say, Lena, that I - the Swede - after luring my friend
and partner to his death from mere greed of money, have murdered these
unoffending shipwrecked strangers from sheer funk. That would
be the story whispered - perhaps shouted - certainly spread out, and
believed - and believed, my dear Lena!”</p>
<p>“Who would believe such awful things?”</p>
<p>“Perhaps you wouldn’t - not at first, at any rate; but
the power of calumny grows with time. It’s insidious and
penetrating. It can even destroy one’s faith in oneself
- dry-rot the soul.”</p>
<p>All at once her eyes leaped to the door and remained fixed, stony,
a little enlarged. Turning his head, Heyst beheld the figure of
Ricardo framed in the doorway. For a moment none of the three
moved, then, looking from the newcomer to the girl in the chair, Heyst
formulated a sardonic introduction.</p>
<p>“Mr Ricardo, my dear.”</p>
<p>Her head drooped a little. Ricardo’s hand went up to
his moustache. His voice exploded in the room.</p>
<p>“At your service, ma’am!”</p>
<p>He stepped in, taking his hat off with a flourish, and dropping it
carelessly on a chair near the door.</p>
<p>“At your service,” he repeated, in quite another tone.
“I was made aware there was a lady about, by that Pedro of ours;
only I didn’t know I should have the privilege of seeing you tonight,
ma’am.”</p>
<p>Lena and Heyst looked at him covertly, but he, with a vague gaze
avoiding them both, looked at nothing, seeming to pursue some point
in space.</p>
<p>“Had a pleasant walk?” he asked suddenly.</p>
<p>“Yes. And you?” returned Heyst, who had managed
to catch his glance.</p>
<p>“I haven’t been a yard away from the governor this afternoon
till I started for here.” The genuineness of the accent
surprised Heyst, without convincing him of the truth of the words.</p>
<p>“Why do you ask?” pursued Ricardo with every inflection
of perfect candour.</p>
<p>“You might have wished to explore the island a little,”
said Heyst, studying the man, who, to render him justice, did not try
to free his captured gaze. “I may remind you that it wouldn’t
be a perfectly safe proceeding.”</p>
<p>Ricardo presented a picture of innocence.</p>
<p>“Oh, yes - meaning that Chink that has ran away from you.
He ain’t much!”</p>
<p>“He has a revolver,” observed Heyst meaningly.</p>
<p>“Well, and you have a revolver, too,” Mr. Ricardo argued
unexpectedly. “I don’t worry myself about that.”</p>
<p>“That’s different. I am not afraid of you,”
Heyst made answer after a short pause.</p>
<p>“Of me?”</p>
<p>“Of all of you.”</p>
<p>“You have a queer way of putting things,” began Ricardo.</p>
<p>At that moment the door on the compound side of the house came open
with some noise, and Pedro entered, pressing the edge of a loaded tray
to his breast. His big, hairy head rolled a little, his feet fell
in front of each other with a short, hard thump on the floor.
The arrival changed the current of Ricardo’s thought, perhaps,
but certainly of his speech.</p>
<p>“You heard me whistling a little while ago outside? That
was to give him a hint, as I came along, that it was time to bring in
the dinner; and here it is.”</p>
<p>Lena rose and passed to the right of Ricardo, who lowered his glance
for a moment. They sat down at the table. The enormous gorilla
back of Pedro swayed out through the door.</p>
<p>“Extraordinary strong brute, ma’am,” said Ricardo.
He, had a propensity to talk about “his Pedro,” as some
men will talk of their dog. “He ain’t pretty, though.
No, he ain’t pretty. And he has got to be kept under.
I am his keeper, as it might be. The governor don’t trouble
his head much about dee-tails. All that’s left to Martin.
Martin, that’s me, ma’am.”</p>
<p>Heyst saw the girl’s eyes turn towards Mr. Jones’s secretary
and rest blankly on his face. Ricardo, however, looked vaguely
into space, and, with faint flickers of a smile about his lips, made
conversation indefatigably against the silence of his entertainers.
He boasted largely of his long association with Mr. Jones - over four
years now, he said. Then, glancing rapidly at Heyst:</p>
<p>“You can see at once he’s a gentleman, can’t you?”</p>
<p>“You people,” Heyst said, his habitual playful intonation
tinged with gloom, “are divorced from all reality in my eyes.”</p>
<p>Ricardo received this speech as if he had been expecting to hear
those very words, or else did not mind at all what Heyst might say.
He muttered an absent-minded “Ay, ay,” played with a bit
of biscuit, sighed, and said, with a peculiar stare which did not seem
to carry any distance, but to stop short at a point in the air very
near his face:</p>
<p>“Anybody can see at once <i>you</i> are one. You and
the governor ought to understand each other. He expects to see
you tonight. The governor isn’t well, and we’ve got
to think of getting away from here.”</p>
<p>While saying these words he turned himself full towards Lena, but
without any marked expression. Leaning back with folded arms,
the girl stared before her as if she had been alone in the room.
But under that aspect of almost vacant unconcern the perils and emotion
that had entered into her life warmed her heart, exalted her mind with
a sense of an inconceivable intensity of existence.</p>
<p>“Really? Thinking of going away from here?” Heyst
murmured.</p>
<p>“The best of friends must part,” Ricardo pronounced slowly.
“And, as long as they part friends, there’s no harm done.
We two are used to be on the move. You, I understand, prefer to
stick in one place.”</p>
<p>It was obvious that all this was being said merely for the sake of
talking, and that Ricardo’s mind was concentrated on some purpose
unconnected with the words that were coming but of his mouth.</p>
<p>“I should like to know,” Heyst asked with incisive politeness,
“how you have come to understand this or anything else about me?
As far as I can remember, I’ve made you no confidences.”</p>
<p>Ricardo, gazing comfortably into space out of the back of his chair
- for some time all three had given up any pretence of eating - answered
abstractedly:</p>
<p>“Any fellow might have guessed it!” He sat up suddenly,
and uncovered all his teeth in a grin of extraordinary ferocity, which
was belied by the persistent amiability of his tone. “The
governor will be the man to tell you something about that. I wish
you would say you would see my governor. He’s the one who
does all our talking. Let me take you to him this evening.
He ain’t at all well; and he can’t make up his mind to go
away without having a talk with you.”</p>
<p>Heyst, looking up, met Lena’s eyes. Their expression
of candour seemed to hide some struggling intention. Her head,
he fancied, had made an imperceptible affirmative movement. Why?
What reason could she have? Was it the prompting of some obscure
instinct? Or was it simply a delusion of his own senses?
But in this strange complication invading the quietude of his life,
in his state of doubt and disdain and almost of despair with which he
looked at himself, he would let even a delusive appearance guide him
through a darkness so dense that it made for indifference.</p>
<p>“Well, suppose I <i>do</i> say so.”</p>
<p>Ricardo did not conceal his satisfaction, which for a moment interested
Heyst.</p>
<p>“It can’t be my life they are after,” he said to
himself. “What good could it be to them?”</p>
<p>He looked across the table at the girl. What did it matter
whether she had nodded or not? As always when looking into her
unconscious eyes, he tasted something like the dregs of tender pity.
He had decided to go. Her nod, imaginary or not imaginary, advice
or illusion, had tipped the scale. He reflected that Ricardo’s
invitation could scarcely be anything in the nature of a trap.
It would have been too absurd. Why carry subtly into a trap someone
already bound hand and foot, as it were?</p>
<p>All this time he had been looking fixedly at the girl he called Lena.
In the submissive quietness of her being, which had been her attitude
ever since they had begun their life on the island, she remained as
secret as ever. Heyst got up abruptly, with a smile of such enigmatic
and despairing character that Mr. Secretary Ricardo, whose abstract
gaze had an all-round efficiency, made a slight crouching start, as
if to dive under the table for his leg-knife - a start that was repressed,
as soon as begun. He had expected Heyst to spring on him or draw
a revolver, because he created for himself a vision of him in his own
image. Instead of doing either of these obvious things, Heyst
walked across the room, opened the door and put his head through it
to look out into the compound.</p>
<p>As soon as his back was turned, Ricardo’s hand sought the girl’s
arm under the table. He was not looking at her, but she felt the
groping, nervous touch of his search, felt suddenly the grip of his
fingers above her wrist. He leaned forward a little; still he
dared not look at her. His hard stare remained fastened on Heyst’s
back. In an extremely low hiss, his fixed idea of argument found
expression scathingly:</p>
<p>“See! He’s no good. He’s not the man
for you!”</p>
<p>He glanced at her at last. Her lips moved a little, and he
was awed by that movement without a sound. Next instant the hard
grasp of his fingers vanished from her arm. Heyst had shut the
door. On his way back to the table, he crossed the path of the
girl they had called Alma - she didn’t know why - also Magdalen,
whose mind had remained so long in doubt as to the reason of her own
existence. She no longer wondered at that bitter riddle, since
her heart found its solution in a blinding, hot glow of passionate pride.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h3>CHAPTER TEN</h3>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>She passed by Heyst as if she had indeed been blinded by some secret,
lurid, and consuming glare into which she was about to enter.
The curtain of the bedroom door fell behind her into rigid folds.
