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CIHM 
Microfiche 
Series 
(Monographs) 


ICMH 

Collection  de 
microfiches 
(monographies) 


H 


Canadian  Inatitut*  for  Hiitorical  Microraproductiora  /  InttHut  Canadian  da  microraproductiont  hiatoriquaa 


1995 


Technical  and  Bibliographic  Notes  /  Notes  technique  et  bibllographiques 


The  Institute  has  attempted  to  obtain  the  best  original 
copy  available  for  filming.  Features  of  this  copy  which 
may  be  bibliographically  unique,  which  may  alter  any  of 
the  images  in  the  reproduction,  or  which  may 
significantly  change  the  usual  method  of  filming  are 
checked  below. 


D 


D 
D 


D 


Coloured  covers  / 
Couverture  de  couleur 


I     I  Covers  damaged  / 

' — '  Couveiture  endommag6e 

I     I  Covers  restored  and/or  laminated  / 

' — I  Couverture  restaurto  et/ou  pellicula 

I     I  Cover  title  missing /Le  title  de  couverture  manque 

I     I  Coloured  maps  /  Cartes  gtegraphiques  en  couleur 

n/  Coloured  inl<(i.e.  other  than  blue  or  black)/ 

'-^  Encre  de  couleur  (i.e.  autre  que  bleue  ou  noire) 

I     I  Coloured  plates  and/or  illustrations  / 

I — '  Planches  et/ou  illustratrans  en  couleur 

I     I  Bound  with  other  material  / 


Relie  avec  d'autres  documents 

Only  editk>n  available  / 
Seule  editkin  disponible 

Tight  binding  may  cause  shadows  or  distortion 
along  interior  margin  /  La  reliure  serree  peut 
causer  de  I'ombre  ou  de  la  distorston  le  long  de 
la  marge  interieure. 

Blank  leaves  added  during  restortkxis  may  appear 
within  the  text.  Whenever  possible,  these  have 
been  omitted  from  filming  /  II  se  peut  que  certaines 
pages  blanct^es  ajoutees  k)rs  cfune  restauration 
apparaissent  dans  le  texle,  mais,  kxsque  cela  Aait 
passible,  ces  pages  n'ont  pas  ete  IHmees. 


L'Instltut  a  microfilm^  le  meilleur  examplaire  qu'il  lui  a 
Hi  possible  de  se  procurer.  Les  details  de  cet  exem- 
plaire  qui  sont  peut-6tre  uniques  du  point  de  vue  bibli- 
ographique,  qui  peuvent  modifier  une  image  reproduite, 
ou  qui  peuvent  exiger  une  modifications  dans  la  m6th- 
ode  normale  de  filmage  sont  indiqute  ci-dessous. 

I     I     Cokxired  pages  /  Pages  de  couleur 

I     I     Pages  damaged  /  Pages  endommagtes 

I     I     Pages  restored  and/or  laminated/ 
' — '     Pages  restaurees  et/ou  pellkxjltes 

^Z     Pages  discokiured,  stained  or  foxed  / 
' — '      Pages  decokjrees,  tachettes  ou  piquees 

I     I      Pages  detached/ Pages  detachees 

rry    Showthrough  /  Transparence 

I     I     Quality  of  print  varies  / 

' — '      Qualite  inegale  de  I'impresswn 

I     I      Includes  supplementary  material  / 
' — '     Comprend  du  materiel  suppMmentaire 

I  I  Pages  wholly  or  partially  obscured  by  errata 
' — '  slips,  tissues,  etc.,  have  been  refilmed  to 
ensure  the  best  possible  image  /  Les  pages 
totalement  ou  partiellement  obscurcies  par  un 
feuillet  d'errata,  une  pelure,  etc.,  ont  ete  filmees 
i  nouveau  de  fafon  k  obtenir  la  meilleure 
image  possible. 

I  I  Opposing  pages  with  varying  colouration  or 
' — '  discolourations  are  filmed  twice  to  ensure  the 
best  possible  image  /  Les  pages  s'ooposant 
ayant  des  colorations  variables  ou  des  decol- 
orations sont  filmies  deux  fois  afin  d'obtsnir  la 
meilleur  image  possible. 


D 


Adcftional  commerts  / 
Comnientaires  suppldmerlaires: 


This  iwm  it  f  ihn«d  at  th«  raduetion  ratio  ctiacfcad  balow/ 

Ca  docunwnt  asl  film*  au  taux  da  raduction  indiqui  ci-dassous. 


lOX 

1«X 

18X 

22X 

XX 

MX 

1 

J 

12X 


20X 


Th«  copy  flimad  htm  hn  b««n  raprodtiead  thanka 
to  tha  ganaroaity  of: 

BibHotMqua  9in«rali, 

Uninnitt  Lnil, 

QirfbM,  QuMmc. 


L'axamplaira  lllmi  fut  raproduit  griea  t  la 
a*n*ro»litt  da: 

BiMiotMquf  gtntrtit, 

UnlnnM  Lnal, 

QuMmc,  QiiMmc. 


Tha  Imagaa  appaaring  Kara  ara  tha  boat  qualltv 
poialbia  eonaidaring  tha  condition  and  lagibillty 
of  tha  original  copy  and  in  kaaping  with  tha 
filming  contraet  apadfteatlona. 


Laa  Imagaa  iuh«antaa  ont  ati  raproduitas  avac  la 
plua  grand  lOin,  eompta  tanu  da  la  condition  at 
da  la  nattat*  da  l'axamplaira  flimi,  at  an 
eonformita  avac  laa  eondltlona  du  connat  da 
flimaga. 


Original  eeplaa  In  printad  papar  eovora  ara  fHmod 
baginning  with  <^a  front  eovar  and  anding  on 
tha  iaat  paga  wltii  a  printad  or  llluatiatad  Impraa- 
aion,  or  tha  back  eovar  whan  appropriata.  All 
othar  original  copiaa  ara  filmad  baginning  on  tha 
firat  paga  wfth  a  printad  or  illuatratad  Impraa- 
alon.  and  anding  on  tha  iaat  paga  wWi  a  printad 
or  illuatratad  Impraaalon. 


Laa  axamplairaa  originaux  dont  la  couvanura  an 
papiar  aat  imprimia  aont  riimaa  an  commancant 
par  la  pramiar  plat  at  an  tarminant  ioit  par  la 
darniira  paga  qui  comporta  una  amprainta 
d'impraaaion  ou  d'iliuatratlon,  aoit  par  la  tacond 
plat,  aalon  la  eaa.  Toua  laa  autraa  axamplairaa 
orlglnaux  aont  filmto  an  command  ant  par  la 
pramitra  paga  qui  comporta  una  amprainta 
d'impraaaion  ou  d'iliuatratlon  at  an  tarminant  par 
la  darnitra  paga  qui  comporta  una  taila 
amprainta. 


Tha  iaat  raeordad  frama  on  aach  microftcha 
ahall  contain  tha  aymboi  — ^  Imaaning  "CON- 
T1NUE0").  or  tha  lymboi  ▼  Imaaning  "END"), 
whiehavar  appllaa. 


Un  daa  cymbolaa  auivanta  apparattra  aur  la 
darnitra  imaga  da  chaqua  microficha.  aaion  la 
eaa:  la  aymboia  ■^  aignifia  "A  SUIVRE".  la 
aymboia  ▼  aignifia  "FIN". 


Mapa.  plataa.  charta,  ate.,  may  ba  filmad  at 
different  reduction  ratloa.  Thoae  too  large  to  ba 
entirely  included  In  one  expoeure  ara  filmed 
beginning  In  the  upper  left  hand  comer,  kift  to 
right  and  top  to  bottom,  aa  many  framea  aa 
required.  The  following  diagrama  illuatrate  the 
method: 


Lea  cartea,  planchea,  tableaux,  etc..  peuvent  ttre 
fiimta  t  daa  taux  da  reduction  diffarants. 
Loraque  le  document  eat  trop  grand  pour  ttra 
reproduit  en  un  aaul  clicha.  ii  eat  flima  t  partir 
da  Tangle  auptrieur  gauche,  de  gauche  t  droita, 
et  de  Iwut  an  bee,  en  prenant  la  nombra 
d'Imagaa  nicaaaaira.  Lea  diagrammea  auivanta 
illuatrant  le  mathoda. 


1  2  3 


1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

MiaOCOPY   RBOIUTKM   TUT  CHART 

(ANSI  and  ISO  TEST  CHART  No.  2) 


_^  /APPLIED    IIVHGE      In 

a^ii  '653  Cost  Main   Stmt 

mg.^S  RochMttf.   New  York         14609       US* 

r.^  (71 6)  462  -  0300  -  Phone 

^S  (7t6)   288- 5989 -Fo« 


WITHIN    THE    TIDES 


BY 

THE  SAME 

AUTHOR 

•TWIXT 

LAND 

AND 

SEA 

THIRD  EDITION 

Crown 

8vo 

6i. 

J.  H.  DENT  i 

SONS  Ltd. 

I 


WITHIN  THE  TIDES 
(*oor  TALES 

VI)  ^^ij    JOSEPH   CONRAD 

\9\^ 


Go,  make  yon  ready. 

Hamlet  to  iht  Players. 


LONDON   *  TORONTO 
J.  M.  DENT  &  SONS  LTD. 

MCMXV 


So 


Mr.    and   Mrs.    RALPH    WEDGWOOD 

WIS  A,  OF  CAR..,|ttB  ANTB-BIUUH   PACK 

«N  ORAniOn,  «,R  TH„,  CHARWKO  HOSP.TAL.Ty 

IN  TBI  LAST  MONTH  OP  PEACE 


.( 


I ;' 


,1 


CONTENTS 


The  Planter  of  Maiata  .       , 
The  Pastner     . 
iHE  Inn  of  the  Two  Witches 
Because  of  the  Doliaes 


FAOt 
I 

"7 
'73 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 


In  the  private  editorial  office  of  the  principal  news- 
paper in  a  great  colonial  city  two  men  were  talking 
They  were  both  young.  The  stouter  of  the  two. 
fair,  and  with  more  of  an  urban  look  about  him' 
was  the  editor  and  part-owner  of  the  important 
newspaper. 

The  other's  name  was  Renouard.  That  he  was 
exercised  in  his  mind  about  something  was  evident 
on  his  fine  bronzed  face.  He  was  a  lean,  lounging, 
active  man.  The  journalist  continued  the  conver- 
sation. 

"And  so  you  were  dining  yesterday  at  old 
Dunster's." 

He  used  the  word  old  not  in  the  endearing  sense 
in  which  it  is  sometimes  applied  to  intimates,  but 
as  a  matter  of  sober  fact.  The  Dunster  in  question 
was  old.  He  had  been  an  eminent  colonial  states- 
man, but  had  now  retired  from  active  politics  after 
a  tour  in  Europe  and  a  lengthy  stay  in  England 
durmg  which  he  had  had  a  very  good  press  indeed. 
The  colony  was  proud  of  him. 


4  THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 

"Yes.  I  dined  there,"  said  Renouard.  "Young 
Dunster  asked  me  just  as  I  was  going  out  of  his 
office.  It  seemed  to  be  like  a  sudden  thought. 
And  yet  I  can't  help  suspecting  some  purpose  be- 
hind it.  He  was  very  pressing.  He  swore  that 
his  uncle  would  be  very  pleased  to  se?  me.  Said 
his  imcle  had  mentioned  lately  that  the  granting 
to  me  of  the  Malata  concession  vas  the  last  act  of 
his  official  life." 

"  Very  touching.  The  old  boy  sentimentalises 
over  the  past  now  and  then." 

"  I  really  don't  know  why  I  accepted,"  coutinued 
the  other.  "  Sentiment  does  not  move  me  very 
easily.  Old  Dunster  was  civil  to  me  of  course,  but 
he  did  not  even  inquire  how  I  was  getting  on  with 
my  silk  plants.  Forgot  there  was  such  a  thing 
probably.  I  must  say  there  were  more  people 
there  than  I  expected  to  meet.    Quite  a  big  party." 

"  I  was  asked,"  remarked  thu  newspaper  man. 
"  Only  I  couldn't  go.  But  when  did  you  arrive 
from  Malata? " 

"  I  arrived  yesterday  at  daylight.  I  am  anchored 
out  there  in  t^^  bay — off  Garden  Point.  I  was  in 
Dunster's  office  before  he  had  finished  reading  his 
letters.  Have  you  ever  seen  young  Dunster  read- 
ing his  letters?  I  had  a  glimpse  of  him  through 
the  open  door.  He  holds  the  paper  in  both  handb. 
hunches  his  shoulders  up  to  his  ugly  ears,  and  brings 


..  i 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  5 

his  long  nose  and  his  thick  Hps  on  to  it  like  a  suck- 
ing apparatus.    A  commereial  monster." 

"Here  we  don't  consider  him  a  monster."  said 
the  newspaper  man  looking  at  his  visitor  thought- 

uuy. 

"  Probably  not.  You  are  used  to  see  his  face 
ajid  to  see  other  faces.  I  don't  know  how  it  is 
that  when  I  come  to  town,  the  appearance  of  the 
people  m  the  street  strike  me  with  such  force. 
They  seem  so  awfuUy  expressive." 

"  And  not  charming." 

"WeU-no.  Not  as  a  rule.  The  effect  is  for- 
cible without  being  clear.  ...  I  know  that  you 
thmk  It's  because  of  my  soUtaiy  mamier  of  Ufe 
away  there." 

"Yes.  I  do  think  so.  It  is  demoraUsing.  You 
don  t  see  any  one  for  months  at  a  stretch.  You're 
leading  an  unhealthy  life." 

The  other  hardly  smiled  and  muir-  red  the 
admi^ion  that  true  enough  it  was  a  gc  eleven 
months  since  he  had  been  in  town  last. 

"You  see,"  insisted  the  other.  "Solitude 
works  like  a  sort  of  poison.  And  then  you 
perceive  suggestions  in  face^mysterious  and 
forcible,  that  no  sound  man  would  be  bothered 
with.    Of  course  you  do." 

Geoffi-ey  Renouard  did  not  tell  his  journalist 
fnend  that  the  suggestions  of  his  own  face,  the  face 


6  THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 

of  a  friend,  bothered  him  as  much  as  the  others. 
He  detected  a  degrading  quality  in  the  touches  of 
age  which  every  day  adds  to  a  human  countenance. 
They  moved  and  disturbed  him,  like  the  signs  of 
a  horrible  inward  travail  which  was  irightfully 
apparent  to  the  fresh  eye  he  had  brought  from  his 
isolation  in  Malata,  where  he  had  settled  after  five 
strenuous  years  of  adventure  and  exploration. 

"  It's  a  fact,"  he  said,  "  that  when  I  am  at  home 
in  Malata  I  see  no  one  consciously.  I  take  the 
plantation  boys  for  granted." 

"  Well,  and  we  here  take  the  people  in  the  streets 
for  granted.    And  that's  sanity." 

The  visitor  said  nothing  to  this  for  fear  of 
engaging  a  discussion.  What  he  had  come  to  seek 
in  the  editorial  office  was  not  controversy,  but 
information.  Yet  somehow  he  hesitated  to 
approach  the  subject.  Solitary  life  makes  a  man 
reticent  in  respect  of  anything  in  the  nature  of 
gossip,  which  those  to  whom  chatting  about  their 
kind  is  an  everyday  exercise  regard  as  the  com- 
monest use  of  speech. 

"  You  very  busy?  "  he  asked. 

The  Editor  making  red  marks  on  a  long  sUp  of 
printed  paper  threw  the  pencil  down. 

"No.  I  am  done.  Social  paragraphs.  This 
offict;  is  the  place  where  everjrthing  is  known  about 
everybody— including  even  a  great  deal  of  nobodies. 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  7 

Queer  feUows  drift  in  and  out  of  this  room.  Waifs 
and  strays  from  home,  from  up-country,  from  the 
Pacific.  And,  by  the  way,  last  time  you  were  here 
you  picked  up  one  of  that  sort  for  your  assistant— 
didn't  you?" 

"I  engaged  an  assistant  only  to  stop  your 
preaching   about    the    evils    of   solitude,"    said 
Renouard  hastily;   and  the  pressman  laughed  at 
the  half-resentful  tone.    His  laugh  was  not  very 
loud,  but  his  plump  person  shook  all  over.    He  was 
aware  that  his  younger  friend's  deference  to  his 
advice  was  based  only  on  an  imperfect  beUef  in 
his  wisdom— or  his  sagacity.    But  it  was  he  who 
had  first  helped  Renouard  in  his  plans  of  explom- 
tion:  the  five-years'  programme  of  scientific  adven- 
ture, of  work,  of  danger  and  endurance,  carried  out 
with  such  distinction  and  rewarded  modestly  with 
the  lease  of  Malata  island  by  the     ugal  colonial 
government.     And  this  reward,  too,  had  been 
due  to  the  journalist's  advocacy  with  word  and 
pen— for  he  was  an  influential  man  in  the  com- 
munity.   Doubting  very  much  if  Renouard  reaUy 
liked  him,  he  was  himself  without  great  sympathy 
for  a  certain  side  of  that  man  which  he  could  not 
quite  make  out.    He  only  felt  it  obE>ji,rely  to  be 
his  real  personaUty— the  true— and,  perhaps,  the 
absurd.  As,  for  instance,  in  that  utse  of  the  assist- 
ant.   Renouard  had  given  way  to  the  arguments 


8  THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 

of  his  friend  and  backer— the  aigiunent  against 
the  unwholesome  effect  of  solitude,  the  argument 
for  the  safety  of  companionship  even  if  quarrel- 
some.   Very  well.    In  this  dociUty  he  was  sensible 
and  even  likeable.    But  what  did  he  do  next? 
Instead  of  taking  counsel  as  to  the  choice  with  his 
old  backer  and  friend,  and  a  man,  btsides,  knowing 
everybody  employed  and  unemployed  on  the  pave- 
ments of  the  town,  this  extraordinary  Renouard 
suddenly  and  ahnost  surreptitiously  picked  up  a 
fellow— God  knows  who— and  sailed  away  with 
him  back  to  Malata  in  a  hurry;  a  proceeding  obvi- 
ously ra«h  and  at  the  same  time  not  quite  straight. 
That  was  the  sort  of  thing.    The  secretly  unfor- 
giving journalist  laughed  a  little  longer  and  then 
ceased  to  shake  all  over. 
"  Oh,  yes.    About  that  assistant  of  yours.  .  .  ." 
"  What  about  him,"  said  Renouard,  after  wait- 
ing a  while,  with  a  shadow  of  uneasiness  on  his  face. 
"  Have  you  nothing  to  tell  me  of  him?  " 
"Nothing  except.  .  .  ."    Incipient  grimness 
vanished  out  of  Renouard's  aspect  and  his  voice, 
while  he  hesitated  as  if  reflecting  seriously  before 
he  changed  his  mind.    "No.    Nothing  whatever." 
"  You  haven't  brought  him  along  with  you  by 
chance — for  a  change." 