Ricardo’s vacant gaze seemed to be watching the dancing flight
of a fly in mid air.</p>
<p>“Extra dark outside, ain’t it?” he muttered.</p>
<p>“Not so dark but that I could see that man of yours prowling
about there,” said Heyst in measured tones.</p>
<p>“What - Pedro? He’s scarcely a man you know; or
else I wouldn’t be so fond of him as I am.”</p>
<p>“Very well. Let’s call him your worthy associate.”</p>
<p>“Ay! Worthy enough for what we want of him. A great
standby is Peter in a scrimmage. A growl and a bite - oh, my!
And you don’t want him about?”</p>
<p>“I don’t.”</p>
<p>“You want him out of the way?” insisted Ricardo with
an affectation of incredulity which Heyst accepted calmly, though the
air in the room seemed to grow more oppressive with every word spoken.</p>
<p>“That’s it. I do want him out of the way.”
He forced himself to speak equably.</p>
<p>“Lor’! That’s no great matter. Pedro’s
not much use here. The business my governor’s after can
be settled by ten minutes’ rational talk with - with another gentleman.
Quiet talk!”</p>
<p>He looked up suddenly with hard, phosphorescent eyes. Heyst
didn’t move a muscle. Ricardo congratulated himself on having
left his revolver behind. He was so exasperated that he didn’t
know what he might have done. He said at last:</p>
<p>“You want poor, harmless Peter out of the way before you let
me take you to see the governor - is that it?”</p>
<p>“Yes, that is it.”</p>
<p>“H’m! One can see,” Ricardo said with hidden
venom, “that you are a gentleman; but all that gentlemanly fancifulness
is apt to turn sour on a plain man’s stomach. However -
you’ll have to pardon me.”</p>
<p>He put his fingers into his mouth and let out a whistle which seemed
to drive a thin, sharp shaft of air solidly against one’s nearest
ear-drum. Though he greatly enjoyed Heyst’s involuntary
grimace, he sat perfectly stolid waiting for the effect of the call.</p>
<p>It brought Pedro in with an extraordinary, uncouth, primeval impetuosity.
The door flew open with a clatter, and the wild figure it disclosed
seemed anxious to devastate the room in leaps and bounds; but Ricardo
raised his open palm, and the creature came in quietly. His enormous
half-closed paws swung to and fro a little in front of his bowed trunk
as he walked. Ricardo looked on truculently.</p>
<p>“You go to the boat - understand? Go now!”</p>
<p>The little red eyes of the tame monster blinked with painful attention
in the mass of hair.</p>
<p>“Well? Why don’t you get? Forgot human speech,
eh? Don’t you know any longer what a boat is?”</p>
<p>“<i>Si</i> - boat,” the creature stammered out doubtfully.</p>
<p>“Well, go there - the boat at the jetty. March off to
it and sit there, lie down there, do anything but go to sleep there
- till you hear my call, and then fly here. Them’s your
orders. March! Get, <i>vamos</i>! No, not that way
- out through the front door. No sulks!”</p>
<p>Pedro obeyed with uncouth alacrity. When he had gone, the gleam
of pitiless savagery went out of Ricardo’s yellow eyes, and his
physiognomy took on, for the first time that evening, the expression
of a domestic cat which is being noticed.</p>
<p>“You can watch him right into the bushes, if you like.
Too dark, eh? Why not go with him to the very spot, then?”</p>
<p>Heyst made a gesture of vague protest.</p>
<p>“There’s nothing to assure me that he will stay there.
I have no doubt of his going, but it’s an act without guarantee.”</p>
<p>“There you are!” Ricardo shrugged his shoulders
philosophically. “Can’t be helped. Short of
shooting our Pedro, nobody can make absolutely sure of his staying in
the same place longer than he has a mind to; but I tell you, he lives
in holy terror of my temper. That’s why I put on my sudden-death
air when I talk to him. And yet I wouldn’t shoot him - not
I, unless in such a fit of rage as would make a man shoot his favourite
dog. Look here, sir! This deal is on the square. I
didn’t tip him a wink to do anything else. He won’t
budge from the jetty. Are you coming along now, sir?”</p>
<p>A short-silence ensued. Ricardo’s jaws were working ominously
under his skin. His eyes glided: voluptuously here and there,
cruel and dreamy, Heyst checked a sudden movement, reflected for a while,
then said:</p>
<p>“You must wait a little.”</p>
<p>“Wait a little! Wait a little! What does he think
a fellow is - a graven image?” grumbled Ricardo half audibly.</p>
<p>Heyst went into the bedroom, and shut the door after him with a bang.
Coming from the light, he could not see a thing in there at first; yet
he received the impression of the girl getting up from the floor.
On the less opaque darkness of the shutter-hole, her head detached itself
suddenly, very faint, a mere hint of a round, dark shape without a face.</p>
<p>“I am going, Lena. I am going to confront these scoundrels.”
He was surprised to feel two arms falling on his shoulders. “I
thought that you - ” he began.</p>
<p>“Yes, yes!” the girl whispered hastily.</p>
<p>She neither clung to him, nor yet did she try to draw him to her.
Her hands grasped his shoulders, and she seemed to him to be staring
into his face in the dark. And now he could see something of her
face, too - an oval without features - and faintly distinguish her person,
in the blackness, a form without definite lines.</p>
<p>“You have a black dress here, haven’t you, Lena?”
he asked, speaking rapidly, and so low that she could just hear him.</p>
<p>“Yes - an old thing.”</p>
<p>“Very good. Put it on at once.”</p>
<p>“But why?”</p>
<p>“Not for mourning!” Them was something peremptory
in the slightly ironic murmur. “Can you find it and get
into it in the dark?”</p>
<p>She could. She would try. He waited, very still.
He could imagine her movements over there at the far end of the room;
but his eyes, accustomed now to the darkness, had lost her completely.
When she spoke, her voice surprised him by its nearness. She had
done what he had told her to do, and had approached him, invisible.</p>
<p>“Good! Where’s that piece of purple veil I’ve
seen lying about?” he asked.</p>
<p>There was no answer, only a slight rustle.</p>
<p>“Where is it?” he repeated impatiently.</p>
<p>Her unexpected breath was on his cheek.</p>
<p>“In my hands.”</p>
<p>“Capital! Listen, Lena. As soon as I leave the
bungalow with that horrible scoundrel, you slip out at the back - instantly,
lose no time! - and run round into the forest. That will be your
time, while we are walking away, and I am sure he won’t give me
the slip. Run into the forest behind the fringe of bushes between
the big trees. You will know, surely, how to find a place in full
view of the front door. I fear for you; but in this black dress,
with most of your face muffled up in that dark veil, I defy anybody
to find you there before daylight. Wait in the forest till the
table is pushed into full view of the doorway, and you see three candles
out of four blown out and one relighted - or, should the lights be put
out here while you watch them, wait till three candles are lighted and
then two put out. At either of these signals run back as hard
as you can, for it will mean that I am waiting for you here.”</p>
<p>While he was speaking, the girl had sought and seized one of his
hands. She did not press it; she held it loosely, as it were timidly,
caressingly. It was no grasp; it was a mere contact, as if only
to make sure that he was there, that he was real and no mere darker
shadow in the obscurity. The warmth of her hand gave Heyst a strange,
intimate sensation of all her person. He had to fight down a new
sort of emotion, which almost unmanned him. He went on, whispering
sternly:</p>
<p>“But if you see no such signals, don’t let anything -
fear, curiosity, despair, or hope - entice you back to this house; and
with the first sign of dawn steal away along the edge of the clearing
till you strike the path. Wait no longer, because I shall probably
be dead.”</p>
<p>The murmur of the word “Never!” floated into his ear
as if it formed itself in the air.</p>
<p>“You know the path,” he continued. “Make
your way to the barricade. Go to Wang - yes, to Wang. Let
nothing stop you!” It seemed to him that the girl’s
hand trembled a little. “The worst he can do to you is to
shoot you, but he won’t. I really think he won’t,
if I am not there. Stay with the villagers, with the wild people,
and fear nothing. They will be more awed by you than you can be
frightened of them. Davidson’s bound to turn up before very
long. Keep a look-out for a passing steamer. Think of some
sort of signal to call him.”</p>
<p>She made no answer. The sense of the heavy, brooding silence
in the outside world seemed to enter and fill the room - the oppressive
infinity of it, without breath, without light. It was as if the
heart of hearts had ceased to beat and the end of all things had come.</p>
<p>“Have you understood? You are to run out of the house
at once,” Heyst whispered urgently.</p>
<p>She lifted his hand to her lips and let it go. He was startled.</p>
<p>“Lena!” he cried out under his breath.</p>
<p>She was gone from his side. He dared not trust himself - no,
not even to the extent of a tender word.</p>
<p>Turning to go out he heard a thud somewhere in the house. To
open the door, he had first to lift the curtain; he did so with his
face over his shoulder. The merest trickle of light, earning through
the keyhole and one or two cracks, was enough for his eyes to see her
plainly, all black, down on her knees, with her head and arms flung
on the foot of the bed - all black in the desolation of a mourning sinner.