The  Planter  of  Malata  stared,  then  shook  his 
head,  and  finally  murmured  carelessly:   "  I  think 


■^ 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  9 

he's  very  weU  where  he  is.  But  I  wish  you  could 
teU  me  why  young  Dunster  insisted  so  much  on 
my  dining  with  his  uncle  last  night.  Everybody 
knows  I  am  not  a  society  man." 

The  Editor  exclaimed  at  so  much  modesty. 
Didn't  his  friend  know  that  he  was  their  one  and 
only  exploier-that  he  was  the  man  experimentinR 

with  the  silk  plant 

"  StiJl,  that  doesn't  teU  me  why  I  was  invited 
yesterday.  For  young  Dunster  never  thought  of 
this  civility  before.  .  . ." 

"  Our  WiUie."  said  the  popular  journalist, "  never 
does  anything  without  a  purpose,  that's  a  fact." 
"  And  to  his  uncle's  house  tool  " 
"  He  lives  there." 

"  Yes.  But  he  might  have  given  me  a  feed 
somewhere  else.  The  extraordinary  part  is  that 
the  old  man  did  not  seem  to  have  anything  special 
to  say.  He  smiled  kindly  on  me  once  or  twice 
and  that  was  all.  It  was  quite  a  party,  sixteen 
people." 

The  Editor  then,  after  expressing  his  regret  that 
he  had  not  been  able  to  come,  wanted  to  know  if  the 
party  had  been  entertaining. 

Renouard  regretted  that  his  friend  had  not  been 
there.  Being  a  man  whose  business  or  at  least  whose 
profession  was  to  know  everything  that  went  on  in 
this  part  of  the  globe,  he  could  probably  have  told 


10 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 


him  something  of  some  people  lately  anived  from 
home,  who  were  amongst  the  guests.  Young 
Dunster  (Willie),  with  his  large  shirt  front  and 
streaks  of  white  skin  shining  unpleasantly  through 
the  thin  black  hair  pkutered  over  the  top  of  his 
head,  bore  down  on  him  and  introduced  him  to  that 
party,  as  if  he  had  been  a  trained  dog  or  a  child 
phenomenon.  Decidedly,  he  said,  he  disliked 
Willie — one  of  these  large  oppressive  men.  . . . 

A  silence  fell,  and  it  was  as  if  Renouard  were  not 
going  to  say  anything  more  when,  suddenly,  he 
came  out  with  the  real  object  of  his  visit  to  the 
editorial  room. 

"  They  looked  to  me  like  people  under  a  spell." 

The  Editor  gazed  at  him  appreciatively,  thinlring 
that,  whether  the  effect  of  solitude  or  not,  this  was 
a  proof  of  a  sensitive  perception  of  the  expression 
of  faces. 

"  You  omitted  to  tell  me  their  name,  but  I  can 
make  a  guess.  You  mean  Professor  Moorsom, 
his  daughter  and  sister— don't  you?  " 

Renouard  assented.  Yes,  a  white-haired  lady. 
But  from  his  silence,  with  his  eyes  fixed,  yet  avoid- 
ing his  friend,  it  was  easy  to  guess  that  it  was  not 
in  the  white-haired  lady  that  he  was  interested. 

"  Upon  my  word,"  he  said,  recovering  his  usual 
bearing.  "  It  looks  to  me  as  if  I  had  been  asked 
there  only  for  the  daughter  to  talk  to  me." 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 


II 


He  did  not  conceal  that  he  had  been  greatly 
•truck  by  her  appearance.  Nobody  could  have 
helped  being  impressed.  She  was  different  from 
everybody  else  in  that  house,  and  it  was  not  only 
the  effect  of  her  London  clothtr  He  did  not  take 
her  down  to  dinner.  Willie  did  that.  It  was 
afterwards,  on  the  tentice.  .  .  . 

The  evening  was  delightfully  cahn.  He  was 
sitting  apart  and  alone,  and  wishing  himself  some- 
where else— on  board  the  schooner  for  choice,  with 
the  dinner-harness  off.  He  hadn't  exchanged 
forty  words  altogether  during  t  le  evening  with  the 
other  guests.  He  saw  her  sudtlenly  aU  by  herself 
coming  towards  him  along  the  dimly  hghted 
terrace,  quite  from  a  distance. 

She  was  taU  and  supple,  carrying  nobly  on  her 
straight  body  a  head  of  a  character  which  to 
him  appeared  pecuUw,  something— well— pagan, 
crowned  with  a  great  wealth  of  hair.  He  had  been 
about  to  rise,  but  her  decided  approach  caused  him 
to  remain  on  the  seat.  He  had  not  looked  much 
at  her  that  evening.  He  had  not  that  freedom  of 
gaze  acquired  by  the  habit  of  society  and  the 
frequent  meetings  with  strangers.  It  was  not 
shyness,  but  the  reserve  of  a  man  not  used  to 
the  world  and  to  the  practice  of  covert  staring, 
with  careless  curiosity.  AU  he  had  captured  by 
his  arst.  keen,  instantly  lowered,  glance  was  the 


M  THE  PLANTER  OF  KALATA 

impreidon  that  her  hair  was  magnificently  red 
and  her  eyes  very  blaclc.  It  was  a  troubling  effect, 
but  it  had  been  evanescent;  he  had  forgotten  it 
ahnost  till  very  unexpectedly  he  saw  her  coming 
down  the  terrace  slow  and  eager,  as  if  she  were 
restraining  herself,  and  with  a  rhythmic  upward 
undulation  of  her  whole  figure.  The  light  from  an 
open  window  fell  across  her  path,  and  suddenly  all 
that  mass  of  arranged  hair  appeared  incandescent, 
chiselled  and  fluid,  with  the  daring  suggestion  of 
a  hehnet  of  burnished  copper  and  the  f  -.ving  lines 
of  molten  metal.  It  kindled  in  him  an  astonished 
admiration.  But  he  said  nothing  of  it  to  his  friend 
the  Editor.  Neither  Jid  he  tell  him  that  her 
approach  woke  up  in  his  brain  the  image  of  love's 
infinite  grace  and  the  sense  of  the  inexhaustible 
joy  that  lives  in  beauty.  No  I  What  he  imparted 
to  the  Editor  were  no  emotions,  but  mere  facts 
conveyed  in  a  deliberate  voice  and  in  uninspired 
words. 

"  That  young  lady  came  and  sat  down  by  me. 
She  said:  '  Are  you  French,  Mr.  Rti.ouard? '  " 

He  had  brcthed  a  whifi  of  perfume  of  which  he 
said  nothing  either— of  some  perfume  he  did  not 
know.  Her  ^oice  was  low  and  distinct.  Hjr 
shoulders  and  her  bare  arms  gleamed  with  an 
extraordinary  spJendour,  and  when  she  advanced 
her  head  into  the  hght  he  saw  the  admirable  con- 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  13 

tour  of  the  face,  the  straight  fine  noM  with  delicate 
nortrU,  the  exquisite  crimson  brushstroke  of  the 
lips  on  this  oval  without  colour.  The  expression  of 
the  eyes  was  lost  in  a  shadowy  mysterious  play  of 
jet  and  silver,  stirring  under  the  red  coppery  gold 
of  the  hair  as  though  she  had  been  a  being  made  of 
ivory  and  precious  metals  changed  into  Uving  tissue. 
"...  I  told  her  my  people  were  living  in  Canada, 
but  that  I  was  brought  up  in  England  before 
conung  out  here.    I  can't  imagine  what  interest 
she  could  have  in  my  history." 
"  And  you  complain  of  her  interest?  " 
The  accent  of  the  aU-knowing  journalist  seemed 
to  jar  on  the  Flant-r  of  Malata. 

"  No  I  "  he  said,  in  a  deadened  voice  that  was 
ahnost  suUen.  But  after  a  short  silence  he  went 
on-  "Very  extraordinary.  I  told  her  I  came  out 
to  wander  at  large  in  the  world  when  I  was  nine- 
teen,  ahnost  directly  after  I  left  school.  It  seems 
that  her  late  brother  was  in  the  same  school  a 
couple  of  years  before  me.  She  wanted  me  to  tell 
her  what  I  did  at  first  when  I  came  out  her  ;  what 
other  men  found  to  do  when  they  can  i  out- 
where  they  went,  what  was  Ukely  to  happen  to 
them-as  if  I  could  guess  and  foreteU  from  my 
experience  the  fates  of  men  who  come  out  here 
with  a  hundred  different  projects,  for  hmidreds  of 
different  reasons-for  no  reason  but  restlessness- 


X4  THE  PLANTER  OF  JIALATA 

who  come,  and  go,  and  disappear  I  Preposterous. 
She  seemed  to  want  to  hear  their  histories.  I  told 
her  that  most  of  them  were  not  worth  teUing." 

The  distinguished  journalist  leaning  on  his  elbow, 
his  head  resting  against  the  knuckles  of  his  left 
hand,  listened  with  great  attention,  but  gave  no 
sign  of  that  surprise  which  Renouard,  pausing, 
seemed  to  expect. 

"You  knowsomething,"  the  latter  said  brusquely. 
The  all-knowing  man  moved  his  head  slightly  and 
said,  "  Yes.    But  go  on." 

"  It's  just  this.  There  is  no  more  to  it.  I  found 
ms^self  talking  to  her  of  my  adventures,  of  my  early 
dajre.  It  couldn't  possibly  have  interested  her. 
Really,"  he  cried,  "this  is  most  extraordinary. 
Those  people  have  something  on  their  minds.  We 
sat  in  the  Ught  of  the  window,  and  her  father 
prowled  about  the  terrace,  with  his  hands  behind 
his  back  and  his  head  drooping.  The  white- 
haired  ladycame  to  the  dining-room  window  twice — 
to  look  at  us  I  am  certain.  The  other  guests  began 
to  go  away— and  still  we  sat  there.  Apparently 
these  people  are  staying  with  the  Dunsters.  It  was 
old  Mrs.  Dunster  who  put  an  end  to  the  thing. 
The  father  and  the  aunt  circled  about  as  if  they 
were  afraid  of  interfering  with  the  girl.  Then  she 
got  up  all  at  once,  gave  me  her  hand,  and  said  she 
hoped  she  would  see  me  again." 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  15 

Wlnle  he  was  speaking  Renouard  saw  again  ihe 
sway  of  her  figure  in  a  movement  of  grace  and 
strength— felt  the  pressure  of  her  hand— heard  the 
last  accents  of  the  deep  murmur  that  came  from 
her  throat  so  white  in  the  Ught  of  the  window,  and 
remembered  the  black  rays  of  her  steady  eyes 
passing  ofi  his  face  when  she  turned  away.    He 
remembered  aU  this  visuaUy,  and  it  was  not  exactly 
pleasurable.    It  was  rather  startling  like  the  dis- 
covery of  a  new  faculty  in  himself.    There  are 
faculties  one  would  rather  do  without— such,  for 
instance,  as  seeing  through  a  stone  wall  or  re- 
membering a  person  with  this  uncanny  vividness. 
And  what  about  those  two  people  belonging  to  her 
with  their  air  of  expectant  soUcitudel    Really, 
those  figures  from  home  got  in  front  of  one.    In 
fact,  their  persistence  in  getting  between  him  and 
the  solid  f  onns  of  the  everyday  material  world  had 
driven  Renouard  to  call  on  his  friend  at  the  office. 
He  hoped  that  a  littie  common,  gossipy  informa- 
tion would  lay  the  ghost  of  that  unexpected  dinner- 
party.   Of  course  the  proper  person  to  go  to  would 
have  been  young  Dunster,  but  he  couldn't  stand 
Willie  Dunster— not  at  any  price. 

In  the  pause  the  Editor  had  changed  his  attitude 
faced  his  desk,  and  smiled  a  faint  knowing  smUe.  ' 
"  Striking  girl— eh?  "  he  said. 
The  incongruity  of  the  word  was  enough  to  make 


x6 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 


one  jump  out  of  the  chair.  Striking  I  That  girl 
strikingl  Stri . .  .1  But  Renouard  restrained  his 
feelings.  His  friend  was  not  a  person  to  give  one- 
self away  to.  And,  after  all,  this  sort  of  speech 
was  what  he  had  come  there  to  hear.  As,  however, 
he  had  made  a  movement  he  re-settled  himself 
comfortably  and  said,  with  very  creditable  in- 
difierence,  that  yes— she  was,  rather.  Especially 
amongst  a  lot  of  over-dressed  fiiunps.  There 
wasn't  one  woman  under  forty  there. 

"  Is  that  the  way  to  speak  of  the  cream  of  our 
society;  the  '  top  of  the  basket,'  as  the  French 
say,"  the  Editor  remonstrated  with  mock  indigna- 
tion. "  You  aren't  moderate  in  your  expressions 
— ^you  know." 

"  I  express  mjrself  very  Uttle,"  interjected 
Renouard  seriously. 

"  I  will  tell  you  what  you  are.  You  are  a  fellow 
that  doesn't  count  the  cost.  Of  course  you  are 
safe  with  me,  but  will  you  never  learn. . . ." 

"  What  struck  me  most,"  interrupted  the  other, 
"  is  that  she  should  pick  me  out  for  such  a  long 
conversation." 

"That's  perhaps  because  you  were  the  most 
remarkable  of  the  men  there." 

Renouard  shook  his  head. 

"  This  shot  doesn't  seem  to  me  to  hit  the  mark," 
he  said  cahnly.    "  Try  again." 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  17 

"Don't  you  believe  me?  Oh,  you  modest 
Cloture.  WeU.  let  me  assure  you  that  under 
ordmary  circumstances  it  would  have  been  a  good 
shot.  You  are  sufficiently  remarkable.  But  you 
seem  a  pretty  acute  customer  too.  The  circum- 
stances are  extraordinary.    By  Jove  they  arel" 

He  mused.    After  a  time  the  Planter  of  Malata 
dropped  a  negligent— 
"  And  you  know  them." 
"And  I  know  them."  assented  the  aU-knowing 
Editor,  soberly,  as  though  the  occasion  were  too 
special  for  a  display  of  professional  vanity    a 
vamty  so  well  known  to  Renouard  that  its  abs^ce 
augmented  his  wonder  and  almost  made  him  un- 
easy  as  if  portending  bad  news  of  some  sort. 
''  You  have  met  those  people?  "  he  asked. 
"  No.    I  was  to  have  met  them  last  night,  but 
I  had  to  send  an  apology  to  Willie  in  the  morning 
It  was  then  that  he  had  the  bright  idea  to  invife 
you  to  fill  the  place,  from  a  muddled  notion  that 
you  could  be  of  use.    Willie  is  stupid  sometimes. 
For  It  IS  dear  that  you  are  the  last  man  able  to 
help." 

"  How  on  earth  do  I  come  to  be  mixed  up  in 
this-whatever  it  is?"  Renouard's  voice  was 
shghtly  altered  by  nervous  iiritation.  "I  only 
arrived  here  yesterday  morning." 


A.     W 


i8 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 


II 

His  friend  the  Editor  turned  to  him  squarely. 
"  Willie  took  me  into  consultation,  and  since  he 
seems  to  have  let  you  in  I  may  just  as  well  tell  you 
what  is  up.  I  shall  try  to  be  as  short  as  I  can. 
But  in  confidence — ^mindl  " 

He  waited.  Renouard,  his  uneas"  'ess  growing 
on  him  unreasonably,  assented  by  a  nod,  and  the 
other  lost  no  time  in  beginning.  Professor  Moor- 
som — physicist  and  philosopher — fine  head  of 
white  hair,  to  judge  from  the  photographs— plenty 
of  brains  in  the  head  too — all  these  famous  books — 
surely  even  Renouard  would  know. . . . 

Renouard  muttered  moodily  that  it  wasn't  his 
sort  of  reading,  and  his  friend  hastened  to  assive 
him  earnestly  that  neither  was  it  his  sort — excapt 
as  a  matter  of  business  and  duty,  for  the  litdrary 
page  o..  that  newspaper  which  was  his  property  (and 
the  pride  of  his  life).  The  only  literary  newspaper 
in  the  Antipodes  could  not  ignore  the  fashionable 
philosopher  of  the  age.  Not  that  anybody  read 
Moorsom  at  the  Antipodes,  but  everybody  had 
heard  of  him — ^women,  children,  dock  labourers, 
cabmen.  The  only  person  (besides  himself)  who 
had  read  Moorsom,  as  far  as  he  knew,  was  old 
Dvuister,  who  used  to  call  himself  a  Moorsomian  (or 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  19 

was  it  Moorsomite)  years  and  years  ago,  long  before 
Mooreom  had  worked  himself  up  into  the  great 
swell  he  was  now,  in  every  way....  Socially  too. 
Quite  the  fashion  in  the  highest  world 

Renouard  Hstened  with  profoundly  concealed 
attenbon.  "  A  charlatan,"  he  muttered  languidly. 
Well-no.  I  should  say  not.  I  shouldn't 
wonder  though  if  most  of  his  writing  had  been  done 
with  his  tongue  in  his  cheek.  Of  course.  That's 
to  be  expected.  I  tell  you  what:  the  only  really 
honest  writing  is  to  be  fomid  in  newspapers  and 
nowhere  else— and  don't  you  forget  it  " 

The  Editor  paused  with  a  basilisk  stare  till 
Renouard  had  conceded  a  casual:  "  I  dare  say  " 
and  only  then  went  on  to  explain  that  old  Dunster 
durmg  his  European  tour,  had  been  made  rather  a 
Hon  of  m  London,  where  he  stayed  with  the  Moor- 
soms-he  meant  the  father  and  the  girl  The 
profeKor  had  been  a  widower  for  a  long  time 
She  doesn't  look  just  a  girl."  muttered  Re- 

Had  been  playmg  the  London  hostess  to  tip-top 
people  ever  since  she  put  her  hair  up,  probably 

I  don't  expect  to  see  any  girlish  bloom  on 
her  when  I  do  have  the  privilege.'  he  continued. 
Those  people  are  staying  with  the  Dunster's  incog. 
m  a  manner,  you  understand-something  li 
royalties.    They  don't  deceive  anybody,  but  th. 


30 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 


want  to  be  left  to  themselves.  We  have  even  kept 
them  out  of  the  paper — to  oblige  old  Dunster. 
But  we  shall  put  your  arrival  in — our  local 
celebrity." 

"  Heavens. " 

"  Yes.  Mr.  G.  Renouard,  the  explorer,  whose 
indomitable  energy,  etc.,  and  who  is  now  working 
for  the  prosperity  of  our  country  in  another  way 
on  his  Malata  plantation  .  .  .  And,  by  th?  by, 
how's  the  silk  plant— flourishing?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Did  you  bring  any  fibre  ?  " 

"  Schooner-fuU." 

"  I  see.  To  be  transhipped  to  Liverpool  for 
experimental  manufacture,  eh?  Eminent  capital- 
ists at  home  very  much  interested,  aren't  they?  " 

"  They  are." 

A  silence  fell.    Then  the  Editor  uttered  slowly— 

"  You  will  be  a  rich  man  some  day." 

Renouard's  face  dia  not  betray  his  opinion  of 
that  confident  prophecy.  He  didn't  say  anything 
till  his  friend  suggested  in  the  same  meditative 
voice — 

"  You  ought  to  interest  Moorsom  in  the  afiair 
too— since  Willie  has  let  you  in." 

"A  philosopher!  " 

"  I  suppose  he  isn't  above  making  a  bit  of  money. 
And  he  may  be  clever  at  it  for  all  you  know.    I 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  ai 

have  a  notion  that  he's  a  fairly  practical  old  cove 
.  .  Anyhow."  and  here  the  tone  of  the  speaker 
took  on  a  tinge  of  respect.  "  he  has  made  philo- 
Sophy  pay." 

Renouard  raised  his  eyes,  repressed  an  impulse 
to  jump  up,  and  got  out  of  the  arm-chair  slowly 
It  isn't  perhaps  a  bad  idea."  he  said.    "  I'U 
have  to  call  there  in  any  case." 

He  wondered  whether  he  had  managed  to  keep 
his  voice  steady,  its  tone  unconcerned  enough 
for  his  emotion  was  strong  though  it  had  nothing 
to  do  with  the  business  aspect  of  this  suggest.^ 
He  moved  in  the  room  in  vague  preparation  for 
depa.1ure,  when  he  heard  a  soft  laugh.  He  spun 
about  qmckly  with  a  frown,  but  the  Editor  was 
not  kughing  at  him.  He  was  chuckling  across 
the  bjg  desk  at  the  wall:  a  preUminaiy  of  some 
speech  for  which  Renouard,  recalled  to  himself 
waited  silent  and  mistrustful. 

"No!    You  would  never  guess!    No  one  would 

ever  guess  what  these  people  are  after.    Willie's 

ey^  bulged  out  when  he  came  to  me  with  the  tale  " 

They  always  do,"  remarked  Renouard  with 

disgust.    "  He's  stupid." 

"He  was  startled.    And  w  was  I  after  he  told 

me.    Its  a  search  party.    They  are  out  looking  for 

a  man.    Willie's  soft  heart's  enlisted  in  the  caiL  " 

Renouard  repeated:    "Looking  for  a  man'" 


33 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 


He  sat  down  suddenly  as  if  on  purpose  to  stare. 
"  Did  Willie  come  to  you  to  borrow  the  lantern," 
he  asked  sarcastically,  and  got  up  again  for  no 
apparent  reason. 

"  What  lantern?  "  snapped  the  puzzled  Editor, 
and  his  face  darkened  with  suspicion.  "  You, 
Renouard,  are  always  alluding  to  things  that 
aren't  clear  to  me.  If  you  were  in  politics,  I,  as 
a  party  journalist,  wouldn't  trust  you  further 
than  I  could  see  you.  Not  an  inch  further.  You 
are  such  a  sophisticated  beggar.  Listcsn:  the 
man  is  the  man  Miss  Moorsom  was  engaged  to  for 
a  year.  He  couldn' :  uave  been  a  nobody,  anyhow. 
But  he  doesn't  seem  to  have  been  very  wise.  Hard 
luck  for  the  yoTmg  lady." 

He  spoke  with  feeling.  It  was  dear  that  what 
he  had  to  tell  appealed  to  his  sentiment.  Yet,  as 
an  experienced  man  of  the  world,  he  marked  his 
amused  wonder.  Young  man  of  good  family  and 
connections,  going  ever5nvhere,  yet  not  merely  a 
man  about  town,  but  with  a  foot  in  the  two  big  F's. 

Renouard  lounging  aimlessly  in  the  room  turned 
round:  "  And  what  the  devil's  that?  "  he  asked 
faintly. 

"  Why  Fashion  and  Finance,"  explained  the 
Editor.  "That's  how  I  call  it.  There  are  the 
three  R's  at  the  bottom  of  the  social  edifice  and 
the  two  F's  on  the  top.    See?  " 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  23 

"Hal   Hal  Excellent!  Hal    Ha!"  Renouard 
laughed  with  stony  eyes. 

"  And  yor  proceed  from  one  set  to  the  other  in 
this  democratic  age,"  the  Editor  went  on  with 
unperturbed  complacency.  "  That  is  if  you  are 
clever  enough.  The  only  danger  is  in  being  too 
clever.  And  I  think  something  of  the  sort  hap- 
pened here.  That  swe"  I  am  speaking  of  got 
himself  into  a  mess.  Apparently  a  very  ugly  mess 
j  of  a  financial  character.    You  will  understand  that 

(  I  Willie  did  not  go  into  details  with  me.    They  were 

I  not  imparted  to  him  with  very  great  abimdance 

I  either.    But    a    bad    mess— something    of    the 

criminal  order.    Of  course  he  was  innocent.    But 
I  h(:  had  to  quit  all  the  same." 

I  "Ha!  Ha!"  Renouard  laughed  again  abruptly, 

staring  as  before.    "  So  there's  one  more  big  F  in 
j  the  tale." 

4  "What  do  you  mean?"  inquired  the  Editor 

quickly,  with  an  air  as  if  his  patent  were  being 
infringed. 
"  I  mean — Fool." 

"  No.    I  wouldn't  say  that.    I  wouldn't  say 
that." 

"  Well— let  him  be  a  scoundrel  then.    What  the 
devil  do  I  care." 

"  But  hold  on!    You  haven't  heard  the  end  of 
the  story." 


84  THE  PIANTER  OF  BIALATA 

Renouard,  his  hat  on  his  head  already,  sat  down 
with  the  disdainful  smile  of  a  man  who  had  dis- 
counted the  moral  of  the  story.  Still  he  sat  down 
and  the  Editor  swimg  his  revolving  chair  right 
round.    He  was  full  of  unction. 

"  Imprudent,   I   should  say.    In  many  ways 
money  is  as  dangerous  to  handle  as  gunpowder. 
You  can't  be  too  careful  either  as  to  who  you  are 
working  with.    Anyhow  there  was  a  mighty  flashy 
burst  up,  a  sensation,  and — his  familiar  haunts 
knew  him  no  more.    But  before  he  vanished  he 
went  to  see  Miss  Moorsom.    That  very  fact  argues 
for   his   iimocence— don't   it?    What   was   said 
between  them  no  man  knows — ^unless  the  professor 
had  the  confidence  from  his  daughter.    There 
couldn't  have  been  much  to  say.     There  was 
nothing  for  it  but  to  let  him  go— was  there? — for 
the  afiair  had  got  ii>to  the  papers.    And  perhaps 
the  kindest  thing  would  have  been  to  forget  him. 
Anyway  the   easiest.    Forgiveness  would   have 
been  more  difficult,  I  fancy,  fyr  a  young  lady  of 
spirit  and  position  drawn  into  an  ugly  afiair  like 
that.    Any  ordinary  young  lady,  I  mean.    Well, 
the  fellow  asked  nothing  better  than  to  be  forgotten, 
only  he  didn't  find  it  easy  to  do  so  himself,  because 
he  would  write  home  now  and  then.    Not  to  any 
of  his  friends  though.    He  had  no  near  relations. 
The  professor  had  been  his  guardian.    No,  the  poor 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  aj 

devil  wrote  now  and  then  to  an  old  retired  butler 
of  his  late  father,  somewhere  in  the  country,  for- 
bidding him  at  the  same  time  to  let  any  one  know 
of  his  whereabouts.  So  that  worthy  old  ass  would 
go  up  and  dodge  about  the  Moorsom's  town  house, 
perhaps  waylay  Miss  Moorsom's  maid,  and  then 
would  write  to  '  Master  Arthur '  that  the  young 
lady  looked  weU  and  happy,  or  some  such  cheerful 
intelligence.  I  dare  say  he  wanted  to  be  forgotten, 
but  I  shouldn't  think  he  was  much  cheered  by  the 
news.    What  would  you  say?  " 

Renouard,  his  legs  stretched  out  and  his  chin  on 
his  breast,  said  nothing.  A  sensation  which  was 
not  curiosity,  but  rather  a  vague  nervous  anxiety, 
distinctly  unpleasant,  like  a  mysterious  symptom 
of  some  malady,  prevented  him  from  getting  up 
and  s^ing  a^vay. 

"  Mixed  feeli^s."  the  Editor  opined.  "  Many 
fellows  out  here  -eceive  news  from  home  with 
mixed  feelings.  But  what  will  his  feelings  be 
when  he  hears  ;vhat  I  am  going  to  tell  you  now? 
For  we  know  he  has  not  heard  yet.  Six  months 
ago  a  city  clerk,  just  a  common  drudge  of  finance, 
gets  himself  convicted  of  a  common  embezzlement 
or  something  of  that  kind.  Then  seemg  he's  in 
for  a  long  sentence  he  thinks  of  making  his  con- 
science comfortable,  and  makes  a  clean  breast  of 
an  old  story  of  tampered  with,  or  else  suppressed. 


a6 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 


documents,  a  story  which  clears  altogether  the 
honesty  of  our  ruined  gentleman.    That  embez- 
zling fellow  was  m  a  position  to  know,  having  been 
employed  by  the  firm  before  the  smash.    There 
was  no  doubt  about  the  character  being  cleared — 
but  where  the  cleared  man  was  nobody  could  tell. 
Another  sensation  in   society.    And   then   Miss 
Moorsom  says:  '  He  will  come  back  to  claim  me, 
and  I'll  marry  him.'    But  he  didn't  come  back. 
Between  you  and  me  I  don't  think  he  was  much 
wanted — except   by  Miss   Moorsom.    I   imagine 
she's  used  to  have  her   own  way.    She  grew 
impatient,  and  deckred  that  if  she  knew  where  the 
man  was  she  would  go  to  him.    But  all  that  could 
be  got  out  of  the  old  butler  was  that  the  last 
envelope  bore  the  postm^ji:  of  our  be:.utiful  city; 
and  that  this  was  the  only  address  of  '  Master 
Arthur'  that  he  ever  had.    That  and  no  more. 
In  fact  the  fellow  was  at  his  last  gasp — with  a  bad 
heart.    Miss  Moorsom  wasn't  allowed  to  see  him. 
She  had  gone  herself  into  the  country  to  learn  what 
she  could,  but  she  had  to  stay  downstairs  while 
the  old  chap's  wife  went  up  to  the  invaUd.    She 
brought  down  the  scrap  of  intelligence  I've  told 
you  of.    He  was  aheady  too  far  gone  to  be  cross- 
examined  on  it,  and  that  very  night  he  died.    He 
didn't  leave  behind  him  much  to  go  by,  did  he? 
Our  Willie  hinted  to  me  that  there  had  been  pretty 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  37 

itotmy  days  in  the  professor's  house,  but-Jiere 
they  are.  I  have  a  notion  she  isn't  the  Idnd  of 
everyday  young  lady  who  may  be  permitted  to 
gallop  about  the  wo  Id  all  by  herself— eh  ?  Well,  I 
think  it  rather  fine  of  her,  but  I  quite  understand 
that  the  professor  needed  all  his  philosophy  under 
the  circumstances.  She  is  his  only  child  now— 
and  brilliant— what?  Willie  positively  spluttered 
trying  to  describe  her  to  me;  and  I  could  see 
dmscUy  you  came  in  that  you  had  an  uncommon 
experience." 

Renouard,  with  an  irritated  gesture,  tilted  his 
hat  more  forward  on  his  eyes,  as  though  he  were 
bored.  The  Editor  went  on  w..h  the  remark  that 
to  be  sure  neither  he  (Renouard)  nor  yet  Willie 
were  much  rsed  to  meet  girls  of  that  remarkable 
superiority.  Willie  when  learning  business  with 
a  firm  in  London,  years  before,  had  seen  none  but 
boarding-house  society,  he  guessed.  As  to  him- 
self in  the  good  old  dajrs,  when  he  trod  the  glorious 
flags  of  Fleet  Street,  he  neither  had  access  to,  nor 
yet  would  have  cared  for  the  sweUs.  Nothing 
interested  him  then  but  parliamentary  politics 
and  the  oratory  of  the  House  of  Commons. 

He  paid  to  this  not  very  distant  past  the  tribute 
of  a  tender,  reminiscent  sm'V,,  and  returned  to 
his  first  idea  that  for  a  society  girl  her  action  was 
rather  fine.    All  the  same  the  professor  could  not 


28 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 


be  very  pleased.  The  fellow  if  he  was  as  pure  as 
a  lily  now  was  just  about  as  devoid  of  the  goods  of 
the  earth.  And  there  were  misfortunes,  however 
undeserved,  which  damaged  a  man's  standing  per- 
manently. On  the  other  hand,  it  was  diificult  to 
oppose  cynically  a  noble  impulse— not  to  speak  of 
the  great  love  at  the  root  of  it.  Ah!  Love!  And 
then  the  lady  was  quite  capable  of  going  off  by 
herself.  She  was  of  age,  she  had  money  of  her  own, 
plenty  of  pluck  too.  Moorsom  must  have  con- 
cluded that  it  was  more  truly  paternal,  more 
prudent  too,  and  generally  safer  all  round  to  let 
himself  be  dragged  into  this  chase.  The  aunt 
came  along  for  the  same  reasons.  It  was  given 
out  at  home  as  a  trip  round  the  world  of  the  usual 
kind. 

Renouard  had  risen  and  remained  standing 
with  his  heart  beating,  and  strangely  affected  by 
this  tale,  robbed  as  it  was  of  all  glamour  by  the 
prosaic  personality  of  the  narrator.  The  Editor 
added:  "  I've  been  asked  to  help  in  the  search— 
you  know." 

Renouard  muttered  something  about  an  appoint- 
ment and  went  out  into  the  street.  His  inborn 
sanity  could  not  defend  him  from  a  misty  creeping 
jealousy.  He  thought  that  obviously  no  man  of 
that  sort  could  be  worthy  of  such  a  woman's 
devoted  fidelity.    Renouard,  however,  had  lived 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  29 

long  enough  to  reflect  that  a  man's  activities,  his 
viaws,  and  even  his  ideas  may  be  very  inferior  to 
bis  wiiaracter;  and  moved  by  a  delicate  considera- 
tio.i  for  that  splendid  girl  he  tried  to  think  out  for 
the  man  a  character  of  inward  excellence  and  out- 
ward gifts— some  extraordinary  seduction.  But  in 
vain.  Fresh  from  months  of  solitude  and  from  days 
at  sea,  her  splendour  presented  itself  to  him  abso- 
lutely unconquerable  in  its  perfection,  unless  by  her 
own  folly.  It  was  easier  to  suspect  her  of  this  than 
to  imagine  in  the  man  qualities  which  would  be 
worthy  of  her.  Easier  and  less  degrading.  Because 
folly  may  be  generous— could  be  nothing  else  but 
generosity  in  her;  whereas  to  imagine  her  sub- 
jugated by  something  common  was  intolerable. 