What was this? A suspicion that there were everywhere more things
than he could understand crossed Heyst’s mind. Her arm,
detached from the bed, motioned him away. He obeyed, and went
out, full of disquiet.</p>
<p>The curtain behind him had not ceased to tremble when she was up
on her feet, close against it, listening for sounds, for words, in a
stooping, tragic attitude of stealthy attention, one hand clutching
at her breast as if to compress, to make less loud the beating of her
heart. Heyst had caught Mr. Jones’s secretary in the contemplation
of his closed writing-desk. Ricardo might have been meditating
how to break into it; but when he turned about suddenly, he showed so
distorted a face that it made Heyst pause in wonder at the upturned
whites of the eyes, which were blinking horribly, as if the man were
inwardly convulsed.</p>
<p>“I thought you were never coming,” Ricardo mumbled.</p>
<p>“I didn’t know you were pressed for time. Even
if your going away depends on this conversation, as you say, I doubt
if you are the men to put to sea on such a night as this,” said
Heyst, motioning Ricardo to precede him out of the house.</p>
<p>With feline undulations of hip and shoulder, the secretary left the
room at once. There was something cruel in the absolute dumbness
of the night. The great cloud covering half the sky hung right
against one, like an enormous curtain hiding menacing preparations of
violence. As the feet of the two men touched the ground, a rumble
came from behind it, preceded by a swift, mysterious gleam of light
on the waters of the bay.</p>
<p>“Ha!” said Ricardo. “It begins.”</p>
<p>“It may be nothing in the end,” observed Heyst, stepping
along steadily.</p>
<p>“No! Let it come!” Ricardo said viciously.
“I am in the humour for it!”</p>
<p>By the time the two men had reached the other bungalow, the far-off
modulated rumble growled incessantly, while pale lightning in waves
of cold fire flooded and ran off the island in rapid succession.
Ricardo, unexpectedly, dashed ahead up the steps and put his head through
the doorway.</p>
<p>“Here he is, governor! Keep him with you as long as you
can - till you hear me whistle. I am on the track.”</p>
<p>He flung these words into the room with inconceivable speed, and
stood aside to let the visitor pass through the doorway; but he had
to wait an appreciable moment, because Heyst, seeing his purpose, had
scornfully slowed his pace. When Heyst entered the room it was
with a smile, the Heyst smile, lurking under his martial moustache.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h3>CHAPTER ELEVEN</h3>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>Two candles were burning on the stand-up desk. Mr. Jones, tightly
enfolded in an old but gorgeous blue silk dressing-gown, kept his elbows
close against his sides and his hands deeply plunged into the extraordinarily
deep pockets of the garment. The costume accentuated his emaciation.
He resembled a painted pole leaning against the edge of the desk, with
a dried head of dubious distinction stuck on the top of it. Ricardo
lounged in the doorway. Indifferent in appearance to what was
going on, he was biding his time. At a given moment, between two
flickers of lightning, he melted out of his frame into the outer air.
His disappearance was observed on the instant by Mr. Jones, who abandoned
his nonchalant immobility against the desk, and made a few steps calculated
to put him between Heyst and the doorway.</p>
<p>“It’s awfully close,” he remarked</p>
<p>Heyst, in the middle of the room, had made up his mind to speak plainly.</p>
<p>“We haven’t met to talk about the weather. You
favoured me earlier in the day with a rather cryptic phrase about yourself.
‘I am he that is,’ you said. What does that mean?”</p>
<p>Mr. Jones, without looking at Heyst, continued his absentminded movements
till, attaining the desired position, he brought his shoulders with
a thump against the wall near the door, and raised his head. In
the emotion of the decisive moment his haggard face glistened with perspiration.
Drops ran down his hollow cheeks and almost blinded the spectral eyes
in their bony caverns.</p>
<p>“It means that I am a person to be reckoned with. No
- stop! Don’t put your hand into your pocket - don’t.”</p>
<p>His voice had a wild, unexpected shrillness. Heyst started,
and there ensued a moment of suspended animation, during which the thunder’s
deep bass muttered distantly and the doorway to the right of Mr. Jones
flickered with bluish light. At last Heyst shrugged his shoulders;
he even looked at his hand. He didn’t put it in his pocket,
however. Mr. Jones, glued against the wall, watched him raise
both his hands to the ends of his horizontal moustaches, and answered
the note of interrogation in his steady eyes.</p>
<p>“A matter of prudence,” said Mr. Jones in his natural
hollow tones, and with a face of deathlike composure. “A
man of your free life has surely perceived that. You are a much
talked-about man, Mr. Heyst - and though, as far as I understand, you
are accustomed to employ the subtler weapons of intelligence, still
I can’t afford to take any risks of the - er - grosser methods.
I am not unscrupulous enough to be a match for you in the use of intelligence;
but I assure you, Mr. Heyst, that in the other way you are no match
for me. I have you covered at this very moment. You have
been covered ever since you entered this room. Yes - from my pocket.”</p>
<p>During this harangue Heyst looked deliberately over his shoulder,
stepped back a pace, and sat down on the end of the camp bedstead.
Leaning his elbow on one knee, he laid his cheek in the palm of his
hand and seemed to meditate on what he should say next. Mr. Jones,
planted against the wall, was obviously waiting for some sort of overture.
As nothing came, he resolved to speak himself; but he hesitated.
For, though he considered that the most difficult step had been taken,
he said to himself that every stage of progress required great caution,
lest the man in Ricardo’s phraseology, should “start to
prance” - which would be most inconvenient. He fell back
on a previous statement:</p>
<p>“And I am a person to be reckoned with.”</p>
<p>The other man went on looking at the floor, as if he were alone in
the room. There was a pause.</p>
<p>“You have heard of me, then?” Heyst said at length, looking
up.</p>
<p>“I should think so! We have been staying at Schomberg’s
hotel.”</p>
<p>“Schom - ” Heyst choked on the word.</p>
<p>“What’s the matter, Mr. Heyst?”</p>
<p>“Nothing. Nausea,” Heyst said resignedly.
He resumed his former attitude of meditative indifference. “What
is this reckoning you are talking about?” he asked after a time,
in the quietest possible tone. “I don’t know you.”</p>
<p>“It’s obvious that we belong to the same - social sphere,”
began Mr. Jones with languid irony. Inwardly he was as watchful
as he could be. “Something has driven you out - the originality
of your ideas, perhaps. Or your tastes.”</p>
<p>Mr Jones indulged in one of his ghastly smiles. In repose his
features had a curious character of evil, exhausted austerity; but when
he smiled, the whole mask took on an unpleasantly infantile expression.
A recrudescence of the rolling thunder invaded the room loudly, and
passed into silence.</p>
<p>“You are not taking this very well,” observed Mr. Jones.
This was what he said, but as a matter of fact he thought that the business
was shaping quite satisfactorily. The man, he said to himself,
had no stomach for a fight. Aloud he continued: “Come!
You can’t expect to have it always your own way. You are
a man of the world.”</p>
<p>“And you?” Heyst interrupted him unexpectedly.
“How do you define yourself?”</p>
<p>“I, my dear sir? In one way I am - yes, I am the world
itself, come to pay you a visit. In another sense I am an outcast
- almost an outlaw. If you prefer a less materialistic view, I
am a sort of fate - the retribution that waits its time.”</p>
<p>“I wish to goodness you were the commonest sort of ruffian!”
said Heyst, raising his equable gaze to Mr. Jones. “One
would be able to talk to you straight then, and hope for some humanity.
As it is - ”</p>
<p>“I dislike violence and ferocity of every sort as much as you
do,” Mr. Jones declared, looking very languid as he leaned against
the wall, but speaking fairly loud. “You can ask my Martin
if it is not so. This, Mr. Heyst, is a soft age. It is also
an age without prejudices. I’ve heard that you are free
from them yourself. You mustn’t be shocked if I tell you
plainly that we are after your money - or I am, if you prefer to make
me alone responsible. Pedro, of course, knows no more of it than
any other animal would. Ricardo is of the faithful-retainer class
- absolutely identified with all my ideas, wishes, and even whims!”</p>
<p>Mr Jones pulled his left hand out of his pocket, got a handkerchief
out of another, and began to wipe the perspiration from his forehead,
neck, and chin. The excitement from which he suffered made his
breathing visible. In his long dressing-gown he had the air of
a convalescent invalid who had imprudently overtaxed his strength.
Heyst, broad-shouldered, robust, watched the operation from the end
of the camp bedstead, very calm, his hands on his knees.</p>
<p>“And by the by,” he asked, “where is he now, that
henchman of yours? Breaking into my desk?”</p>
<p>“That would be crude. Still, crudeness is one of life’s
conditions.” There was the slightest flavour of banter in
the tone of Ricardo’s governor. “Conceivable, but
unlikely. Martin is a little crude; but you are not, Mr. Heyst.
To tell you the truth, I don’t know precisely where he is.
He has been a little mysterious of late; but he has my confidence.
No, don’t get up, Mr. Heyst!”</p>
<p>The viciousness of his spectral face was indescribable. Heyst,
who had moved a little, was surprised by the disclosure.</p>
<p>“It was not my intention,” he said.</p>
<p>“Pray remain seated,” Mr. Jones insisted in a languid
voice, but with a very determined glitter in his black eye-caverns.</p>
<p>“If you were more observant,” said Heyst with dispassionate
contempt, “you would have known before I had been five minutes
in the room that I had no weapon of any sort on me.”</p>
<p>“Possibly; but pray keep your hands still. They are very
well where they are. This is too big an affair for me to take
any risks.”</p>
<p>“Big? Too big?” Heyst repeated with genuine surprise.