Because  of  the  force  of  the  physical  impression 
he  had  received  from  her  personality  (and  such 
impressions  are  the  real  origins  of  the  deepest 
movements  of  our  soul)  this  conception  of  her  was 
even  inconceivable.  But  no  Prince  Charming  has 
ever  lived  out  of  a  fairy  tale.  He  doesn't  walk 
the  worlds  of  Fashion  and  Finance— and  with  a 
stumbling  gait  at  that.  Generosity.  Yes.  It 
was  her  generosity.  But  this  generosity  was 
altogether  regal  in  its  splendour,  ahnost  absurd  in 
in  its  lavishness— or,  perhaps,  divine. 

In  the  evening,  on  board  his  schooner,  sitting  on 
the  rail,  his  arms  folded  on  his  breast  and  his  eyes 


30  THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 

fixed  on  the  deck,  he  let  the  darkness  catch  him 
unawares  in  the  midst  of  a  medita'don  on  the 
mechanism  of  sentiment  and  the  springs  of  passion. 
And  all  the  time  he  had  an  abiding  consciousness  of 
her  bodily  presence.    The  effect  on  his  senses  had 
been  so  penetrating  that  in  the  middle  of  the 
night,  rousing  up  suddenly,  wide-eyed  in  the  dark- 
ness of  his  cabin,  he  did  not  create  a  faint  mental 
vision  of  her  person  for  himself,  but,  more  intim- 
ately affected,  he  scented  distinctly  the  faint  per- 
fume she  used,  and  could  almost  have  sworn  that  he 
had  been  awakened  by  the  soft  rustle  of  her  dress. 
He  even  sat  up  listening  in  the  dark  for  a  time,  then 
sighed  and  lay  down  again,  not  agitated  but,  on 
the  contrary,  oppressed  by  the  sensation  of  some- 
thing that  had  happened  to  him  and  could  not  be 
undone. 


HI 

In  the  afternoon  he  lounged  into  the  editorial  office, 
carrying  with  affected  nonchalance  that  weight  of 
the  irremediable  he  had  felt  laid  on  him  suddenly 
i--  the  small  hours  of  the  night— that  consciousness 
of  something  that  could  no  longer  be  helped.  His 
patronising  friend  informed  him  at  once  that  he 
had  made  the  acquaintance  of  the  Moorsom  party 
last  night.    At  the  Dunsters,  of  course.    Dinner. 


-«^37  w.  * 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  31 

"Very  quiet.  Nobody  there.  It  \ras  much 
better  for  the  business.    I  say . . ." 

Renouard,  his  hand  grasping  the  back  of  a  chair, 
stared  down  at  him  dumbly. 

"  Phew!    That's  a  stunning  girl Why  do 

you  want  to  sit  on  that  chair?  It's  uncomfort- 
able I" 

"  I  wasn't  going  to  sit  on  it."  Renouard  walked 
slowly  to  the  window,  glad  to  find  in  himself 
enough  self-control  to  let  go  the  chair  instead 
of  raising  it  on  high  and  bringing  it  down  on  the 
Editor's  head. 

"  Willie  kept  on  gazing  at  her  with  tears  in  his 
boiled  eyes.  You  should  have  seen  him  bending 
sentimentally  over  her  at  dinner." 

"  Don't,"  said  Renouard  in  such  an  anguished 
tone  that  the  Editor  turned  right  round  to  look  at' 
his  back. 

"You  push  your  disUke  of  young  Dunster  too  far. 
It's  positively  morbid,"  he  disapproved  mildly. 
"  We  can't  be  all  beautiful  after  thirty.  ...  I 
talked  a  Uttle,  about  you  mostly,  to  the  professor. 
He  appeared  to  be  interested  in  the  silk  plant— if 
only  as  a  change  ffom  the  great  subject.  Miss 
Moorsom  didn't  seem  to  mind  when  I  confessed  to 
her  that  I  had  taken  you  into  the  confidence  of  the 
thing.  Our  Willie  approved  too.  Old  Dunster 
with  his  white  beard  seemed  to  give  me  his  blessing. 


3a  THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 

All  those  people  have  a  great  opinion  of  you, 
simply  because  I  told  them  that  you've  led  every 
sort  of  Ufe  one  can  think  of  before  vou  got  struck 
on  explorption.  They  want  you  to  make  sugges- 
tions. What  do  you  thick  'Master  Arthur'  is 
likely  to  have  taken  to?  " 

"  Sometiiing  easy,"  muttered  Renouard  without 
unclenching  his  teeth. 

"  Hunting  man.  Athlete.  Don't  be  hard  on 
the  chap.  He  may  be  riding  boundaries,  or  drov- 
ing cattle,  or  humping  his  swag  afjout  the  back- 
blocks  away  to  the  devil— somewhere.  He  may 
be  even  prospecting  at  the  back  of  beyond— this 
very  moment." 

"  Or  lying  dead  drunk  in  a  roadside  pub.  It's 
late  enough  in  the  day  for  that." 

The  Editor  looked  up  instinctively.  The  clock 
was  pointing  at  a  quarter  to  five.  "  Yes,  it  is,"  he 
admitted.  "  But  it  needn't  be.  And  he  may  have 
lit  out  into  the  Western  Pacific  all  of  a  sudden- 
say  in  a  trading  schooner.  Though  I  really  don't 
see  in  what  capacity.    Still .  .  ." 

"  Or  he  may  be  passing  at  this  very  moment 
under  this  very  window." 

"  Not  he  .  .  .  and  I  wish  you  would  get  away 
from  it  to  where  one  can  se«  your  face.  I  hate 
talking  to  a  man's  back.  You  stand  tb^re  like 
a  hermit  on  a  sea-shore  growling  to  yom'self. 


'^j.'^^m^n.,  ■<:k 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  33 

I  teU  you  what  it  is.  GeofErey.  you  don't  like 
mankind." 

"  I  don't  make  my  living  by  talking  about  man- 
kind's afiairs,"  Renouard  defended  himself.  But  he 
came  away  obediently  and  sat  down  in  the  arm- 
chair. "  How  can  you  be  so  certain  that  your  man 
isn't  down  there  in  the  street?  "  he  asked.  "  It's 
neither  more  nor  less  probable  than  every  single 
one  of  your  other  suppositions." 

Placated  by  Renouard's  docility  the  Editor 
gazed  at  him  for  a  whUe.  "Aha!  I'll  teU  you 
how.  Learn  then  that  we  have  begun  the  cam- 
paign. We  have  telegraphed  his  description  to 
the  police  of  every  township  up  and  down  the  land. 
And  what's  more  we've  ascertained  definitely  that 
he  hasn't  been  in  this  town  for  the  last  three 
months  at  least.  How  much  longer  he's  been  away 
we  can't  tell." 
"  That's  very  curious." 

"  It's  very  simple.  Miss  Moorsom  wrote  to  him. 
to  the  post  office  here,  dkectly  she  returned  to 
Londo^  after  her  excursion  into  the  country  to 
see  the  old  butler.  WeU-her  letter  is  still  lying 
there.  It  has  not  been  called  for.  Ergo,  this 
town  is  not  his  usual  abode.  Personally,  I  never 
thought  it  was.  But  he  cannot  fail  to  turn  up 
some  time  or  other.  Our  main  hope  lies  just  in 
the  certitude  that  he  must  come  to  town  sooner  or 


34 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 


later.  Remember  he  doesn't  know  that  the  butler 
is  dead,  and  he  will  want  to  inquire  for  a  letter. 
Well,  he'll  find  a  note  from  Miss  Moorsom." 

Renouard,  silent,  thought  that  it  was  likely 
enough.  His  profound  distaste  for  this  conversa- 
tion was  betrayed  by  an  afr  of  weariness  darkening 
his  energetic  sun-tanned  features,  and  by  the 
augmented  dreaminess  of  his  eyes.  The  Editor 
noted  it  as  a  further  proof  of  that  immoral  detach- 
ment from  mankind,  of  that  callousness  of  senti- 
ment fostered  by  the  unhealthy  conditions  of 
soUtude— according  to  his  own  favourite  theory. 
Aloud  he  observed  that  as  long  as  a  man  had  not 
given  up  correspondence  he  could  not  be  looked 
upon  as  lost.  Fugitive  criminals  had  been  tracked 
in  that  way  by  justice,  he  reminded  his  friend; 
then  suddenly  changed  the  bearing  of  the  subject 
somewhat  by  asking  if  Renouard  had  heard  from 
his  people  lately,  and  if  every  member  of  his  large 
tribe  was  well  and  happy. 

"  Yes,  thanks." 

The  tone  was  curt,  as  if  repelling  a  Uberty. 
Renouard  did  not  Uke  being  asked  about  his  people, 
for  whom  he  had  a  profound  and  remorseful  affec- 
tion. He  had  not  seen  a  single  human  being  to 
whom  he  was  related,  for  many  years,  and  he  was 
extremely  different  from  them  all. 

On  the  very  morning  of  his  arrival  from  his 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  35 

island  he  had  gone  to  a  set  of  pigeon-holes  in 
Willie  Dunster's  outer  office  and  had  taken  out 
from  a  compartment  labellod  "  Malata "  a  very 
small  accumulation  of  envelopes,  a  few  addressed 
to  himself,  and  one  addressed  to  his  assistant,  all 
to  the  care  of  the  finn,  W.  Dunster  and  Co.  As 
opportunity  offered,  the  firm  used  to  send  them  on 
to  Malata  either  by  a  man-of-war  schooner  going 
on  a  cruise,  or  by  some  trading  craft  proceeding 
that  way.  But  for  the  last  four  months  there  had 
been  no  opportunity. 

"  You  going  to  stay  here  some  time? "  asked 
the  Editor,  after  a  longish  silence. 

Renouard,  perfunctorily,  did  see  no  reason  why 
he  should  make  a  long  stay. 

"For  health,  for  your  mental  health,  my  boy," 
rejoined  the  newspaper  man.  "To  get  used  to 
human  faces  so  that  they  don't  hit  you  in  the  eye 
so  hard  when  you  walk  about  the  streets.  To  get 
friendly  with  your  kind.  I  suppose  that  assistant 
of  yours  can  be  trusted  to  look  after  things?" 

"  There's  the  half-caste  too.  The  Portuguese. 
He  knows  what's  to  be  done." 

"Aha I"  The  Editor  looked  sharply  at  his 
friend.    "  What's  his  name  ?  " 

"  Who's  name? " 

"  The  assistant's  you  picked  up  on  the  sly  behind 
my  back." 


36 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 


Renouaid  made  a  slight  movement  of  impatience. 

"  I  met  him  unexpectedly  one  evening.  I 
thought  he  would  do  as  well  as  another.  He  had 
come  from  up  country  and  didn't  seem  happy  in  a 
town.  He  told  me  his  name  was  Walter.  I  did 
not  ask  him  for  proofs,  you  know." 

"  I  don't  think  you  get  on  very  well  with  him." 

"  Why  ?    What  makes  you  think  so." 

"  I  don't  know.  Something  reluctant  in  your 
manner  when  he's  in  question." 

"  Really.  My  maimer  I  I  don't  think  he's  a 
great  subject  for  conversation,  perhaps.  Why  not 
drop  him?  " 

"  Of  course !  You  wouldn't  confess  to  a  mistake. 
Not  you.  Nevertheless  I  have  my  suspicions 
about  it." 

Renouard  got  up  to  go,  but  hesitated,  looking 
down  at  the  seated  Editor. 

"  How  funny,"  he  said  at  last  with  the  utmost 
seriousness,  and  was  making  for  the  door,  when  the 
voice  of  his  friend  stopped  him. 

"  You  know  what  has  been  said  of  you?  That 
you  couldn't  get  on  with  anybody  you  couldn't 
kick.  Now,  confess— is  there  any  truth  in  the  soft 
impeachment? " 

"  No,"  said  Renouard.    "  Did  you  print  that 
in  your  paper." 
"  No.    I  didn't  quite  believe  it.    But  I  will  tell 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  37 

you  what  I  believe.  I  believe  that  when  your 
heart  is  set  on  some  object  you  are  a  man  that 
doesn't  count  the  cost  to  yourself  or  others.  And 
this  shall  get  printed  some  day." 

"Obituary  notice?"  Renouard  dropped  negli- 
gently. 

"  Certain— some  day." 

"  Do  you  then  regard  yourself  as  immortal?  " 

"  No,  my  boy.    I  am  not  immortal.    But  the 

voice  of  the  press  goes  on  for  ever And  it  will 

say  that  this  was  the  secret  of  your  great  success 
in  a  task  where  better  men  than  you— meaning  no 
offence— did  fail  repeatedly." 

"Success,"  muttered  Renouard,  pulling-to  the 
office  door  after  him  with  considerable  energy. 
And  the  letters  of  the  word  Private  like  a  row  of 
white  eyes  seemed  to  stare  after  his  back  sinking 
down  the  staircase  of  that  temple  of  publicity. 

Renouard  had  no  doubt  that  aU  the  means  of 
publicity  would  be  put  at  the  service  of  love  and 
used  for  the  discovery  of  the  loved  man.  He  did 
not  wish  him  dead.  He  did  not  wish  him  any 
harm.  We  are  aU  equipped  with  a  fund  of  humanity 
which  is  not  exhausted  without  many  and  repeated 
provocations— and  this  man  had  done  him  no  evil. 
But  before  Renouard  had  left  old  Dunster's  house, 
at  the  conclusion  of  the  call  he  made  there  that 
very  afternoon,  he  had  discovered  in  himself  the 


38 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 


desire  that  the  search  might  last  long.  He  never 
really  flattered  himself  that  it  might  fail.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  there  was  no  other  course  in 
this  world  for  himself,  for  all  mankind,  but  resig- 
nation. And  he  could  not  help  thinking  that 
Professor  Moorsom  had  arrived  at  the  same  con- 
clusion too. 

Professor  Moorsom,  slight  frame  of  middle 
height,  a  thoughtful  keen  head  under  the  thick 
wavy  hair,  veiled  dark  eyes  under  straight  eye- 
brows, and  with  an  inward  gaze  which  when  dis- 
engaged and  arriving  at  one  seemed  to  issue  from 
an  obscure  dream  of  books,  from  the  limbo  of 
meditation,  showed  himself  extremely  gracious  to 
him.  Renouard  guessed  in  him  a  man  whom  an 
incurable  habit  of  investigation  and  analysis  had 
made  gentle  and  indulgent;  inapt  for  action,  and 
more  sensitive  to  the  thoughts  than  to  the  events 
of  existence.  Withal  not  crushed,  sub-ironic  with- 
out a  trace  of  acidity,  and  with  a  simple  manner 
which  put  people  at  ease  quickly.  They  had  a 
long  conversation  on  the  terrace  commanding  an 
extended  view  of  the  town  and  the  harbour. 

The  splendid  immobility  of  the  bay  resting  under 
his  gaze,  with  its  grey  spurs  and  shining  indenta- 
tions, helped  Renouard  to  regain  his  self-possession, 
which  he  had  felt  shaken,  in  coming  out  on  the 
terrace,  into  the  setting  of  the  most  powerful 


THE  PLANTER  OF  M\LATA  39 

•motion  of  his  life,  when  he  had  sat  vnthin  a  foot 
of  Miss  Moorsom  with  fire  in  his  breast,  a  hununing 
in  his  ears,  and  in  a  complete  disorder  of  his  mind. 
There  was  the  very  garden  seat  on  which  he  had 
been  enveloped  in  the  radiant  spell.  And  pre- 
sently he  was  sitting  on  it  again  with  the  professor 
talking  of  her.  Near  by  the  patriarchal  Dunster 
leaned  forward  in  a  wicker  arm-chair,  benign  and 
a  little  deaf,  his  big  hand  to  his  ear  with  the  inno- 
cent eagerness  of  his  advanced  age  remembering 
the  fires  of  life. 

It  was  with  a  sort  of  apprehension  that  Renouard 
looked  forward  to  seeing  Miss  Mooreom.  And 
strangely  enough  it  resembled  the  state  of  mind  of 
a  man  who  fears  disenchantment  more  than  sorti- 
l^e.  But  he  need  not  have  been  afraid.  Directly 
he  saw  her  in  a  distance  at  the  other  end  of  the 
terrace  he  shuddered  to  the  roots  of  his  hair. 
With  her  approach  the  power  of  speech  left  him 
for  a  time.  Mrs.  Dunster  and  her  aunt  were 
accompanying  her.  All  these  people  sat  down;  it 
was  an  intimate  circle  into  which  Renouard  felt 
himself  cordiaUy  admitted;  and  the  talk  was  of  the 
great  search  which  occupied  all  their  minds.  Dis- 
cretion was  expected  by  these  people,  but  of  re- 
ticence as  to  the  object  of  the  journey  there  could 
be  no  question.  Nothing  but  ways  and  means 
and  arrangements  could  be  talked  about. 