“Good Heavens! Whatever you are looking for, there’s
very little of it here - very little of anything.”</p>
<p>“You would naturally say so, but that’s not what we have
heard,” retorted Mr. Jones quickly, with a grin so ghastly that
it was impossible to think it voluntary.</p>
<p>Heyst’s face had grown very gloomy. He knitted his brows.</p>
<p>“What have you heard?” he asked.</p>
<p>“A lot, Mr. Heyst - a lot,” affirmed Mr. Jones.
He was vying to recover his manner of languid superiority. “We
have heard, for instance, of a certain Mr. Morrison, once your partner.”</p>
<p>Heyst could not repress a slight movement.</p>
<p>“Aha!” said Mr. Jones, with a sort of ghostly glee on
his face.</p>
<p>The muffled thunder resembled the echo of a distant cannonade below
the horizon, and the two men seemed to be listening to it in sullen
silence.</p>
<p>“This diabolical calumny will end in actually and literally
taking my life from me,” thought Heyst.</p>
<p>Then, suddenly, he laughed. Portentously spectral, Mr. Jones
frowned at the sound.</p>
<p>“Laugh as much as you please,” he said. “I,
who have been hounded out from society by a lot of highly moral souls,
can’t see anything funny in that story. But here we are,
and you will now have to pay for your fun, Mr. Heyst.”</p>
<p>“You have heard a lot of ugly lies,” observed Heyst.
“Take my word for it!”</p>
<p>“You would say so, of course - very natural. As a matter
of fact I haven’t heard very much. Strictly speaking, it
was Martin. He collects information, and so on. You don’t
suppose I would talk to that Schomberg animal more than I could help?
It was Martin whom he took into his confidence.”</p>
<p>“The stupidity of that creature is so great that it becomes
formidable,” Heyst said, as if speaking to himself.</p>
<p>Involuntarily, his mind turned to the girl, wandering in the forest,
alone and terrified. Would he ever see her again? At that
thought he nearly lost his self-possession. But the idea that
if she followed his instructions those men were not likely to find her
steadied him a little. They did not know that the island had any
inhabitants; and he himself once disposed of, they would be too anxious
to get away to waste time hunting for a vanished girl.</p>
<p>All this passed through Heyst’s mind in a flash, as men think
in moments of danger. He looked speculatively at Mr. Jones, who,
of course, had never for a moment taken his eyes from his intended victim.
And, the conviction came to Heyst that this outlaw from the higher spheres
was an absolutely hard and pitiless scoundrel.</p>
<p>Mr Jones’s voice made him start.</p>
<p>“It would be useless, for instance, to tell me that your Chinaman
has run off with your money. A man living alone with a Chinaman
on an island takes care to conceal property of that kind so well that
the devil himself - ”</p>
<p>“Certainly,” Heyst muttered.</p>
<p>Again, with his left hand, Mr. Jones mopped his frontal bone, his
stalk-like neck, his razor jaws, his fleshless chin. Again his
voice faltered and his aspect became still more gruesomely malevolent
as of a wicked and pitiless corpse.</p>
<p>“I see what you mean,” he cried, “but you mustn’t
put too much trust in your ingenuity. You don’t strike me
as a very ingenious person, Mr. Heyst. Neither am I. My
talents lie another way. But Martin - ”</p>
<p>“Who is now engaged in rifling my desk,” interjected
Heyst.</p>
<p>“I don’t think so. What I was going to say is that
Martin is much cleverer than a Chinaman. Do you believe in racial
superiority, Mr. Heyst? I do, firmly. Martin is great at
ferreting out such secrets as yours, for instance.”</p>
<p>“Secrets like mine!” repeated Heyst bitterly. “Well
I wish him joy of all he can ferret out!”</p>
<p>“That’s very kind of you,” remarked Mr. Jones.
He was beginning to be anxious for Martin’s return. Of iron
self-possession at the gaming-table, fearless in a sudden affray, he
found that this rather special kind of work was telling on his nerves.
“Keep still as you are!” he cried sharply.</p>
<p>“I’ve told you I am not armed,” said Heyst, folding
his arms on his breast.</p>
<p>“I am really inclined to believe that you are not,” admitted
Mr. Jones seriously. “Strange!” he mused aloud, the
caverns of his eyes turned upon Heyst. Then briskly: “But
my object is to keep you in this room. Don’t provoke me,
by some unguarded movement, to smash your knee or do something definite
of that sort.” He passed his tongue over his lips, which
were dry and black, while his forehead glistened with moisture.
“I don’t know if it wouldn’t be better to do it at
once!”</p>
<p>“He who deliberates is lost,” said Heyst with grave mockery.</p>
<p>Mr Jones disregarded the remark. He had the air of communing
with himself.</p>
<p>“Physically I am no match for you,” he said slowly, his
black gaze fixed upon the man sitting on the end of the bed. “You
could spring - ”</p>
<p>“Are you trying to frighten yourself?” asked Heyst abruptly.
“You don’t seem to have quite enough pluck for your business.
Why don’t you do it at once?”</p>
<p>Mr Jones, taking violent offence, snorted like a savage skeleton.</p>
<p>“Strange as it may seem to you, it is because of my origin,
my breeding, my traditions, my early associations, and such-like trifles.
Not everybody can divest himself of the prejudices of a gentleman as
easily as you have done, Mr, Heyst. But don’t worry about
my pluck. If you were to make a clean spring at me, you would
receive in mid air, so to speak, something that would make you perfectly
harmless by the time you landed. No, don’t misapprehend
us, Mr. Heyst. We are - er - adequate bandits; and we are after
the fruit of your labours as a - er - successful swindler. It’s
the way of the world - gorge and disgorge!”</p>
<p>He leaned wearily the back of his head against the wall. His
vitality seemed exhausted. Even his sunken eyelids drooped within
the bony sockets. Only his thin, waspish, beautifully pencilled
eyebrows, drawn together a little, suggested the will and the power
to sting - something vicious, unconquerable, and deadly.</p>
<p>“Fruits! Swindler!” repeated Heyst, without heat,
almost without contempt. “You are giving yourself no end
of trouble, you and your faithful henchman, to crack an empty nut.
There are no fruits here, as you imagine. There are a few sovereigns,
which you may have if you like; and since you have called yourself a
bandit - ”</p>
<p>“Yaas!” drawled Mr. Jones. “That, rather
than a swindler. Open warfare at least!”</p>
<p>“Very good! Only let me tell you that there were never
in the world two more deluded bandits - never!”</p>
<p>Heyst uttered these words with such energy that Mr. Jones, stiffening
up, seemed to become thinner and taller in his metallic blue dressing-gown
against the whitewashed wall.</p>
<p>“Fooled by a silly, rascally innkeeper!” Heyst went on.
“Talked over like a pair of children with a promise of sweets!”</p>
<p>“I didn’t talk with that disgusting animal,” muttered
Mr. Jones sullenly; “but he convinced Martin, who is no fool.”</p>
<p>“I should think he wanted very much to be convinced,”
said Heyst, with the courteous intonation so well known in the Islands.
“I don’t want to disturb your touching trust in your - your
follower, but he must be the most credulous brigand in existence.
What do you imagine? If the story of my riches were ever so true,
do you think Schomberg would have imparted it to you from sheer altruism?
Is that the way of the world, Mr. Jones?”</p>
<p>For a moment the lower jaw of Ricardo’s gentleman dropped;
but it came up with a snap of scorn, and he said with spectral intensity:</p>
<p>“The beast is cowardly! He was frightened, and wanted
to get rid of us, if you want to know, Mr. Heyst. I don’t
know that the material inducement was so very great, but I was bored,
and we decided to accept the bribe. I don’t regret it.
All my life I have been seeking new impressions, and you have turned
out to be something quite out of the common. Martin, of course,
looks to the material results. He’s simple - and faithful
- and wonderfully acute.”</p>
<p>“Ah, yes! He’s on the track - ” and now Heyst’s
speech had the character of politely grim raillery - “but not
sufficiently on the track, as yet, to make it quite convenient to shoot
me without more ado. Didn’t Schomberg tell you precisely
where I conceal the fruit of my rapines? Pah! Don’t
you know he would have told you anything, true or false, from a very
clear motive? Revenge! Mad hate - the unclean idiot!”</p>
<p>Mr Jones did not seem very much moved. On his right hand the
doorway incessantly flickered with distant lightning, and the continuous
rumble of thunder went on irritatingly, like the growl of an inarticulate
giant muttering fatuously.</p>
<p>Heyst overcame his immense repugnance to allude to her whose image,
cowering in the forest was constantly before his eyes, with all the
pathos and force of its appeal, august, pitiful, and almost holy to
him. It was in a hurried, embarrassed manner that he went on:</p>
<p>“If it had not been for that girl whom he persecuted with his
insane and odious passion, and who threw herself on my protection, he
would never have - but you know well enough!”</p>
<p>“I don’t know!” burst out Mr. Jones with amazing
heat. “That hotel-keeper tried to talk to me once of some
girl he had lost, but I told him I didn’t want to hear any of
his beastly women stories. It had something to do with you, had
it?”</p>
<p>Heyst looked on serenely at this outburst, then lost his patience
a little.</p>
<p>“What sort of comedy is this? You don’t mean to
say that you didn’t know that I had - that there was a girl living
with me here?”</p>
<p>One could see that the eyes of Mr. Jones had become fixed in the
depths of their black holes by the gleam of white becoming steady there.
The whole man seemed frozen still.</p>
<p>“Here! Here!” he screamed out twice. There
was no mistaking his astonishment, his shocked incredulity - something
like frightened disgust.</p>
<p>Heyst was disgusted also, but in another way. He too was incredulous.
He regretted having mentioned the girl; but the thing was done, his
repugnance had been overcome in the heat of his argument against the
absurd bandit.</p>
<p>“Is it possible that you didn’t know of that significant
fact?” he inquired. “Of the only effective truth in
the welter of silly lies that deceived you so easily?”</p>
<p>“No, I didn’t!” Mr. Jones shouted. “But
Martin did!” he added in a faint whisper, which Heyst’s
ears just caught and no more.</p>
<p>“I kept her out of sight as long as I could,” said Heyst.
“Perhaps, with your bringing up traditions, and so on; you will
understand my reason for it.”</p>
<p>“He knew. He knew before!” Mr. Jones mourned
in a hollow voice. “He knew of her from the first!”</p>
<p>Backed hard against the wall he no longer watched Heyst. He
had the air of a man who had seen an abyss yawning under his feet.</p>
<p>“If I want to kill him, this is my time,” thought Heyst;
but he did not move.</p>
<p>Next moment Mr. Jones jerked his head up, glaring with sardonic fury.</p>
<p>“I have a good mind to shoot you, you woman-ridden hermit,
you man in the moon, that can’t exist without - no, it won’t
be you that I’ll shoot. It’s the other woman-lover
- the prevaricating, sly, low-class, amorous cuss! And he shaved
- shaved under my very nose. I’ll shoot him!”</p>
<p>“He’s gone mad,” thought Heyst, startled by the
spectre’s sudden fury.</p>
<p>He felt himself more in danger, nearer death, than ever since he
had entered that room. An insane bandit is a deadly combination.
He did not, could not know that Mr. Jones was quick-minded enough to
see already the end of his reign over his excellent secretary’s
thoughts and feelings; the coming failure of Ricardo’s fidelity.
A woman had intervened! A woman, a girl, who apparently possessed
the power to awaken men’s disgusting folly. Her power had
been proved in two instances already - the beastly innkeeper, and that
man with moustaches, upon whom Mr. Jones, his deadly right hand twitching
in his pocket, glared more in repulsion than in anger. The very
object of the expedition was lost from view in his sudden and overwhelming
sense of utter insecurity. And this made Mr. Jones feel very savage;
but not against the man with the moustaches. Thus, while Heyst
was really feeling that his life was not worth two minutes, purchase,
he heard himself addressed with no affection of languid impertinence
but with a burst of feverish determination.</p>
<p>“Here! Let’s call a truce!” said Mr. Jones.</p>
<p>Heyst’s heart was too sick to allow him to smile.</p>
<p>“Have I been making war on you?” he asked wearily.
“How do you expect me to attach any meaning to your words?”
he went on. “You seem to be a morbid, senseless sort of
bandit. We don’t speak the same language. If I were
to tell you why I am here, talking to you, you wouldn’t believe
me, because you would not understand me. It certainly isn’t
the love of life, from which I have divorced myself long ago - not sufficiently,
perhaps; but if you are thinking of yours, then I repeat to you that
it has never been in danger from me. I am unarmed.”</p>
<p>Mr Jones was biting his lower lip, in a deep meditation. It
was only towards the last that he looked at Heyst.</p>
<p>“Unarmed, eh?” Then he burst out violently: “I
tell you, a gentleman is no match for the common herd. And yet
one must make use of the brutes. Unarmed, eh? And I suppose
that creature is of the commonest sort. You could hardly have
got her out of a drawing-room. Though they’re all alike,
for that matter. Unarmed! It’s a pity. I am
in much greater danger than you are or were - or I am much mistaken.
But I am not - I know my man!”</p>
<p>He lost his air of mental vacancy and broke out into shrill exclamations.
To Heyst they seemed madder than anything that had gone before.</p>
<p>“On the track! On the scent!” he cried, forgetting
himself to the point of executing a dance of rage in the middle of the
floor.</p>
<p>Heyst looked on, fascinated by this skeleton in a gay dressing-gown,
jerkily agitated like a grotesque toy on the end of an invisible string.
It became quiet suddenly.</p>
<p>“I might have smelt a rat! I always knew that this would
be the danger.” He changed suddenly to a confidential tone,
fixing his sepulchral stare on Heyst. “And yet here I am,
taken in by the fellow, like the veriest fool. I’ve been
always on the watch for some beastly influence, but here I am, fairly
caught. He shaved himself right in front of me and I never guessed!”</p>
<p>The shrill laugh, following on the low tone of secrecy, sounded so
convincingly insane that Heyst got up as if moved by a spring.
Mr. Jones stepped back two paces, but displayed no uneasiness.</p>
<p>“It’s as clear as daylight!” he uttered mournfully,
and fell silent.</p>
<p>Behind him the doorway flickered lividly, and the sound as of a naval
action somewhere away on the horizon filled the breathless pause.
Mr, Jones inclined his head on his shoulder. His mood had completely
changed.</p>
<p>“What do you say, unarmed man? Shall we go and see what
is detaining my trusted Martin so long? He asked me to keep you
engaged in friendly conversation till he made a further examination
of that track. Ha, ha, ha!”</p>
<p>“He is no doubt ransacking my house,” said Heyst.</p>
<p>He was is bewildered. It seemed to him that all this was an
incomprehensible dream, or perhaps an elaborate other-world joke, contrived
by that spectre in a gorgeous dressing gown.</p>
<p>Mr Jones looked at him with a horrible, cadaverous smile of inscrutable
mockery, and pointed to the door. Heyst passed through it first.
His feelings had become so blunted that he did not care how soon he
was shot in the back.</p>
<p>“How oppressive the air is!” the voice of Mr. Jones said
at his elbow. “This stupid storm gets on my nerves.
I would welcome some rain, though it would be unpleasant to get wet.
On the other hand, this exasperating thunder has the advantage of covering
the sound of our approach. The lightning’s not so convenient.
Ah, your house is fully illuminated! My clever Martin is punishing
your stock of candles. He belongs to the unceremonious classes,
which are also unlovely, untrustworthy, and so on.”</p>
<p>“I left the candles burning,” said Heyst, “to save
him trouble.”</p>
<p>“You really believed he would go to your house?” asked
Mr. Jones with genuine interest.</p>
<p>“I had that notion, strongly. I do believe he is there
now.”</p>
<p>“And you don’t mind?”</p>
<p>“No!”</p>
<p>“You don’t!” Mr. Jones stopped to wonder.
“You are an extraordinary man,” he said suspiciously, and
moved on, touching elbows with Heyst.</p>
<p>In the latter’s breast dwelt a deep silence, the complete silence
of unused faculties. At this moment, by simply shouldering Mr.
Jones, he could have thrown him down and put himself, by a couple of
leaps, beyond the certain aim of the revolver; but he did not even think
of that. His very will seemed dead of weariness. He moved
automatically, his head low, like a prisoner captured by the evil power
of a masquerading skeleton out of a grave. Mr. Jones took charge
of the direction. They fetched a wide sweep. The echoes
of distant thunder seemed to dog their footsteps.</p>
<p>“By the by,” said Mr. Jones, as if unable to restrain
his curiosity, “aren’t you anxious about that - ouch! -
that fascinating creature to whom you owe whatever pleasure you can
find in our visit?”</p>
<p>“I have placed her in safety,” said Heyst. “I
- I took good care of that.”</p>
<p>Mr Jones laid a hand on his arm.</p>
<p>“You have? Look! is that what you mean?”</p>
<p>Heyst raised his head. In the flicker of lightning the desolation
of the cleared ground on his left leaped out and sank into the night,
together with the elusive forms of things distant, pale, unearthly.
But in the brilliant square of the door he saw the girl - the woman
he had longed to see once more as if enthroned, with her hands on the
arms of the chair. She was in black; her face was white, her head
dreamily inclined on her breast. He saw her only as low as her
knees. He saw her - there, in the room, alive with a sombre reality.
It was no mocking vision. She was not in the forest - but there!
She sat there in the chair, seemingly without strength, yet without
fear, tenderly stooping.</p>
<p>“Can you understand their power?” whispered the hot breath
of Mr. Jones into his ear. “Can there be a more disgusting
spectacle? It’s enough to make the earth detestable.
She seems to have found her affinity. Move on closer. If
I have to shoot you in the end, then perhaps you will die cured.”</p>
<p>Heyst obeyed the pushing pressure of a revolver barrel between his
shoulders. He felt it distinctly, but he did not feel the ground
under his feet. They found the steps, without his being aware
that he was ascending them - slowly, one by one. Doubt entered
into him - a doubt of a new kind, formless, hideous. It seemed
to spread itself all over him, enter his limbs, and lodge in his entrails.