40  THE  PLANTER  OF  BtALATA 

By  fixing  his  eyes  obstinately  on  the  ground, 
which  gave  him  an  air  of  reflective  sadness, 
Renouard  managed  to  recover  his  self-possession. 
He  used  it  to  keep  his  voice  in  a  low  key  and  to 
measure  his  words  on  the  great  subject.  And  he 
took  care  with  a  great  inward  effort  to  make  them 
reasonable  without  giving  them  a  discouraging 
complexion.  For  he  did  not  want  the  quest  to  be 
given  up,  since  it  would  mean  her  going  away  with 
her  two  attendant  grey-heads  to  the  other  side  of 
the  world. 

He  was  asked  to  come  again,  to  come  often  and 
take  part  in  the  counsels  of  all  these  people  capti- 
vated by  the  sentimental  enterprise  of  a  declared 
love.  On  taking  Miss  Moorsom's  hand  he  looked 
up,  would  have  liked  to  say  something,  but  found 
himself  voiceless,  with  his  lips  suddenly  sealed. 
She  returned  the  pressure  of  his  fingers,  and  he  left. 
her  with  her  eyes  vaguely  staring  beyond  ,  :-.- 
air  of  listening  for  an  expected  sound,  i.  .  : 
faintest  possible  smile  on  her  lips,  a  .^Lc  not 
for  him,  evidently,  but  the  reflection  of  some  deep 
and  inscrutable  thought. 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 


41 


IV 

He  went  on  board  his  schooner.    She  lay  white, 
and  as  if  suspended,  in  the  crepuscular  atmosphere 
of  sunset  mingling  with  the  ashy  gleam  of  the  vast 
anchorage.    He  tried  to  keep  his  thoughts  as  sober, 
as  reasonable,  as  measured  as  his  words  had  been 
lest  they  should  get  away  from  him  and  cause  some 
sort  of  moral  disaster.    What  he  was  afraid  of  in 
the  coming  night  was  sleeplessness  and  the  endless 
strain  of  that  wearisome  task.    It  had  to  be  faced 
however.    He  lay  on  his  back,  sighing  profoundly 
in  the  dark,  and  suddenly  beheld  his  very  own  self 
carrying  a  small  bizarre  lamp,  reflected  in  a  lon^ 
mirror  inside  a  room  in  an  empty  and  unfurnished 
palace.    In  this  startling  image  of  himself  he 
recogmsed    somebody    he    had    to    follow-the 
frightened  guide  of  his  dream.    He  traversed  end- 
less galleries,  no  end  of  lofty  halls,  innumerable 
doors.    He  lost  himself  utterly-he  found  his  way 
again.    Room  succeeded  room.    At  last  the  lamp 
went  out,  and  he  stumbled  against  some  object 
which,  when  he  stooped  for  it,  he  found  to  be 
very  cold  and  heavy  to  lift.    The  sickly  white  light 
of  dawn  showed  him  the  head  of  a  statue.     Its 
marble  hair  was  done  in  the  bold  lines  of  a  hehnet 
on  iU  Ups  the  chisel  had  left  a  faint  smile,  and  it 


42  THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 

resembled  Miss  Moors^m.  Whye  he  was  staring 
at  It  fixedly,  the  head  began  to  grow  light  in  his 
fingers,  to  diminish  and  crmnble  to  pieces,  and  at 
last  turned  into  a  handful  of  dust,  which  was  blown 
away  by  a  puff  of  wind  so  chiUy  that  he  woke  up 
mih  a  desperate  shiver  and  leaped  headlong  out 
of  his  bed-place.  The  day  had  reaUy  come.  He 
sat  down  by  the  cabin  table,  and  taking  his  head 
between  his  hands,  did  not  stir  for  a  very  Ion* 
tmie.  ^ 

Very  quiet,  he  set  himself  to  review  this  dream 
The  lamp,  of  course,  he  connected  with  the  search 
for  a  man.    But  on  closer  examination  he  perceived 
that  the  reflection  of  himself  in  the  mirror  was  not 
reaUy  the  true  Renouard,  but  somebody  else  whose 
face  he  could  not  remember.    In  the  deserted 
palace  he  recognised  a  sinister  adaptation  by  his 
bram  of  the  long  corridors  with  many  doors,  in 
the  great  buildmg  in  which  his  friend's  newspaper 
was  lodged  on  the  first  floor.    The  marble  h^d 
with  Miss  Moorsom's  face!    Weill    What  other 
face  could  he  have  dreamed  of?    And  her  com- 
pleMon  was  fairer  than  Parian  marble,  than  the 
heads  of  angels.    The  wind  at  the  end  was  the 
morning  breeze  entering  through  the  open  porthole 
and  touchmg  his  face  before  the  schooner  could 
swing  to  the  chilly  gust. 
YesI    And  aU  this  rational  explanation  of  the 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  43 

fantastic  made  it  only  more  mysterious  and  weird, 
niere  was  something  daemonic  in  that  dream 
I  was  one  of  those  experiences  which  throw  a  man 
out  of  confonnity  with  the  estabUshed  order  of 

X^^oT  ^'  "^ '  "-^""  °^  °^- 

Henceforth  without  ever  trying  to  resist,  he 
went  every  afternoon  to  the  house  where  she  Kved 
He  went  there  as  passively  as  if  in  a  dream.  He 
could  never  make  out  how  he  had  attained  the 
footmg  of  mtunacy  in  the  Dunster  mansion  above 
tee  bay-whether  on  the  ground  of  personal  merit 
or  as  the  pioneer  of  the  vegetable  silk  industry 

in,         ^"  *''  '^''  "^"^ ""'  remember^ 
^  tmctly,  as  distinctly  as  in  a  dream,  hearing  old 
Wer  once  telling  him  that  his  next  public  task 
would  be  a  careful  survey  of  the  Nor^them  Dis- 
tricts to  discover  tracts  suitable  for  the  cultivation 
o  the  silk  plant     The  old  man  wagged  his  beard 
athnnsagely.    It  was  indeed  as  absurd  as  a  dream. 
WiUie  of  course  would  be  there  in  the  evening. 
But  he  was  more  of  a  figure  out  of  a  nightmre 
hoyermg  about  the  circle  of  chairs  inZ  dress-' 
clothes  hke  a  gigantic,  repulsive,  and  sentimental 

th.  ,??,r*y^*''*^«  beastly  cocoons  all  over 
the  world,"  he  buzzed  in  his  blurred,  water-logged 
voice.  He  affected  a  great  hoiTor  of  insectsXui 
kinds.    One  evening  he  appeared  with  a  red  flower 


44 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 


in  his  button-hole.  Nothing  could  have  been  more 
disgustingly  fantastic.  And  he  would  also  say  to 
Renouard:  "  You  may  yet  change  the  history  of 
our  country.  For  economic  conditions  do  shape 
the  history  of  nations.  Eh?  What?  "  And  he 
would  turn  to  Miss  Moorsom  for  approval,  lowering 
protectingly  his  spatulous  nose  and  looking  up  with 
feeling  from  under  his  absurd  eyebrows,  which  grew 
thin,  in  the  manner  of  canebrakes,  out  of  his  spongy 
skin.  For  this  large,  bilious  creature  was  an  econo- 
mist and  a  sentimentalist,  facile  to  tears,  and  a 
member  of  the  Cobden  Club. 

In  order  to  see  as  Uttle  of  him  as  possible  Re- 
nouard began  coming  earlier  so  as  to  get  away 
before  his  arrival,  without  curtailing  too  much  the 
hours  of  secret  contemplation  for  which  he  Uved. 
He  had  given  up  trying  to  deceive  himself.  His 
resignation  was  without  bounds.  He  accepted 
the  immense  misfortune  of  being  in  love  with  a 
woman  who  was  in  search  of  another  man  only  to 
throw  herself  into  his  arms.  With  such  desperate 
precision  he  defined  in  his  thoughts  the  situation, 
the  consciousness  of  which  traversed  like  a  sharp 
arrow  the  sudden  silences  of  general  conversation. 
The  only  thought  before  which  he  quailed  was  the 
thought  that  this  could  not  last ;  that  it  must  come 
to  an  end.  He  feared  it  instinctively  as  a  sick 
man  may  fear  death.    For  it  seemed  to  him  that 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 


45 


1 


it  must  be  the  death  of  him  followed  by  a  lightless, 
bottomless  pit.  But  his  resignation  was  not  spared 
the  torments  of  jealousy:  the  cruel,  insensate, 
poignant,  and  imbecile  jealousy,  when  it  seems  that 
a  woman  betrays  us  simply  by  this  that  she  exists, 
that  she  breathes — and  when  the  deep  movements 
of  her  nerves  or  her  soul  become  a  matter  of 
distracting  suspicion,  of  killing  doubt,  of  mortal 
anxiety. 

In  the  peculiar  condition  of  their  sojourn  Miss 
Moorsom  went  out  "ery  little.  She  accepted  this 
seclusion  at  the  Dunsters'  mansion  as  in  a  hermit- 
age, and  lived  there,  watched  over  by  a  group  of 
old  people,  with  the  lofty  endurance  of  a  con- 
descending and  strong-headed  goddess.  It  was 
impossible  to  say  if  she  suffered  from  anything 
in  the  world,  and  whether  this  was  the  insensibility 
of  a  great  passion  concentrated  on  itself,  or  a 
perfect  restraint  of  manner,  or  the  indifference  of 
superiority  so  complete  as  to  be  suflftcient  to  itself. 
But  it  was  visible  to  Renouard  that  she  took  some 
pleasure  in  talking  to  him  at  times.  Was  it  be- 
cause he  was  the  only  person  near  her  age?  Was 
this,  then,  the  secret  of  his  adnussion  to  the  circle? 

He  admired  her  voice  as  well  poised  as  her  move- 
ments, as  her  attitudes.  He  himself  had  always 
been  a  man  of  tranquil  tones.  But  the  power  of 
fascination  had  torn  him  out  of  his  very  nature  so 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 


completely  that  to  preserve  his  habitual  calmness 
from  going  to  pieces  had  become  a  terrible  effort. 
He  used  to  go  from  her  on  board  the  schooner 
exhausted,  broken,  shaken  up,  as  thoiigh  he  had 
been  put  to  the  most  exquisite  torture.  When  he 
saw  her  approaching  he  always  had  a  moment  of 
hallucination.  She  was  a  misty  and  fair  creatture, 
fitted  for  invisible  music,  for  the  shadows  of  love, 
for  the  murmurs  of  waters.  After  a  time  (he 
could  not  be  always  staring  at  the  ground)  he  would 
summon  up  all  his  resolution  and  look  at  her. 
There  was  a  sparkle  in  the  clear  obscurity  of  her 
eyes;  and  when  she  turned  them  on  him  they 
seemed  to  give  a  new  meaning  to  life.  He  would 
say  to  himself  that  another  man  would  have  found 
long  before  the  happy  release  of  maaness,  his  wits 
burnt  to  cinders  in  that  radiance.  But  no  such 
luck  for  him.  His  wits  had  come .  iscathed  through 
the  furnaces  of  hot  suns,  of  blazing  deserts,  of 
flaming  angers  against  the  weaknesses  of  men  and 
the  obstinate  cruelties  of  hostile  nature. 

Being  sane  he  had  to  be  constantly  on  his  guard 
against  falling  into  adoring  silences  or  breaking 
out  into  wild  speeches.  He  had  to  keep  watch 
on  his  eyes,  his  limbs,  on  the  muscles  of  his  face. 
Their  conversations  were  such  as  they  could  be 
between  these  two  people:  she  a  young  lady  fresh 
from  the  thick  twilight  of  four  million  people  and 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  47 

the  artificiality  of  several  London  seasons;  he  the 
man  of  definite  conquering  tasks,  the  familiar  of 
wide  horizons,  and  in  his  very  repose  holdmg  aloof 
from  these  agglomerations  of  units  in  which  one 
loses  one's  importance  even  to  oneself.    They  had 
no  common  conversational  small  change.    They 
had  to  use  the  great  pieces  of  general  ideas,  but 
they  exchanged  them  triviaUy.    It  was  no  serious 
conmierce.    Perhaps  she  had  not  much  of  that 
coin.    Nothing   significant   came   from   her.    It 
could  not  be  said  that  she  had  received  from  the 
contacts  of  the  external  world  impressions  of  a 
personal  kind,  different  from  other  women.    What 
was  ravishing  in  her  was  her  quietness  and,  in  her 
grave  attitudes,  the  unfailing  brilliance  of  her 
femininity.   He  did  not  know  what  there  was  under 
that  ivory   forehead   so   splendidly   shaped,   so 
gtoriously  crowned.    He  could  not  tell  what  were 
her  thoughts,  her  feelings.    Her  replies  were  reflec- 
tive, always  preceded  by  a  short  silence,  while  he 
hung  on  her  lips  anxiously.    He  felt  himself  in  the 
presence  of  a  mysterious  being  in  whoir  spoke  an 
unknown  voice,  like  the  voice  of  oracles,  bringing 
everlasting  unrest  to  the  heart. 

He  was  thankful  enough  to  sit  in  silence  with 
secretly  clenched  teeth,  devoured  by  jealousy— and 
nobody  could  have  guessed  that  his  quiet  dtleren- 
tial  bearing  to  aU  these  grey-heads  was  the  supreme 


48 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 


effort  of  stoicism,  that  the  man  was  engaged  in 
keeping  a  sinister  watch  on  his  tortures  lest  ills 
strength  should  fail  him.  As  before,  when  grap- 
pling with  other  forces  of  nature,  he  could  find  in 
himself  all  sorts  of  courage  except  the  courage  to 
run  away. 

It  was  perhaps  from  the  lack  of  subjects  they 
could  have  in  common  that  Miss  Moorsom  made 
him  so  often  speak  of  his  own  life.  He  did  not 
shrink  from  talking  about  himself,  for  he  was  free 
from  that  exacerbated,  timid  vanity  which  seals 
so  many  vain-gbrious  lips.  He  talked  to  her  in 
his  restrained  voice,  gazing  at  the  tip  of  her  shoe, 
and  thinking  that  the  time  was  bound  to  come 
soon  when  her  very  inattention  would  get  weary  of 
him.  And  indeed  on  stealing  a  glance  he  would 
see  her  dazzling  and  perfect,  her  eyes  vague,  staring 
in  mournful  immobility,  with  a  drooping  head  that 
made  him  think  of  a  tragic  Venus  arising  before 
him,  not  from  the  foam  of  the  sea,  but  from  a  dis- 
tant, still  more  formless,  mysterious,  and  potent 
immensity  of  mankind. 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 


49 


One  afternoon  Renouard  stepping  out  on  the 
terrace  found  nobody  there.  It  was  for  him,  at  the 
same  time,  a  melancholy  disappointment  and  a 
poignant  relief. 

The  heat  was  great,  the  air  was  still,  all  the  long 
windows  of  the  house  stood  wide  open.    At  the 
further  end.  grouped  round  a  lady's  work-table, 
several   chairs  disposed    sociably   suggested   in- 
visible occupants,  a  company  of  conversing  shades. 
Renouard  looked  towards  them  with  a  sort  of 
dread.    A  most  elusive,  faint  sound  of  ghostly  talk 
issuing  from  one  of  the  rooms  added  to  the  illusion 
and  stopped  his  already  hesitating  footsteps.    He 
leaned  over  the  balustrade  of  stone  near  a  squat 
vase  hoWing  a  tropical  plant  of  a  bizarre  shape. 
Professor  Moorsom  coming  up  from  the  garden 
with  a  book  under  his  arm  and  a  white  parasol  held 
over  his  bare  head,  found  him  there  and,  closing 
the  parasol,  leaned  over  by  his  side  with  a  remark 
on  the  increasing  heat  of  the  season.    Renouard 
assented  and  changed  his  position  a  little;    the 
other,  after  a  short  silence,  administered  unexpect- 
edly a  question  which,  hke  the  blow  of  a  club  on 
the  head,  deprived  Renouard  of  the  power  of  speech 
and  even  thought,  but.  more  cruel,  left  him  quiver- 


.-aiCWF-MK^  . 


50 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 


ing  with  apprehension,  not  of  death  but  of  ever- 
lasting torment.  Yet  the  words  were  extremely 
simple. 

"  Something  will  have  to  be  done  soon.  We 
can't  remain  in  a  state  of  suspended  expectation  for 
ever.    Tell  me  what  do  you  think  of  our  chances  ? " 

Renouard,  speechless,  produced  a  faint  smile. 
The  professor  confessed  in  a  jocular  tone  his 
impatience  to  complete  the  circuit  of  the  globe  and 
be  done  with  it.  It  was  impossible  to  remain 
quartered  on  the  dear  excellent  Dtmsters  for  an 
indefinite  time.  And  then  there  were  the  lectures  he 
had  arranged  to  deliver  in  Paris.    A  serious  matter. 

That  lectures  by  Professor  Moorsom  were  a 
European  event  and  that  brilliant  audiences  would 
gather  to  hear  them  Renouard  did  not  know.  All 
he  was  aware  of  was  the  shock  of  this  hint  of 
departure.  The  menace  of  separation  fell  on  his 
head  like  a  thunderbolt.  And  he  saw  the  ab- 
surdity of  his  emotion,  for  hadn't  he  lived  all 
these  dajrs  under  the  very  cloud?  The  professor, 
his  elbows  spread  out,  looked  down  into  the  garden 
and  went  on  unburdening  his  mind.  Yes.  The 
department  of  sentiment  was  directed  by  his 
daughter,  and  she  had  plenty  of  volunteered  moral 
support;  but  he  had  to  look  after  the  practical 
side  of  life  without  assistance. 

"  I  have  the  less  hesitation  in  speaking  tp  you 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  51 

about  my  amdety,  because  I  feel  you  are  friendly 
to  us  and  at  the  same  time  you  are  detached  from 
all  these  sublimities— confound  them." 
"  What  do  you  mean?  "  murmured  Renouard. 
"  I  mean  that  you  are  capable  of  calm  judgment. 
Here  the  atmosphere  is  simply  detestable.    Every- 
body has  knuckled  under  to  sentiment.    Perhaps 
your  deliberate  opinion  could  influence  . . ." 
"  You  want  Miss  Moorsom  to  give  it  up?  " 
The  professor  turned  to  the  young  man  dismally. 
"  Heaven  only  knows  what  I  want." 
Renouard  leaning  his  back  against  the  balustrade 
folded  his  arms  on  his  breast,  appeared  to  meditate 
profoundly.    His  face,  shaded  softly  by  the  broad 
brim  of  a  planter's  panama  hat,  with  the  straight 
line  of  the  nose  level  with  the  forehead,  the  eyes  lost 
in  the  depth  of  the  setting,  and  the  chin  well  for- 
ward, had  such  a  profile  as  may  be  seen  amongst 
the  bronzes  of  classical  museimis,  pure  under  a 
crested  helmet— recalled  vaguely  a  Minerva's  head. 
"  This  is  the  most  troublesome  time  I  ever  had 
in  my  Ufe,"  exclaimed  the  professor  testily. 

"  Surely  the  man  must  be  worth  it,"  muttered 
Renouard  with  a  pang  of  jealousy  traversing  his 
breast  like  a  self-inflicted  stab. 

Whether  enervated  by  the  heat  or  giving  way  to 
pent  up  irritation  the  professor  surrendered  himself 
to  the  mood  of  sincerity. 


ja  THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 

"  He  began  by  being  a  pleasantly  dull  boy.    He 
developed  into  a  pointlessly  clever  young  man, 
without,  I  suspect,  ever  trying  to  understand  any- 
thing.   My  daughter  knew  him  from  childhood. 
I  am  a  busy  man,  and  I  confess  that  their  engage- 
ment was  a  complete  surprise  to  me.    I  wish  their 
reasons  for  that  step  had  been  more  naive.    But 
simplicity  was  out  of  fashion  in  their  set.    From 
a  worldly  point  of  view  he  seems  to  have  been  a 
mere  baby.    Of  course,  now,  1  am  assured  that 
he  is  the  victim  of  his  noble  confidence  in  the  recti- 
tude of  his  kind.    But  that's  mere  idealising  of  a 
sad  reaUty.    For  my  part  I  will  teU  you  that  from 
the  very  beginning  I  had  the  gravest  doubts  of  his 
dishonesty.    Unfortunately  my  clever  daughter 
hadn't.    And  now  we  behold  the  reaction.    No. 
To  be  earnestly  dishonest  one  must  be  really  poor. 
This  was  only  a  manifestation  of  his  extremely 
refined  cleverness.    The  complicated  simpleton. 
He  had  an  awful  awakening  though." 

In  such  words  did  Professor  Moorsom  give  his 
"  young  friend  "  to  understand  the  state  of  his 
feeUngs  toward  the  lost  man.  It  was  evident  that 
the  father  of  Miss  Moorsom  wished  hun  to  remain 
lost.  Perhaps  the  unprecedented  heat  of  the 
season  made  him  long  for  the  cool  spaces  of  the 
Pacific,  the  sweep  of  the  ocean's  free  wind  along 
the  promenade  decks,  cumbered  with  long  chairs, 


THE  PLANTER  OF  BIALATa  53 

of  a  ship  steaming  towards  the  Califomian  coast 
To  Renouard   the  philosopher  appeared  simply 
Oie  most  treacherous  of  fathers.    He  was  amazed 
But  he  was  not  at  the  end  of  his  discoveries. 
"  He  may  be  dead."  the  professor  murmured. 
Why?    People  don't  die  here  sooner  than  in 
Europe.    If  he  had  gone  to  hide  in  Italy    for 
mstance,  you  wouldn't  think  of  saying  that." 

"  Weill    And  suppose  he  has  become  morally 
dismtegrated.    You  know  he  was  not  a  strong 
peraonaUty,"    the   professor   suggested   moodily. 
My  daughter's  future  is  in  question  here  " 
Renouard  thought  that  the  love  of  such  a  woman 
was  enough  to  pull  any  broken  man  together-to 
drag  a  man  out  of  his  grave.    And  he  thought  this 
with  mward  despair,  which  kept  him  sUent  as  much 
ahnost  as  his  astonishment.    At  last  he  managed 
to  stammer  out  a  generous— 
"  Oh  I    Don't  let  us  even  suppose  ..." 
li.^  professor  struck  in  with  a  sadder  accent 
than  before — 

"  It's  good  to  be  yjung.  And  then  you  have 
been  a  man  of  action,  and  necessarily  a  believer  in 
success.  But  I  have  been  looking  too  long  at  hfe 
not  to  distrust  its  surprises.  Agel  Agel  Here 
I  stand  before  you  a  man  full  of  doubts  and  hesita- 
tion—s^«  lentus,  tmidusfuturi." 
He  made  a  sign  to  Renouard  not  to  interrupt. 


S4 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 


and  in  a  lowered  voice,  as  if  airaid  of  being  over- 
heard, even  there,  in  the  solitude  of  the  terrace— 

"  And  the  worst  is  that  I  am  not  even  sure  how 
far  this  sentimental  pilgrimage  is  genuine.  Yes. 
I  doubt  my  own  child.  It's  true  that  she's  a 
woman. . . ." 

Renouard  detected  with  horror  a  tone  of  resent- 
ment, as  if  the  professor  had  never  forgiven  his 
daughter  for  not  dying  instead  of  his  son.  The 
latter  noticed  the  young  man's  stony  stare. 

"  Ah  I  you  don't  understand.  Yes,  she's  clever, 
open-minded,  popular,  and — well,  charming.  But 
you  don't  know  what  it  is  to  have  moved,  breathed, 
existed,  and  even  triumphed  in  the  mere  smother 
and  froth  of  life — the  brilliant  froth.  There 
thoughts,  sentiments,  opinions,  feelings,  actions 
too,  are  nothing  but  agitation  in  empty  space — to 
amuse  life — a  sort  of  superior  debauchery,  exciting 
and  fatiguing,  meaning  nothing,  leading  nowhere. 
She  is  the  creatture  of  that  circle.  And  I  ask  my- 
self if  she  is  obeying  the  uneasiness  of  an  instinct 
seeking  its  satisfaction,  or  is  it  a  revulsion  of  feel- 
ing, or  is  she  merely  deceiving  her  own  heart  by 
this  dangerous  trifling  with  romantic  images. 
And  everything  is  possible— except  sincerity,  such 
as  only  stark,  struggling  humanity  can  know. 
No  woman  can  stand  that  mode  of  life  in  which 
women  rule,  and  remain  a  perfectly  genuine,  simple 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  33 

human   being Ah'    '"•-ere's  some  people 

coming  out." 

He  moved  off  a  pace,  then  turning  his  head: 
"  Upon  my  word!  I  would  be  infinitely  obliged  to 
you  if  you  could  throw  a  httle  cold  water  . . ."  and 
at  a  vaguely  dismayed  gesture  of  Renouard,  he 
added:  "Don't  be  afraid.  You  wouldn't  be 
putting  out  a  sacred  fire." 

Renouard  could  hardly  find  words  for  a  protest: 
"  I  assure  you  that  I  never  talk  with  Miss  Moorsom 
—on— on— that.    And  if  you,  her  father  . . ." 

"  I  envy  you  your  innocence,"  sighed  the  pro- 
fessor. "A  father  is  only  an  everyday  person. 
Flat.  Stale.  Moreover,  my  cliild  would  natur- 
ally mistrust  me.  We  belong  to  the  same  set. 
Whereas  you  carry  with  you  the  prestige  of  the 
unknown.  You  have  proved  yourself  to  be  a 
force." 

Thereupon  the  professor  foUowed  by  Renouard 
joined  the  circle  of  all  the  inmates  of  the  house 
assembled  at  the  other  end  of  the  terrace  about  a 
tea-table;  three  white  heads  and  that  resplendent 
vision  of  woman's  glory,  the  sight  of  which  had  the 
power  to  flutter  his  heart  hke  a  reminder  of  the 
mortahty  of  his  frame. 

He  avoided  the  seat  by  the  side  of  Miss  Moorsom. 
The  others  were  talking  together  languidly.  Un- 
noticed he  looked  at  that  woman  so  marvellous  that 


?*55??1^3F3!B 


56  THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 

centuries  seemed  to  lie  between  them.  He  was 
oppressed  and  overcome  at  the  thought  of  what 
she  could  give  to  some  man  who  really  would  be  a 
force  I  What  a  glorious  struggle  with  this  amazon. 
What  noble  burden  for  the  victorious  strength. 

Dear  old  Mrs.  Dunster  was  dispensing  tea,  look- 
ing from  time  to  time  with  interest  towards  Miss 
Moorsom.  The  aged  statesman  having  eaten  a 
raw  tomato  and  drunk  a  glass  of  milk  (a  habit  of 
his  early  fanning  days,  long  before  politics,  when, 
pioneer  of  wheat-growing,  he  demonstrated  the 
possibility  of  raising  crops  on  ground  looking 
barren  enough  to  discourage  a  magician),  smoothed 
his  white  beard,  and  struck  UghUy  Renouard's 
knee  with  his  big  wrinkled  hand. 

"  You  had  better  come  back  to-night  and  dine 
with  us  quietly." 

He  liked  this  young  man,  a  pioneer,  too.  in  more 
than  one  direction.  Mrs.  Dunster  added:  "  Do. 
It  will  be  very  quiet.  I  don't  even  know  if  Willie 
will  be  home  for  dinner."  Renouard  murmured 
his  thanks,  and  left  the  terrace  to  go  on  board  the 
schooner.  While  Ungering  in  the  drawing-room 
doorway  he  heard  the  resonant  voice  of  old 
Dunster  uttering  oracularly— 

"...  the  leading  man  here  some  day.  .  .  .  Like 
me. 

Renouard  let  the  thin  summer  porti^  of  the 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  57 

doorway  fall  behin*^  him.    The  voice  of  Professor 
Moorsom  said — 

"  I  am  told  that  he  has  made  an  enemy  of  abnost 
every  man  who  had  to  work  with  him." 

"  That's  nothing.  He  did  his  work.  .  .  Like 
me." 

"He  never  counted  the  cost  they  say.  Not 
even  of  lives." 

Renouard  understood  that  they  were  talking  of 
nun.  Before  he  could  move  away,  Mrs.  Dunster 
struck  in  placidly— 

"  Don't  let  yourself  be  shocked  by  the  tales  you 
may  hear  of  him.  my  dear.    Most  of  it  is  envy." 

Then  he  heard  Miss  Moorsom's  voice  replying  to 
the  old  lady-  Py^ngro 

"  Oh !  I  am  not  easily  deceived.  I  think  I  may 
say  I  have  an  instinct  for  truth." 

He  hastened  away  from  that  house  with  his 
heart  full  of  dread. 


VI 

On  board  the  schooner,  lying  on  the  settee  on  his 
back  with  the  knuckles  of  his  hands  pressed  over 
his  eyes,  he  made  up  his  mind  that  he  would  not 
return  to  that  house  for  dinner-that  he  would 
never  go  back  there  any  more.  He  made  up  his 
mmd  some  twenty  times.    The  knowledge  that  he 


58  THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 

had  only  to  go  up  on  the  quarter  deck,  utter 
quietly  the  words:  "  Man  the  windlass."  and  that 
the  schooner  springing  into  life  would  nin  a 
hundred  miles  out  to  sea  before  sunrise,  deceived 
his  struggling  will.  Nothing  easier!  Yet,  in  the 
end,  this  young  man,  abnost  iU-famed  for  his  ruth- 
less daring,  the  inflexible  leader  of  two  tragicaUy 
successful  expeditions,  shrank  from  that  act  of 
savage  energy,  and  began,  instead,  to  hunt  for 
excuses. 

No!    It  was  not  for  him  to  run  away  like  an 
incurable  who  cuts  his  throat.    He  finished  dress- 
ing and  looked  at  his  own  impassive  face  in  the 
saloon  mirror  scornfully.    While  being  pulled  on 
shore  in  the  gig,  he  remembered  suddenly  the  wild 
beauty  of  a  waterfaU  seen  when  hardly  more  than 
a  boy,  years  ago,  in  Menado.    There  was  a  legend 
of  a  goveriior-general  of  the  Dutch  East  Indies, 
on  official  tour,  committing  suicide  on  that  .spot 
by  leaping  into  the  chasm.    It  was  supposed  that 
a  painful  disease  had  made  him  weary  of  Ufe.    But 
was  there  ever  a  visitation  hke  his  own,  at  the  same 
time  binding  one  to  Ufe  and  so  crueUy  mortal  I 

The  dinner  was  indeed  quiet.  Willie,  given  half 
an  hour's  grace,  failed  to  turn  up,  and  his  chair 
remamed  vacant  by  the  side  of  Miss  Moorsom. 
Renouard  had  the  professor's  sister  on  his  left, 
dressed  in  an  expensive  gown  becoming  her  age! 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  59 

That  maiden  lady  in  her  wonderful  preservation 
reminded  Renouard  somehow  of  a  wax  flower  under 
glass.    There  were  no  traces  of  the  dust  of  life's 
batties  on  her  anywhere.    She  did  not  like  him 
very  much  in  the  aft omoons,  in  his  white  driU  suit 
and  planter's  hat,  which  seemed  to  her  an  unduly 
Bohemian  costume  for  calling  in  a  house  where 
there  were  ladies.    But  in  the  evening,  Uthe  and 
elegant  in  his  dress  clothes  and  with  his  pleasant, 
slightly  veiled  voice,  he  always  made  her  conquest 
afresh.  He  might  have  been  anybody  distinguished 
—the  son  of  u  duke.    Falling  under  that  charm 
probably  (and  also  because  her  brother  had  given 
her  a  hint),  she  attempted  to  open  her  heart  to 
Renouard,  who  was  watching  with  all  the  power 
of  his  soul  her  niece  across  the  table.    She  spoke 
to  him  as  frankly  as  though  that  miserable  mortal 
envelope,   emptied   of  everything   but   hopeless 
passion,  were  indeed  the  son  of  a  duke. 

Inattentive,  he  heard  her  only  in  snatches,  till 
the  final  confidential  Durst :  "...  glad  if  you  would 
express  an  opiniou.  Look  at  her,  so  charming, 
such  a  great  favourite,  so  generally  admired!  It 
would  be  too  sad.  We  aU  hoped  she  would  make 
a  brilliant  marriage  with  somebody  very  rich  and 
of  high  position,  have  a  house  in  London  and 
in  the  countoy,  and  entertain  us  all  splendidly. 
She's  so  eminenUy  fitted  for  it.    She  has  such 


•r'^WL.1^-1-*  1 


60  THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 

hosts  of  distinguished  friends!    And  then— this 
instead! ...    My  heart  really  aches." 

Her  well-bred  if  anxious  whisper  was  covered  by 
the  voice  of  professor  Moorsom  discoursing  subtly 
down  the  short  length  of  the  dir^er  table  on  the 
Impermanency  of  the  Measurable  to  his  venerable 
disciple.    It  might  have  been  a  chapter  in  a  new 
and    Topular   book   of  Moorsonian   philosophy. 
Patriarchal  and  delighted,   old  Dunster  leaned 
forward  a  Uttle,  his  eyes  shining  youthfuUy,  two 
spots  of  colour  at  the  roots  of  his  white  beard; 
and  Renouard,  glancing  at  the  senile  excitement, 
recaUed  the  words  heard  on  those  subtle  Ups. 
adopted  their  scorn  for  his  own.  saw  their  truth 
before  this  man  ready  to  be  amused  by  the  side 
of  the  grave.    Yes!    InteUectual  debauchery  in 
the  froth  of  existence !    Froth  and  fraud ! 

On  the  same  side  of  the  table  Miss  Moorsom  never 
once  looked  towards  her  father,  all  her  grace  as  if 
frozen,  her  red  Ups  compressed,  the  faintest  rosi- 
ness  under  her  dazzling  complexion,  her  black  eyes 
burning  motionless,  and  the  very  coppery  gleams 
of  light  lying  stiU  on  the  waves  and  undulation  of 
her  hair.  Renouard  fancied  himself  overturring 
the  table,  smashing  crystal  and  china,  treading 
fruit  and  flowers  under  foot,  seizing  her  in  his  arms, 
carrying  her  off  in  a  tumult  of  shrieks  from  all 
these  people,  a  silent  frightened  mortal,  into  some 


I 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  6i 

profound  retreat  as  in  the  age  of  Cavern  men. 
Suddenly  everybody  got  up,  and  he  hastened  to 
rise  too,  finding  himself  out  of  breath  and  quite 
unsteady  on  his  feet. 

On  the  terrace  the  philosopher,  after  lighting  a 
cigar,  slipped  his  hand  condescendingly  under  his 
"  dear  young  friend's  "  arm.  Renouard  regarded 
him  now  with  the  profoundest  mistrust.  But  the 
great  man  seemed  really  to  have  a  Uking  for  his 
young  friend— one  of  those  mysterious  sympathies, 
disregarding  the  differences  of  age  and  position, 
which  in  this  case  might  have  been  explained  by 
the  failure  of  philosophy  to  meet  a  very  real  worry 
of  a  practical  kind. 