He stopped suddenly, with a thought that he who experienced such a feeling
had no business to live - or perhaps was no longer living.</p>
<p>Everything - the bungalow, the forest, the open ground - trembled
incessantly, the earth, the sky itself, shivered all the time, and the
only thing immovable in the shuddering universe was the interior of
the lighted room and the woman in black sitting in the light of the
eight candle-flames. They flung around her an intolerable brilliance
which hurt his eyes, seemed to sear his very brain with the radiation
of infernal heat. It was some time before his scorched eyes made
out Ricardo seated on the floor at some little distance, his back to
the doorway, but only partly so; one side of his upturned face showing
the absorbed, all forgetful rapture of his contemplation.</p>
<p>The grip of Mr. Jones’s hard claw drew Heyst back a little.
In the roll of thunder, swelling and subsiding, he whispered in his
ear a sarcastic: “Of course!”</p>
<p>A great shame descended upon Heyst - the shame of guilt, absurd and
maddening. Mr. Jones drew him still farther back into the darkness
of the veranda.</p>
<p>“This is serious,” he went on, distilling his ghostly
venom into Heyst’s very ear. “I had to shut my eyes
many times to his little flings; but this is serious. He has found
his soul-mate. Mud souls, obscene and cunning! Mud bodies,
too - the mud of the gutter! I tell you, we are no match for the
vile populace. I, even I, have been nearly caught. He asked
me to detain you till he gave me the signal. It won’t be
you that I’ll have to shoot, but him. I wouldn’t trust
him near me for five minutes after this!”</p>
<p>He shook Heyst’s arm a little.</p>
<p>“If you had not happened to mention the creature, we should
both have been dead before morning. He would have stabbed you
as you came down the steps after leaving me and then he would have walked
up to me and planted the same knife between my ribs. He has no
prejudices. The viler the origin, the greater the freedom of these
simple souls!”</p>
<p>He drew a cautious, hissing breath and added in an agitated murmur:
“I can see right into his mind, I have been nearly caught napping
by his cunning.”</p>
<p>He stretched his neck to peer into the room from the side.
Heyst, too, made a step forward, under the slight impulse of that slender
hand clasping his hand with a thin, bony grasp.</p>
<p>“Behold!” the skeleton of the crazy bandit jabbered thinly
into his ear in spectral fellowship. “Behold the simple,
Acis kissing the sandals of the nymph, on the way to her lips, all forgetful,
while the menacing life of Polyphemus already sounds close at hand -
if he could only hear it! Stoop a little.”</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h3>CHAPTER TWELVE</h3>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>On returning to the Heyst bungalow, rapid as if on wings, Ricardo
found Lena waiting for him. She was dressed in black; and at once
his uplifting exultation was replaced by an awed and quivering patience
before her white face, before the immobility of her reposeful pose,
the more amazing to him who had encountered the strength of her limbs
and the indomitable spirit in her body. She had come out after
Heyst’s departure, and had sat down under the portrait to wait
for the return of the man of violence and death. While lifting
the curtain, she felt the anguish of her disobedience to her lover,
which was soothed by a feeling she had known before - a gentle flood
of penetrating sweetness. She was not automatically obeying a
momentary suggestion, she was under influences more deliberate, more
vague, and of greater potency. She had been prompted, not by her
will, but by a force that was outside of her and more worthy.
She reckoned upon nothing definite; she had calculated nothing.
She saw only her purpose of capturing death - savage, sudden, irresponsible
death, prowling round the man who possessed her, death embodied in the
knife ready to strike into his heart. No doubt it had been a sin
to throw herself into his arms. With that inspiration that descends
at times from above for the good or evil of our common mediocrity, she
had a sense of having been for him only a violent and sincere choice
of curiosity and pity - a thing that passes. She did not know
him. If he were to go away from her and disappear, she would utter
no reproach, she would not resent it; for she would hold in herself
the impress of something most rare and precious - his embraces made
her own by her courage in saving his life.</p>
<p>All she thought of - the essence of her tremors, her flushes of heat,
and her shudders of cold - was the question how to get hold of that
knife, the mark and sign of stalking death. A tremor of impatience
to clutch the frightful thing, glimpsed once and unforgettable, agitated
her hands.</p>
<p>The instinctive flinging forward of these hands stopped Ricardo dead
short between the door and her chair, with the ready obedience of a
conquered man who can bide his time. Her success disconcerted
her. She listened to the man’s impassioned transports of
terrible eulogy and even more awful declarations of love. She
was even able to meet his eyes, oblique, apt to glide away, throwing
feral gleams of desire.</p>
<p>“No!” he was saying, after a fiery outpouring of words
in which the most ferocious phrases of love were mingled with wooing
accents of entreaty. “I will have no more of it! Don’t
you mistrust me. I am sober in my talk. Feel how quietly
my heart beats. Ten times today when you, you, you, swam in my
eye, I thought it would burst one of my ribs or leap out of my throat.
It has knocked itself dead and tired, waiting for this evening, for
this very minute. And now it can do no more. Feel how quiet
it is!”</p>
<p>He made a step forward, but she raised her clear voice commandingly:</p>
<p>“No nearer!”</p>
<p>He stopped with a smile of imbecile worship on his lips, and with
the delighted obedience of a man who could at any moment seize her in
his hands and dash her to the ground.</p>
<p>“Ah! If I had taken you by the throat this morning and
had my way with you, I should never have known what you am. And
now I do. You are a wonder! And so am I, in my way.
I have nerve, and I have brains, too. We should have been lost
many times but for me. I plan - I plot for my gentleman.
Gentleman - pah! I am sick of him. And you are sick of yours,
eh? You, you!”</p>
<p>He shook all over; he cooed at her a string of endearing names, obscene
and tender, and then asked abruptly:</p>
<p>“Why don’t you speak to me?”</p>
<p>“It’s my part to listen,” she said, giving him
an inscrutable smile, with a flush on her cheek and her lips cold as
ice.</p>
<p>“But you will answer me?”</p>
<p>“Yes,” she said, her eyes dilated as if with sudden interest.</p>
<p>“Where’s that plunder? Do you know?”</p>
<p>“No! Not yet.”</p>
<p>“But there is plunder stowed somewhere that’s worth having?”</p>
<p>“Yes, I think so. But who knows?” she added after
a pause.</p>
<p>“And who cares?” he retorted recklessly. “I’ve
had enough of this crawling on my belly. It’s you who are
my treasure. It’s I who found you out where a gentleman
had buried you to rot for his accursed pleasure!”</p>
<p>He looked behind him and all around for a seat, then turned to her
his troubled eyes and dim smile.</p>
<p>“I am dog-tired,” he said, and sat down on the floor.
“I went tired this morning, since I came in here and started talking
to you - as tired as if I had been pouring my life-blood here on these
planks for you to dabble your white feet in.”</p>
<p>Unmoved, she nodded at him thoughtfully. Woman-like, all her
faculties remained concentrated on her heart’s desire - on the
knife - while the man went on babbling insanely at her feet, ingratiating
and savage, almost crazy with elation. But he, too, was holding
on to his purpose.</p>
<p>“For you! For you I will throw away money, lives - all
the lives but mine! What you want is a man, a master that will
let you put the heel of your shoe on his neck; not that skulker, who
will get tired of you in a year - and you of him. And then what?
You are not the one to sit still; neither am I. I live for myself,
and you shall live for yourself, too - not for a Swedish baron.
They make a convenience of people like you and me. A gentleman
is better than an employer, but an equal partnership against all the
’yporcrits is the thing for you and me. We’ll go on
wandering the world over, you and I both free and both true. You
are no cage bird. We’ll rove together, for we are of them
that have no homes. We are born rovers!”</p>
<p>She listened to him with the utmost attention, as if any unexpected
word might give her some sort of opening to get that dagger, that awful
knife - to disarm murder itself, pleading for her love at her feet.
Again she nodded at him thoughtfully, rousing a gleam in his yellow
eyes, yearning devotedly upon her face. When he hitched himself
a little closer, her soul had no movement of recoil. This had
to be. Anything had to be which would bring the knife within her
reach. He talked more confidentially now.</p>
<p>“We have met, and their time has come,” he began, looking
up into her eyes. “The partnership between me and my gentleman
has to be ripped up. There’s no room for him where we two
are. Why, he would shoot me like a dog! Don’t you
worry. This will settle it not later than tonight!”</p>
<p>He tapped his folded leg below the knee, and was surprised, flattered,
by the lighting up of her face, which stooped towards him eagerly and
remained expectant, the lips girlishly parted, red in the pale face,
and quivering in the quickened drawing of her breath.</p>
<p>“You marvel, you miracle, you man’s luck and joy - one
in a million! No, the only one. You have found your man
in me,” he whispered tremulously. “Listen! They
are having their last talk together; for I’ll do for your gentleman,
too, by midnight.”</p>
<p>Without the slightest tremor she murmured, as soon as the tightening
of her breast had eased off and the words would come:</p>
<p>“I wouldn’t be in too much of a hurry - with him.”</p>
<p>The pause, the tone, had all the value of meditated advice.</p>
<p>“Good, thrifty girl!” he laughed low, with a strange
feline gaiety, expressed by the undulating movement of his shoulders
and the sparkling snap of his oblique eyes. “You am still
thinking about the chance of that swag. You’ll make a good
partner, that you will! And, I say, what a decoy you will make!
Jee-miny!”</p>
<p>He was carried away for a moment, but his face darkened swiftly.</p>
<p>“No! No reprieve. What do you think a fellow is
- a scarecrow? All hat and clothes and no feeling, no inside,
no brain to make fancies for himself? No!” he went on violently.