After  a  turn  or  two  and  some  casual  talk  the 
professor  said  suddenly:  "  My  late  son  was  in  your 
school— do  you  know?  I  can  imagine  that  had 
he  lived  and  you  had  ever  met  yor  would  have 
understood  each  other.  He  too  was,  indined  to 
action." 

He  sighed,  then,  shaking  off  the  mournful  thought 
and  with  a  nod  at  the  dusky  part  of  the  terrace 
where  the  dress  of  his  daughter  made  a  luminous 
stain:  "  I  really  wish  you  would  drop  in  that 
quarter  a  few  sensible,  discouraging  words." 

Renouard  disengaged  himself  from  that  most 
perfidious  of  men  under  the  pretence  of  astonish- 
ment, and  stepping  back  a  pace— 


^<^  i^se^m^mms^^m^^mtmm:'T^mw^'iSi 


6a 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 


"  Surely  you  are  making  fun  of  me,  Professor 
Moorsom,"  he  said  with  a  low  laugh,  which  was 
really  a  sound  of  rage. 

"  My  dear  young  friend!  It's  no  subject  for 
jokes,  to  me.  .  .  .  You  don't  seem  to  have  any 
notion  of  your  prestige,"  he  added,  walking  away 
towards  the  chairs. 

"  Humbug  I  "  thought  Renouard,  standing  still 
and  looking  after  him.  "And  yet  I  And  yet! 
Whatif  it  were  true?" 

He   advanced   then    towards   Miss   Moorsom. 
Posed  on  the  seat  on  which  they  had  first  spoken 
to  each  other,  it  was  her  turn  to  watch  him  coming 
on.  But  many  of  the  windows  were  not  lighted  that 
evening.    It  was  dark  over  there.    She  appeared 
to  him  luminous  in  her  clear  dress,  a  figure  with- 
out shape,  a  face  without  features,  awaiting  his 
approach,  till  he  got  quite  near  to  her,  sat  down, 
and  they  had  exchanged  a  few  insignificant  words. 
Gradually  she  came  out  like  a  magic  painting  of 
charm,  fascination,  and  desire,  glowing  mysteriously 
on  the  dark  background.    Something  impercep- 
tible in  the  lines  of  her  attitude,  in  the  modula- 
tions of  her  voice,  seemed  to  soften  that  suggestion 
of  calm  unconscious  pride  which  enveloped  her 
always  like  a  mantle.    He,  sensitive  like  a  bond 
slave  to  the  moods  of  the  master,  was  moved  by 
the  subtle  relenting  of  her  grace  to  an  infinite 


i(k,^H^%.di^!AZ.- 


w.;m. 


.tm'?Mm 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  63 

tenderness.  He  fought  down  the  impulse  to  seize 
her  by  the  hand,  lead  her  down  into  the  garden 
away  under  the  big  trees,  and  throw  himself  at 
her  feet  uttering  words  of  love.  His  emotion  was 
so  strong  that  he  had  to  cough  slightly,  and  not 
knowng  what  to  talk  to  her  about  he  began  to  tell 
her  of  his  mother  and  sisters.  All  the  family  were 
coming  to  London  to  live  there,  for  some  Uttle 
time  at  least. 

"  I  hope  you  will  go  and  tell  them  something 
of  me.    Something  seen,"  he  said  pressir-gjy 
By  this  miserable  subterfuge,  like  a  man  about 

to  part  with  his  life,  he  hoped  to  make  her  remember 
hun  a  Uttle  longer. 

"Certainly."  she  said.  "I'UbegladtocaUwhen 
I  get  back.    But  that '  when '  may  be  a  long  time." 

He  heard  a  hght  sigh.  A  cruel  jealous  curiosity 
made  him  ask — 

"  Are  you  growing  weary.  Miss  Moorsom  ?  " 

A  silence  feU  on  his  low  spoken  question. 

"Do  you  mean  heart-weary?"  sounded  Aliss 
Moorsom's  voice.    "  You  don't  know  me,  I  see." 

'•  Ahl    Never  despair,"  he  muttered. 

"  This,  Mr.  Renouard,  is  a  work  of  reparation 
I  stand  for  truth  here.     I  can't  think  of  myself  "  ' 

He  could  have  taken  her  by  the  throat  for  every 
word  seemed  an  insult  to  his  passion;  but  he  only 
said —  ' 


^.ws^^smmfassmmfm  wm-- 


64  THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 

"  I  never  doabted  the— the— -nobility  of  your 
purpose." 

"  And  to  hear  the  word  weariness  pronounced  in 
this  connection  surprises  me.  And  from  a  man  too 
who,  I  imderstand,  has  never  counted  the  cost." 

"  You  are  pleased  to  tease  me,"  he  said,  directly 
he  had  recovered  his  voice  and  had  mastered  his 
anger.  It  was  as  if  Professor  Moorsom  had  dropped 
poison  in  his  ear  which  was  spreading  now  and 
tainting  his  passion,  his  very  jealousy.  He  mis- 
trusted every  word  that  came  from  those  lips  on 
which  his  life  himg.  "  How  can  you  know  any- 
thing of  men  who  do  not  count  the  cost  ?  "  he  asked 
in  his  gentlest  tones. 

"  From  hearsay — a  little." 

"  Well,  I  assure  you  they  are  Uke  the  others, 
subject  to  suffering,  victims  of  spells.  .  .  ." 

"  One  of  them,  at  least,  speaks  very  strangely." 

She  dismissed  the  subject  after  a  short  silence. 
"  Mr.  Renouard,  I  had  a  disappointment  this 
morning,  iliis  mail  brought  me  a  letter  from 
the  widow  of  the  old  butler— you  know.  I  ex- 
pected to  learn  that  she  had  heard  from — from 
here.  But  no.  No  letter  arrived  home  since 
we  left." 

Her  voice  was  cahn.  His  jealousy  couldn't 
stand  much  more  of  this  sort  of  talk;  but  he  was 
glad  that  nothing  had  turned  up  to  help  the  search; 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  65 

g»d  blindly.  uni««onably-H,n]y  because  it  would 
keq,  W  longer  in  hi.  aght-siace  d.e  wouldn't 

f.,Hif  "°  *^  """  ^•"  ^'  *^°^^'-  «°^°«  a  little 
ftnjherontheseat.  He  was  afraid  in  the  avulsion 
offedmg  of  ILngiug  himself  on  her  hands,  which 
flying  on  her  lap.  and  covering  them  with 

^  i^t  Z  ti'.  I'"^'-  °°*""«  ~""^ 
snaice  mat  spell-not  if  she  were  ever  so  false 

stupid,  or  degraded.    She  was  fate  itself.    The 

extent  of  his  misfortune  plunged  him  in  such  a 

stupor  that  he  faUed  at  first  to  hear  the  sound  of 

vo^es  and   footsteps  inside   the  drawing-room 

^J^e  had  come  home-and  the  Editor  was  wiTh 

They  burst  out  on  the  terrace  babbling  noisily, 
and  then  pulling  themselves  together  stood  stij 
8urpnsmg-and  as  if  themselves  surprised 


VII 
T^v  had  been  feasting  a  poet  from  the  bush,  the 
bt«t  discovery  of  the  Editor.    Such  discoveries 

dehght  of  the  only  apostle  of  letters  in  the  hemi- 
jph^the  solitary  patron  of  culture,  the  Slav^f 
the  Lami^-as  he  subscribed  himself  at  the  bottom 


66 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 


of  the  weekly  literary  page  of  his  paper.  He  had 
had  no  difficulty  in  persuading  the  virtuous  Willie 
(who  had  festive  instincts)  to  help  in  the  good  work, 
and  now  they  had  left  the  poet  lying  asleep  on  the 
hearthrug  of  the  editorial  room  and  had  rushed 
to  the  Dunster  mansion  wildly.  The  Editor  had 
another  discovery  to  announce.  Swaying  a  little 
where  he  stood  he  opened  his  mouth  very  wide 
to  shout  the  one  word  "  Found  I  "  Behind  him 
Willie  flung  both  his  hands  above  his  head  and  let 
them  fall  dramatically.  Renouard  saw  the  four 
white-headed  people  at  the  end  of  the  terrace  rise 
all  together  from  their  chairs  with  an  effect  of 
sudden  panic. 

"  I  tell  you — ^he — ^is — ^found,"  the  patron  of 
letters  shouted  emphatically. 

"  What  is  this  I "  exclaimed  Renouard  in  a  choked 
voice.  Miss  Moorsom  seized  his  wrist  suddenly, 
and  at  that  contact  fire  ran  through  all  his  veins, 
a  hot  stillness  descended  upon  him  in  which  he 
heard  the  blood  —  or  the  fire  —  beating  in  his 
ears.  He  made  a  movement  as  if  to  rise,  but  was 
restrained  by  the  convulsive  pressure  on  his  wrist. 

"  No,  no."  Miss  Moorsom's  eyes  stared  black 
as  night,  searching  the  space  before  her.  Far 
away  the  Editor  strutted  forward,  WiUic  follow- 
ing with  his  ostentatious  manner  of  carrying  his 
bulky  and  oppressive  carcass  which,  however,  did 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  67 

not  remain  exactly  perpendicular  for  two  seconds 
together. 

"The  innocent  Arthur  ...  Yes.  We've  got 
him,  •  the  Editor  became  very  business-like.  "  Yes 
this  letter  has  done  it." 

He  plunged  into  an  inside  pocket  for  it.  slapped 
the  scrap  of  paper  with  his  open  pahn.  "  From 
that  old  woman.  William  had  it  in  his  pocket 
smce  this  morning  when  Miss  Moorsom  gave  it  to 
him  to  show  me.  Forgot  all  about  it  tiU  an  hour 
ago.  Thought  it  was  of  no  importance.  Well, 
no  I    Not  till  it  was  properly  read." 

Renouard  and  Miss  Moorsom  emerged  from  the 
shadows  side  by  side,   a  well-matched  couple, 
ammated  yet  statuesque  in  their  cahnness  joid  in 
their  pailor.    She  had  let  go  his  wrist.    On  catch- 
ing sight  of  Renouard  the  Editor  exclaimed: 
What— you  here  I  "  in  a  quite  shrill  voice. 
There  came  a  dead  pause.    All  the  faces  had  in 
them  something  dismayed  and  cruel. 
"  He's  the  very  man  we    ^t,"  continued  the 
Editor.    "Excuse  my  excitement.    You  are  the 
very  man.  Renouard.    Didn't  you  tell  me  that 
your    assistant    called    himself   Walter?    Yes? 
Thought  so.    But  here's  that  old  woman-the 
butler's  wife-listen  to  this.    She  writes:    All  I 
can  tell  you.  Miss,  is  that  my  poor  husband 
directed  his  letters  to  the  name  of  H.  Walter." 


68 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 


Renoiurd's  violent  but  repressed  exclamation 
was  lost  in  a  general  murmur  and  shuffle  of  feet. 
The  Editor  made  a  Uep  forward,  bowed  with 
creditable  steadiness. 

"  Miss  Moorsom,  allow  me  to  congratulate  you 
from  the  bottom  of  my  heart  on  the  happy— er — 
issue . . ." 
"  Wait,"  muttered  Renouard  irresolutely. 
The  Editor  jumped  on  him  in  the  manner  of  their 
old  friendship.    "  Ah,  you  I    You  are  a  fine  fellow 
too.    With  your  solitary  ways  of  Ufe  you  will  end 
by  having  no  more  discrimination  than  a  savage. 
Fancy  Uving  with  a  gentleman  for  months  and 
never  guessing.  A  man,  I  am  certain,  accompUshed, 
remarkable,  out  of  the  common,  since  he  had  been 
distinguished  "  (he  bowedagain) "  by  MissMoorsom, 
whom  we  all  admire." 
She  turned  her  back  on  him. 
"  I  hope  to  goodness  you  haven't  been  leading 
him  a  dog's  life,  Geoffrey,"  the  Editor  addressed 
his  friend  in  a  whispered  aside. 

Renouard  seized  a  chair  violently,  sat  down, 
and  propping  his  elbow  on  his  knee  leaned 
his  head  on  his  hand.  Behind  him  the  sister 
of  the  professor  looked  up  to  heaven  and  wnmg 
her  hands  stealthily.  Mrs.  Dunster's  hands  were 
clasped  forcibly  under  her  chin,  but  she,  dear  soul, 
was  looking  sorrowfully  at  Willie.    The  model 


mp^:^. 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  69 

fl«hedl  The  careful  disposition  of  the  thin  hairs 
•-«.  Willie',  bald  spot  was  deplorably  T 
anarg-d  and  the  spot  itself  was  red  and.  as  it 
were,  Etnammg 

^'  What'-  the  matt,.r,  Geoffrey?  "  TTie  Editor 
r  '^  f '^'""■^^^-'  ^^y  the  silent  attitudes  round 
h.m  as  thou,^h  he  had  expected  all  these  people  to 

shout  a>,da.uce.  "  You  have  him  on  the^Zid- 
haven  t  yr  j  >'  »«»«— 

"Oh,  yes.   I  have  him  there," 
without  looking  up. 

"Well,  then!"    The  Editor 
w^und  as  if  begging  for  respo..  . 
But  the  only  response  that  car.  10 
expected.    Annoyed  at  being     t' 


Re)i'>uard, 


'fd   lielj  i -sly 

of  iori!*>  iOTt 

ground,  and  also  because  vei^  little  d'-X  ''^''Z 
h^  nasty,  the  emotional  Wilhe  turned  .^u,„ant 

man  r?  r'  "^  "  ''''^°"^  *°"«  surprisingTa 
man  able  to  keep  his  balance  so  well-  "^       "^      * 

"Ahal  But youhaven'tgothimhere-notyetl- 
he  sneered.    "No!    You  haven't  got  him  yet  " 

J  t^e".:f  r^^  '''^'"'°"  -«"  *°  tl>e  Editor 
|^^-^.^ht     .;aded  horse.    He  positively 

"Whatc/l.^t/  What  do  you  mean?  We- 
haven't-got-ham-here.  Of  co-orse  he  i^ 
here!    But  Geo&ey-s  schooner  ,.  here     She^ 


70 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 


be  sent  at  once  to  fetch  him  here.  No!  Stay! 
There's  a  better  plan.  Why  shouldn't  you  all  sail 
over  to  Malata,  professor?  Save  timet  I  am  sure 
Miss  Moorsom  would  prefer  .  .  ." 

With  a  gallant  flourish  of  his  arm  he  looked  for 
Miss  Moorsom.  She  had  disappeared.  He  was 
taken  aback  somewhat. 

"Ah  I  H'm.  Yes.  .  .  .  Why  not.  A  pleasure 
cruise,  delightful  ship,  deUghtful  season,  delightful 
errand,  del  ...  Not  There  are  no  objections. 
GeofErey,  I  understand,  has  indulged  in  a  bungalow 
three  sizes  too  large  for  him.  He  can  put  you  all 
up.  It  will  be  a  pleasure  for  him.  It  will  be  the 
greatest  privilgr  Any  man  would  be  proud  of 
being  an  agent  of  this  happy  reunion.  I  am  proud 
of  the  Uttle  part  I've  played.  He  will  consider  it 
the  greatest  honour.  Geofif,  my  boy,  you  had 
better  be  stirring  to-morrow  bright  and  early 
about  the  preparations  for  the  trip.  It  would  be 
criminal  to  lose  a  single  day." 

He  was  as  flushed  as  Willie,  the  excitement 
keeping  up  the  effect  of  the  festive  dinner.  For  a 
time  Renouard,  silent,  as  if  he  had  not  heard  a  word 
of  all  that  babble,  did  not  stir.  But  when  he  got 
up  it  was  to  advance  towards  the  Editor  and  give 
him  such  a  hearty  slap  on  the  back  that  the  plump 
little  man  reeled  in  his  tracks  and  looked  quite 
frightened  for  a  moment. 


smFTW0m^y\ar 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  71 

"  You  are  a  heaven-bom  discoverer  and  a  first- 
rate  manager. .. .  He's  right.  It's  the  only  way. 
You  can't  resist  the  claim  of  sentiment,  and 
you  must  even  risk  the  voyage  to  Malata.  .  .  ." 
Renouard's  voice  sank.  "  A  lonely  spot,"  he  added, 
and  fell  into  thought  under  all  these  eyes  converg- 
ing on  him  in  the  sudden  silence.  His  slow  glance 
passed  over  all  the  faces  in  succession,  remaining 
arrested  on  Professor  Moorsom,  stony  eyed,  a 
smouldering  cigar  in  his  fingers,  and  with  his  sister 
standing  by  his  side. 

"  I  shall  be  infinitely  gratified  if  you  consent  to 
come.  But,  of  course,  you  will.  We  shall  sail  to- 
morrow evening  then.  And  now  let  me  leave  you 
to  your  happiness." 

He  bowed,  very  grave,  pointed  suddenly  his 
finger  at  Willie  who  was  swaying  about  with  a 
sleepy  frown. ...  "Look  at  him.  He's  overcome 
with  happiness.  You  had  better  put  him  to  bed 
.  .  ."  and  disappeared  while  every  head  on  the 
terrace  was  turned  to  Willie  with  varied  expressions. 