“Never in his life will he go again into that room of yours -
never any more!”</p>
<p>A silence fell. He was gloomy with the torment of his jealousy,
and did not even look at her. She sat up and slowly, gradually,
bent lower and lower over him, as if ready to fall into his arms.
He looked up at last, and checked this droop unwittingly.</p>
<p>“Say! You, who are up to fighting a man with your bare
hands, could you - eh? - could you manage to stick one with a thing
like that knife of mine?”</p>
<p>She opened her eyes very wide and gave him a wild smile.</p>
<p>“How can I tell?” she whispered enchantingly. “Will
you let me have a look at it?”</p>
<p>Without taking his eyes from her face, he pulled the knife out of
its sheath - a short, broad, cruel double-edged blade with a bone handle
- and only then looked down at it.</p>
<p>“A good friend,” he said simply. “Take it
in your hand and feel the balance,” he suggested.</p>
<p>At the moment when she bent forward to receive it from him, there
was a flash of fire in her mysterious eyes - a red gleam in the white
mist which wrapped the promptings and longings of her soul. She
had done it! The very sting of death was in her hands, the venom
of the viper in her paradise, extracted, safe in her possession - and
the viper’s head all but lying under her heel. Ricardo,
stretched on the mats of the floor, crept closer and closer to the chair
in which she sat.</p>
<p>All her thoughts were busy planning how to keep possession of that
weapon which had seemed to have drawn into itself every danger and menace
on the death-ridden earth. She said with a low laugh, the exultation
in which he failed to recognize:</p>
<p>“I didn’t think that you would ever trust me with that
thing!”</p>
<p>“Why not?”</p>
<p>“For fear I should suddenly strike you with it.”</p>
<p>“What for? For this morning’s work? Oh, no!
There’s no spite in you for that. You forgave me.
You saved me. You got the better of me, too. And anyhow,
what good would it be?”</p>
<p>“No, no good,” she admitted.</p>
<p>In her heart she felt that she would not know how to do it; that
if it came to a struggle, she would have to drop the dagger and fight
with her hands.</p>
<p>“Listen. When we are going about the world together,
you shall always call me husband. Do you hear?”</p>
<p>“Yes,” she said bracing herself for the contest, in whatever
shape it was coming.</p>
<p>The knife was lying in her lap. She let it slip into the fold
of her dress, and laid her forearms with clasped fingers over her knees,
which she pressed desperately together. The dreaded thing was
out of sight at last. She felt a dampness break out all over her.</p>
<p>“I am not going to hide you, like that good-for-nothing, finicky,
sneery gentleman. You shall be my pride and my chum. Isn’t
that better than rotting on an island for the pleasure of a gentleman,
till he gives you the chuck?”</p>
<p>“I’ll be anything you like,” she said.</p>
<p>In his intoxication he crept closer with every word she uttered,
with every movement she made.</p>
<p>“Give your foot,” he begged in a timid murmur, and in
the full consciousness of his power.</p>
<p>Anything! Anything to keep murder quiet and disarmed till strength
had returned to her limbs and she could make up her mind what to do.
Her fortitude had been shaken by the very facility of success that had
come to her. She advanced her foot forward a little from under
the hem of her skirt; and he threw himself on it greedily. She
was not even aware of him. She had thought of the forest, to which
she had been told to run. Yes, the forest - that was the place
for her to carry off the terrible spoil, the sting of vanquished death.
Ricardo, clasping her ankle, pressed his lips time after time to the
instep, muttering gasping words that were like sobs, making little noises
that resembled the sounds of grief and distress. Unheard by them
both, the thunder growled distantly with angry modulations of it’s
tremendous voice, while the world outside shuddered incessantly around
the dead stillness of the room where the framed profile of Heyst’s
father looked severely into space.</p>
<p>Suddenly Ricardo felt himself spurned by the foot he had been cherishing
- spurned with a push of such violence into the very hollow of his throat
that it swung him back instantly into an upright position on his knees.
He read his danger in the stony eyes of the girl; and in the very act
of leaping to his feet he heard sharply, detached on the comminatory
voice of the storm the brief report of a shot which half stunned him,
in the manner of a blow. He turned his burning head, and saw Heyst
towering in the doorway. The thought that the beggar had started
to prance darted through his mind. For a fraction of a second
his distracted eyes sought for his weapon an over the floor. He
couldn’t see it.</p>
<p>“Stick him, you!” he called hoarsely to the girl, and
dashed headlong for the door of the compound.</p>
<p>While he thus obeyed the instinct of self-preservation, his reason
was telling him that he could not possibly reach it alive. It
flew open, however, with a crash, before his launched weight, and instantly
he swung it to behind him. There, his shoulder leaning against
it, his hands clinging to the handle, dazed and alone in the night full
of shudders and muttered menaces, he tried to pull himself together.
He asked himself if he had been shot at more than once. His shoulder
was wet with the blood trickling from his head. Feeling above
his ear, he ascertained that it was only a graze, but the shock of the
surprise had unmanned him for the moment.</p>
<p>What the deuce was the governor about to let the beggar break loose
like this? Or - was the governor dead, perhaps?</p>
<p>The silence within the room awed him. Of going back there could
be no question.</p>
<p>“But she know show to take care of her self,” he muttered.</p>
<p>She had his knife. It was she now who was deadly, while he
was disarmed, no good for the moment. He stole away from the door,
staggering, the warm trickle running down his neck, to find out what
had become of the governor and to provide himself with a firearm from
the armoury in the trunks.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h3>CHAPTER THIRTEEN</h3>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>Mr Jones, after firing his shot over Heyst’s shoulder, had
thought it proper to dodge away. Like the spectre he was, he noiselessly
vanished from the veranda. Heyst stumbled into the room and looked
around. All the objects in there - the books, portrait on the
wall - seemed shadowy, unsubstantial, the dumb accomplices of an amazing
dream-plot ending in an illusory effect of awakening and the impossibility
of ever closing his eyes again. With dread he forced himself to
look at the girl. Still in the chair, she was leaning forward
far over her knees, and had hidden her face in her hands. Heyst
remembered Wang suddenly. How clear all this was - and how extremely
amusing! Very.</p>
<p>She sat up a little, then leaned back, and taking her hands from
her face, pressed both of them to her breast as if moved to the heart
by seeing him there looking at her with a black, horror-struck curiosity.
He would have pitied her, if the triumphant expression of her face had
not given him a shock which destroyed the balance of his feelings.
She spoke with an accent of wild joy:</p>
<p>“I knew you would come back in time! You are safe now.
I have done it! I would never, never have let him - ”
Her voice died out, while her eyes shone at him as when the sun breaks
through a mist. “Never get it back. Oh, my beloved!”</p>
<p>He bowed his head gravely, and said in his polite. Heystian
tone:</p>
<p>“No doubt you acted from instinct. Women have been provided
with their own weapon. I was a disarmed man, I have been a disarmed
man all my life as I see it now. You may glory in your resourcefulness
and your profound knowledge of yourself; but I may say that the other
attitude, suggestive of shame, had its charm. For you are full
of charm!”</p>
<p>The exultation vanished from her face.</p>
<p>“You mustn’t make fun of me now. I know no shame.
I was thanking God with all my sinful heart for having been able to
do it - for giving you to me in that way - oh, my beloved - all my own
at last!”</p>
<p>He stared as if mad. Timidly she tried to excuse herself for
disobeying his directions for her safety. Every modulation of
her enchanting voice cut deep into his very breast, so that he could
hardly understand the words for the sheer pain of it. He turned
his back on her; but a sudden drop, an extraordinary faltering of her
tone, made him spin round. On her white neck her pale head dropped
as in a cruel drought a withered flower droops on its stalk. He
caught his breath, looked at her closely, and seemed to read some awful
intelligence in her eyes. At the moment when her eyelids fell
as if smitten from above by an the gleam of old silver familiar to him
from boyhood, the very invisible power, he snatched her up bodily out
of the chair, and disregarding an unexpected metallic clatter on the
floor, carried her off into the other room. The limpness of her
body frightened him. Laying her down on the bed, he ran out again,
seized a four-branched candlestick on the table, and ran back, tearing
down with a furious jerk the curtain that swung stupidly in his way,
but after putting the candlestick on the table by the bed, he remained
absolutely idle. There did not seem anything more for him to do.
Holding his chin in his hand he looked down intently at her still face.</p>
<p>“Has she been stabbed with this thing?” asked Davidson,
whom suddenly he saw standing by his side and holding up Ricardo’s
dagger to his sight. Heyst uttered no word of recognition or surprise.
He gave Davidson only a dumb look of unutterable awe, then, as if possessed
with a sudden fury, started tearing open the front of the girls dress.
She remained insensible under his hands, and Heyst let out a groan which
made Davidson shudder inwardly the heavy plaint of a man who falls clubbed
in the dark.</p>
<p>They stood side by side, looking mournfully at the little black hole
made by Mr. Jones’s bullet under the swelling breast of a dazzling
and as it were sacred whiteness. It rose and fell slightly - so
slightly that only the eyes of the lover could detect the faint stir
of life. Heyst, calm and utterly unlike himself in the face, moving
about noiselessly, prepared a wet cloth, and laid it on the insignificant
wound, round which there was hardly a trace of blood to mar the charm,
the fascination, of that mortal flesh.</p>
<p>Her eyelids fluttered. She looked drowsily about, serene, as
if fatigued only by the exertions of her tremendous victory, capturing
the very sting of death in the service of love. But her eyes became
very wide awake when they caught sight of Ricardo’s dagger, the
spoil of vanquished death, which Davidson was still holding, unconsciously.</p>
<p>“Give it to me,” she said. “It’s mine.”</p>
<p>Davidson put the symbol of her victory into her feeble hands extended
to him with the innocent gesture of a child reaching eagerly for a toy.</p>
<p>“For you,” she gasped, turning her eyes to Heyst.
“Kill nobody.”</p>
<p>“No,” said Heyst, taking the dagger and laying it gently
on her breast, while her hands fell powerless by her side.</p>
<p>The faint smile on her deep-cut lips waned, and her head sank deep
into the pillow, taking on the majestic pallor and immobility of marble.
But over the muscles, which seemed set in their transfigured beauty
for ever, passed a slight and awful tremor. With an amazing strength
she asked loudly:</p>
<p>“What’s the matter with me?”</p>
<p>“You have been shot, dear Lena,” Heyst said in a steady
voice, while Davidson, at the question, turned away and leaned his forehead
against the post of the foot of the bed.</p>
<p>“Shot? I did think, too, that something had struck me.”</p>
<p>Over Samburan the thunder had ceased to growl at last, and the world
of material forms shuddered no more under the emerging stars.
The spirit of the girl which was passing away from under them clung
to her triumph convinced of the reality of her victory over death.</p>
<p>“No more,” she muttered. “There will be no
more! Oh, my beloved,” she cried weakly, “I’ve
saved you! Why don’t you take me into your arms and carry
me out of this lonely place?”</p>
<p>Heyst bent low over her, cursing his fastidious soul, which even
at that moment kept the true cry of love from his lips in its infernal
mistrust of all life. He dared not touch her and she had no longer
the strength to throw her arms about his neck.</p>
<p>“Who else could have done this for you?” she whispered
gloriously.</p>
<p>“No one in the world,” he answered her in a murmur of
unconcealed despair.</p>
<p>She tried to raise herself, but all she could do was to lift her
head a little from the pillow. With a terrible and gentle movement,
Heyst hastened to slip his arm under her neck. She felt relieved
at once of an intolerable weight, and was content to surrender to him
the infinite weariness of her tremendous achievement. Exulting,
she saw herself extended on the bed, in a black dress, and profoundly
at peace, while, stooping over her with a kindly, playful smile, he
was ready to lift her up in his firm arms and take her into the sanctuary
of his innermost heart - for ever! The flush of rapture flooding
her whole being broke out in a smile of innocent, girlish happiness;
and with that divine radiance on her lips she breathed her, last triumphant,
seeking for his glance in the shades of death.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h3>CHAPTER FOURTEEN</h3>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>“Yes, Excellency,” said Davidson in his placid voice;
“there are more dead in this affair - more white people, I mean
- than have been killed in many of the battles in the last Achin war.”</p>
<p>Davidson was talking with an Excellency, because what was alluded
to in conversation as “the mystery of Samburan” had caused
such a sensation in the Archipelago that even those in the highest spheres
were anxious to hear something at first hand. Davidson had been
summoned to an audience. It was a high official on his tour.</p>
<p>“You knew the late Baron Heyst well?”</p>
<p>“The truth is that nobody out here can boast of having known
him well,” said Davidson. “He was a queer chap.
I doubt if he himself knew how queer he was. But everybody was
aware that I was keeping my eye on him in a friendly way. And
that’s how I got the warning which made me turn round in my tracks.
In the middle of my trip and steam back to Samburan, where, I am grieved
to say, I arrived too late.”</p>
<p>Without enlarging very much, Davidson explained to the attentive
Excellency how a woman, the wife of a certain hotel-keeper named Schomberg,
had overheard two card-sharping rascals making inquiries from her husband
as to the exact position of the island. She caught only a few
words referring to the neighbouring volcano, but there were enough to
arouse her suspicions - “which,” went on Davidson, “she
imparted to me, your Excellency. They were only too well founded!”</p>
<p>“That was very clever of her,” remarked the great man.</p>
<p>“She’s much cleverer than people have any conception
of,” said Davidson.</p>
<p>But he refrained from disclosing to the Excellency the real cause
which had sharpened Mrs. Schomberg’s wits. The poor woman
was in mortal terror of the girl being brought back within reach of
her infatuated Wilhelm. Davidson only said that her agitation
had impressed him; but he confessed that while going back, he began
to have his doubts as to there being anything in it.</p>
<p>“I steamed into one of those silly thunderstorms that hang
about the volcano, and had some trouble in making the island,”
narrated Davidson. “I had to grope my way dead slow into
Diamond Bay. I don’t suppose that anybody, even if looking
out for me, could have heard me let go the anchor.”</p>
<p>He admitted that he ought to have gone ashore at once; but everything
was perfectly dark and absolutely quiet. He felt ashamed of his
impulsiveness. What a fool he would have looked, waking up a man
in the middle of the night just to ask him if he was all right!
And then the girl being there, he feared that Heyst would look upon
his visit as an unwarrantable intrusion.</p>
<p>The first intimation he had of there being anything wrong was a big
white boat, adrift, with the dead body of a very hairy man inside, bumping
against the bows of his steamer. Then indeed he lost no time in
going ashore - alone, of course, from motives of delicacy.</p>
<p>“I arrived in time to see that poor girl die, as I have told
your Excellency,” pursued Davidson. “I won’t
tell you what a time I had with him afterwards. He talked to me.
His father seems to have been a crank, and to have upset his head when
he was young. He was a queer chap. Practically the last
words be said to me, as we came out on the veranda, were:</p>
<p>“‘Ah, Davidson, woe to the man whose heart has not learned
while young to hope, to love - and to put its trust in life!’</p>
<p>“As we stood there, just before I left him, for he said be
wanted to be alone with his dead for a time, we heard a snarly sort
of voice near the bushes by the shore calling out:</p>
<p>“‘Is that you, governor?’</p>
<p>“‘Yes, it’s me.’</p>
<p>“‘Jeeminy! I thought the beggar had done for you.
He has started prancing and nearly had me. I have been dodging
around, looking for you ever since.’</p>
<p>“‘Well, here I am,’ suddenly screamed the other
voice, and then a shot rang out.</p>
<p>“‘This time he has not missed him,’ Heyst said
to me bitterly, and went back into the house.</p>
<p>“I returned on board as he had insisted I should do.
I didn’t want to intrude on his grief. Later, about five
in the morning, some of my calashes came running to me, yelling that
there was a fire ashore. I landed at once, of course. The
principal bungalow was blazing. The heat drove us back.
The other two houses caught one after another like kindling-wood.
There was no going beyond the shore end of the jetty till the afternoon.”</p>
<p>Davidson sighed placidly.</p>
<p>“I suppose you are certain that Baron Heyst is dead?”</p>
<p>“He is - ashes, your Excellency,” said Davidson, wheezing
a little; “he and the girl together. I suppose he couldn’t
stand his thoughts before her dead body - and fire purifies everything.
That Chinaman of whom I told your Excellency helped me to investigate
next day, when the embers got cooled a little. We found enough
to be sure. He’s not a bad Chinaman. He told me that
he had followed Heyst and the girl through the forest from pity, and
partly out of curiosity. He watched the house till he saw Heyst
go out, after dinner, and Ricardo come back alone. While he was
dodging there, it occurred to him that he had better cast the boat adrift,
for fear those scoundrels should come round by water and bombard the
village from the sea with their revolvers and Winchesters. He
judged that they were devils enough for anything. So he walked
down the wharf quietly; and as he got into the boat, to cast her off,
that hairy man who, it seems, was dozing in her, jumped up growling,
and Wang shot him dead. Then he shoved the boat off as far as
he could and went away.”</p>
<p>There was a pause. Presently Davidson went on, in his tranquil
manner:</p>
<p>“Let Heaven look after what has been purified. The wind
and rain will take care of the ashes. The carcass of that follower,
secretary, or whatever the unclean ruffian called himself, I left where
it lay, to swell and rot in the sun. His principal had shot him
neatly through the head. Then, apparently, this Jones went down
to the wharf to look for the boat and for the hairy man. I suppose
he tumbled into the water by accident - or perhaps not by accident.
The boat and the man were gone, and the scoundrel saw himself alone,
his game clearly up, and fairly trapped. Who knows? The
water’s very clear there, and I could see him huddled up on the
bottom, between two piles, like a heap of bones in a blue silk bag,
with only the head and the feet sticking out. Wang was very pleased
when he discovered him. That made everything safe, he said, and
he went at once over the hill to fetch his Alfuro woman back to the
hut.”</p>
<p>Davidson took out his handkerchief to wipe the perspiration off his
forehead.</p>
<p>“And then, your Excellency, I went away. There was nothing
to be done there.”</p>
<p>“Clearly!” assented the Excellency.</p>
<p>Davidson, thoughtful, seemed to weigh the matter in his mind, and
then murmured with placid sadness:</p>
<p>“Nothing!”</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p><i>October</i> 1912 - <i>May</i> 1914</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div>
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