Renouard  ran  through  the  house.  Avoiding  the 
carriage  road  he  fled  down  the  steep  short  cut  to 
the  shore,  where  his  gig  was  waiting.  At  his  loud 
shout  the  sleeping  Kanakas  jumped  up.  He  leaped 
in.  "  Shove  off.  Give  way  I  "  and  the  gig  darted 
through  the  water.  "Give  way!  Give  way!" 
She  flew  past  the  wool-clippers  sleeping  at  their 


fP'^^r^siH^ 


72  THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 

anchors  each  with  the  open  unwinking  eye  of  the 
lamp  m  the  rigging;  she  flew  past  the  flagship  of 
the  Pacific  squadron,  a  great  mass  aU  dark  and 
silent,  heavy  with  the  slumbere  of  five  hundred 
men,  and  where  the  invisible  sentries  heard  his 
urgent  "  Give  way!    Give  wayl "  in  the  night. 
The  Kanakas,  panting,  rose  o«  the  thwarts  at 
every  stroke.    Nothing  could  be  fast  enough  for 
him!    And  he  ran  up  the  side  of  his  schooner 
shaking  the  ladder  noisily  with  his  rush. 
On  deck  he  stumbled  and  stood  still. 
Wherefore  this  haste?    To  what  end,  ■•.:.  he 
knew  weU  before  he  started  that  he  had  •-  v„,'^ -cr 
from  whom  then  was  no  escape. 

As  his  foot  touched  the  deck  his  wiU,  Iiis  p„rpost 
he  had  been  hurrying  to  save,  died  .->ut  wi-.m,^  ai/u. 
It  had  been  nothing  less  than  gettii  ',  :  v  ,,;-,« 
under-way,  letting  her  vanish  silent'-  ..  the  ^./,,' 
from  amongst  these  sleeping  ships.  \  ,  i  u  .  j. 
was  certain  he  could  not  do  it.  It  wa.s  ;,, •:  •-  j' 
And  he  reflected  that  whether  he  lived  or  dica  Ich 
an  act  would  lay  him  under  a  dark  suspicion  from 
which  he  shrank.  No,  there  was  nothing  to  be 
done. 

He  went  down  into  the  cabin  and,  before 
even  unbuttoning  his  overcoat,  took  out  of  the 
drawer  the  letter  addressed  to  his  assisVanf  that 
letter  which  he  had  found  in  the  pi#»n-hole 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  73 

l^'belled  ••  Malata  "  in  youiig  Dunster's  outer  office, 
where  it  had  been  waiting  for  three  months  some 
occasion  for  being  forwarded.    From  the  moment 
of  dropping  it  in  the  drawer  he  had  utterly  for- 
gotten Its  existenc^till  now,  when  the  man's 
name  had  come  out  so  clamorously.    He  glanced 
at  the  common  envelope,  noted  the  shaky  and 
labonous  handwriting:    H.  Walter,  Esqre     Un- 
doubtedly the  very  last  letter  the  old  buUer  had 
posted  before  his  iUness,  and  in  answer  clearly  to 
one  from  "Master  Arthur"  instructing  him  to 
address   in   the   future:     "Care  of  Messrs.  W 
Dunster  and    Co."     Renouard   made  as   if  to 
open  the  envelope,  but  paused,  and,  instead,  tore 
tte  letter  deUbeiately  in  two,  in  four,  in  eight. 
With  his  hand  full  of  pieces  of  paper  he  returned 
on  deck  and  scattered  them  overboard  on  the 
dark  water,  in  which  they  vanished  instantly 

He  did  it  slowly,  without  hesitation  or  remorse. 
H.  Walter,  Esqre,  in  Malata.  The  innocent  Arthur 
--  What  was  his  name?  The  man  sought  for 
by  hat  woman  who  as  she  went  by  seemed  to  draw 
aU  the  passion  of  the  earth  to  her,  without  eilort 
not  dei^ing  to  notice,  naturally,  as  other  women 
breathed  the  air.  But  Renouard  was  no  longer 
jealous  of  her  very  existence.  Whatever  its  mean- 
ing It  was  not  for  that  man  he  had  picked  up 
casuaUy  on  obscure  impulse,  to  get  rid  of  the  tire- 


74  THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 

some  expostulations  of  a  so-called  friend;  a  man 
of  whom  he  really  knew  nothing— and  now  a  dead 
man.  In  Malata.  Oh,  yes!  He  was  there  secure 
enough,  untroubled  in  his  grave.  In  Malata.  To 
bury  him  was  the  last  service  Renouard  had  ren- 
dered to  his  assistant  before  leaving  the  island  on 
this  trip  to  town. 

Like  many  men  ready  enough  for  arduous  enter- 
prises Renouard  was  inclined  to  evade  the  small 
complications  of  existence.  This  trait  of  his 
character  was  composed  of  a  little  indolence,  some 
disdain,  and  a  shrinking  from  contests  with  certain 
forms  of  vulgarity— like  a  man  who  would  face  a 
lion  and  go  out  of  his  way  to  avoid  a  toad.  His 
intercourse  with  the  meddlesome  journalist  was 
that  merely  outward  intimacy  without  sympathy 
some  young  men  get  drawn  into  easily.  It  had 
amused  him  rather  to  keep  that  "  friend  "  in  the 
dark  about  the  fate  of  his  assistant.  Renouard 
had  never  needed  other  company  than  his  own,  for 
there  was  in  him  something  of  the  sensitiveness  of 
a  dreamer  who  is  easily  jarred.  He  had  said  to 
himself  that  the  all-knowing  one  would  only 
preach  again  about  the  evils  of  solitude  and  worry 
his  head  off  in  iavour  of  some  forlornly  useless 
prot6g6  of  his.  Also  the  inquisitiveness  of  the 
Editor  had  irritated  him  and  had  dosed  his  lips  in 
sheer  disgust. 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  75 

And  now  he  contemplated  the  noose  of  con- 
sequences drawing  tight  around  him. 

It  was  the  memory  of  that  diplomatic  reticence 
which  on  the  terrace  had  stifHed  his  first  cry  which 
would  have  told  them  all  that  the  man  sought  for 
was  not  to  be  met  on  earth  any  more.  He  shrank 
from  the  absurdity  of  hearing  the  all-knowi«g  one, 
and  not  very  sober  at  that,  turning  on  hin  with 
righteous  reproaches — 

"  You  never  told  me.  You  gave  me  to  under- 
stand that  your  assistant  was  alive,  and  now  you 
say  he's  dead.  Which  is  it?  Were  you  lying 
then  or  are  you  lying  now?  "  No!  the  thought 
of  such  a  scene  was  not  to  be  borne.  He  had  sat 
down  appalled,  thinking :  "  What  shall  I  do  now  ?  " 

His  courage  had  oozed  out  of  him.  Speaking 
the  truth  meant  the  Moorsoms  going  away  at  once 
—while  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  vould  give  the 
last  shred  of  his  rectitude  to  secure  a  day  more 
of  her  company.  He  sat  on— silent.  Slowly,  from 
confused  sensations,  from  his  talk  with  the 
professor,  the  manner  of  the  girl  herself,  the 
intoxicating  familiarity  of  her  sudden  hand-clasp, 
there  had  come  to  him  a  half  glimmer  of  hope. 
The  other  man  was  dead.  Then!  .  .  .  Madness, 
of  course— but  he  could  not  give  it  up.  He  had 
listened  to  that  confounded  busybody  arranging 
everything— while  all  these  people  stood  around 


76  THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 

"Siting,  under  the  speU  of  that  dead  ronumce. 
He  had  listened  scornful  and  silent.  The  glinmiers 
Of  hope,  of  opportunity,  passed  before  his  eyes 
He  had  only  to  sit  still  and  say  nothing.  That 
and  no  more.  And  what  was  truth  to  him  in  the 
face  of  that  great  passion  which  had  flung  him 
prostrate  in  spirit  at  her  adored  feet  I 

Ajad  now  it  was  donel  Fatality  had  willed  iti 
With  the  eyes  of  a  mortal  struck  by  the  maddening 
thunderbolt  of  the  gods,  Renouard  looked  up  to 
the  sky,  an  immense  black  pall  dusted  over  with 
gold,  on  which  great  shudders  seemed  to  pass 
from  the  breath  of  life  affirming  its  sway 


VIII 

At  last,  one  morning,  in  a  clear  spot  of  a  glassy 
honzon  charged  with  heraldic  masses  of  black 
vapours,  the  island  grew  out  from  the  sea   show- 
ing here  and  there  its  naked  members  of  basaltic 
rock  through  the  rents  of  heavy  foliage.    Later 
in  the  great  spilling  of  all  the  riches  of  sunset' 
iWata  stood  out  green  and  rosy  before  turning 
mto  a  violet  shadow  in  the  autumnal  light  of  the 
expmngday.    Then  came  the  night.     In  the  faint 
«rs  the  schooner  crept  on  past  a  sturdy  squat 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  ^^ 

headland,  and  it  was  pitch  dark  when  her  head- 
sails  ran  down,  she  turned  short  on  her  heel,  and 
her  anchor  bit  into  the  sandy  bottom  on  the  edge 
of  the  outer  reef;  for  it  was  too  dangerous  th^to 
attempt  entering  Ihe  little  bay  fuU  of  shoals. 
After  the  last  solemn  flutter  of  the  mainsail  the 
mminuring  voices  of  the  Moorsom  party  Ungered 
very  frail,  in  the  black  stiUness. 

They  were  sitting  aft,  on  chairs,  and  nobody  made 
a  move.    Early  in  the  day,  when  it  had  become 
evident  that  the  wind  was  failing,   Renouard. 
basmg  his  advice  on   the  shortcomings  of  his 
l^chelor  establishment,  had  urged  on  the  ladies 
the  advisability  of  not  going  ashore  in  the  middle 
of  the  night.    Now  he  approached  them  in  a  con- 
strained mamier  (it  was  astonishing  the  constraint 
that  had  reigned  between  him  and  his  guests  all 
through  the  passage)  and  renewed  his  arguments 
No  one  ashore  would  dream  of  his  bringing  any 
visitors  with  him.    Nobody  would  even  think  of 
commgoff.    There  was  only  one  old  canoe  on  the 
plantation.    And  landing  in  the  schooner's  boats 
would  be  awkward  in  the  dark.    There  was  the 
nsk  of  gettmg  aground  on  some  shallow  patches 
It  would  be  best  to  spend  the  rest  of  the  night  on 
board. 

There  was  really  no  opposition.    The  professor 
smoking  a  pipe,  and  very  comfortable  in  an  ulster 


78  THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 

buttoned  over  his  tropical  clothes,  was  the  first 
to  speak  from  his  long  chair. 

"  Most  excellent  advice." 

Next  to  him  Miss  Moorsom  assented  by  a  long 
silence.  Then  in  a  voice  as  of  one  coming  out  of 
a  dream — 

"  And  so  this  is  Malata,"  she  said.  "  I  have 
often  wondered ..." 

A  shiver  passed  through  Renouard.  She  had 
wondered  I  What  about?  Malata  was  himself. 
He  and  Malata  were  one.  And  she  had  wondered  I 
She  had  . . . 

The  professor's  sister  leaned  over  towards 
Renouard.  Through  all  these  days  at  sea  the 
man's— the  found  man's— existence  had  not  been 
aUuded  to  on  board  the  schooner.  That  reucence 
was  part  of  the  general  constraint  lying  upon  them 
all.  She,  herself,  certainly  had  not  been  exactly 
elated  by  this  finding— poor  Arthur,  without 
money,  without  prospects.  But  slie  felt  moved 
by  the  sentiment  and  romance  of  the  situation. 

"  Isn't  it  wonderful,"  she  whispered  out  of  her 
white  wrap.  "  to  think  of  poor  Arthur  sleeping 
there,  so  near  to  our  dear  lovely  FeUcia,  and  not 
knowing  the  immense  joy  in  store  for  him  to- 
morrow." 

There  was  such  artificiality  in  the  wax-flower 
lady  that  nothing  in  this  speech  touched  Renouard. 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  79 

It  was  but  the  simple  anxiety  of  his  heart  that  he 
was  voicing  when  he  muttered  gloomily- 

mavtld""  ^  *''' ^"'^^  '"^^  *^*  *°-»°'^°w 
may  hold  in  store. 

The  mature  lady  had  a  recoU  as  though  he  had 
said  something  impoUte.    What  a  harsh  thing  to 

pnate.  On  board,  where  she  never  saw  him  in 
evemng  clothes,    Renouard's  resemblance   to  ^ 

b^'hi^rLT  "^  "PP"'"*  *°  ^«^-  Nothing 
but  his-ah-bohemianism  remained.  She  ro^ 
with  a  sort  of  ostentation. 

"It's  late-and  since  we  are  going  to  sleep  on 
^^Jo-night..."3he^d.    "But  it  does  Ln 

ash'^^r^i::;:r^.T„s>''^-^«the 

my  dear  Emma  ''^'       ^"^^^^^  ""^  ^"sible. 
Renouard  waited  behind  Miss  Moorsom's  chair 
She  got  up  slowly,  moved  one  step  forward,  and 
paused  looking  at  the  shore.    The  blackness  of " 
sknd  blotted  out  the  stars  with  its  vague  mJ 

and  ready  to  burst  into  flame  and  crashes. 

And«>-thisisMalata,"sherepeateddreamUy 
movmg  towards  the  cabin  door.  The  dear  cJoi 
I^gmg  from  her  shoulders,  the  ivory  faceS^ 
the  night  had  put  out  nothing  of  her  but  Z 


«o  THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 

gleanu  of  her  hair-^nade  her  resemble  a  shining 
dream-wonum  uttering  words  of  wistful  inquiry. 
She  disappeared  without  a  sign,  leaving  Renouard 
penetrated  to  the  very  marrow  by  the  sounds  that 
came  from  her  body  like  a  mysterious  resonance 
of  an  exquisite  instrument. 

He  stood  stock  still.  What  was  this  accidental 
touch  which  had  evoked  the  strange  accent  of 
her  voice?  He  dared  not  answer  that  question. 
But  he  had  to  answer  the  question  of  what  was 
to  be  done  now.  Had  the  moment  of  confession 
come?  The  thought  was  enough  to  make  one's 
blood  run  cold. 

It  was  as  if  those  people  had  a  premonition  of 
something.  In  the  taciturn  days  of  the  passage 
he  had  noticed  their  reserve  even  amongst  them- 
selves. The  professor  smoked  his  pipe  moodily 
in  retired  spots.  Renouard  had  caught  Miss 
Moorsom's  eyes  resting  on  himself  more  than  once, 
with  a  peculiar  and  grave  expression.  He  fancied 
that  she  avoided  aU  opportunities  of  conversation. 
The  maiden  lady  seemed  to  nurse  a  grievance. 
And  now  what  had  he  to  do? 

The  lights  on  the  deck  had  gone  out  one  after  the 
other.    The  schooner  slept. 

About  an  hour  after  Miss  Moorsom  had  gone 
below  without  a  sign  or  a  word  for  him,  Renouard 
got  out  of  his  hammock  slung  in  the  waist  under 


m 


-WP*'  J 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  8i 

tb»  midship  twning-for  lie  had  given  up  aU  the 
accommodation  below  to  his  gueste.    He  got  out 
with  a  sudden  swift  movement,  flung  off  his  sleep- 
tag  jacket.  roUed  his  pyjamas  up  his  thighs,  and 
stole  forward,  unseen  by  the  one  Kanaka  of  the 
anchor^tch.    His  white   torso,   naked   like  a 
stopped  athlete's,  glin^ered.  ghosUy.  in  the  deep 
shadows  of  the  deck.    Umioticed  he  got  out  of  thJ 
ship  over  the  knight-heads,  ran  along  the  back  rope, 
and  sazmg  the  dolphin-striker  firmly  with  bo\h 
hands,  lowered  himself  into  the  sea  without  a 
splash.  " 

He  swam  away,  noiseless  like  a  fish,  and  then 
stoadc  boldly  for  the  land,  sustained,  embraced! 
^  .the  tepid  water.    The  gentle,  voluptuous  heave 
of  Its  breast  swung  him  up  and  down  slightly 
sometmies  a  wavelet  muimured  in  his  ears;  from 
time  to  time,  lowering  his  feet,  he  felt  for  the 
bottom  on  a  shallow  patch  to  rest  and  correct  his 
direction.    He  landed  at  the  lower  end  of  the 
bungalow  garden,  into  the  dead  stiUness  of  the 
island     There  were  no  lights.    The  plantation 
seemed  to  sleep,  as  profoundly  as  the  schooner. 

v^t  ^  '  ""*"  ^*"  ^«=^«d  under  his 
naked  heel. 

ne  faithful  half-caste  foreman  going  his  rounds 
cocked  his  ears  at  the  sharp  sound.  He  gave  one 
enormous  start  of  fear  at  the  sight  of  the  swift 

F 


f5> 


MICIOCOPY   lltSOUJTION   IBT  CHART 

(ANSI  and  ISO  TEST  CHART  No,  2) 


^  -APPLIED    IIVMGE      In 

^^  1653  East  Main   Straal 

S^S  RochMter,  New  York        U609       USA 

^—  (?'6)  482  -  0300  -  Phone 

^S  (?16)  288  -  5989  -  Fox 


82  THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 

white  figure  flying  at  him  out  of  the  night.    He 
crouched  in  terror,  and  then  sprang  up  and  dicked 
his  tongue  in  amazed  recognition. 
"Tsel    Tsel    The  master!  " 
"  Be  quiet,  Luiz,  and  listen  to  what  I  say." 
Yes,  it  was  the  master,  the  strong  master  who 
was  never  known  to  raise  his  voice,  the  man  blindly 
obeyed  and  never  questioned.    He  talked  low  and 
rapidly  in  the  quiet  night,  as  if  every  minute  were 
precious.    On   learning   that   three  guests  were 
coming  to  stay  Luiz  cUcked  his  tongue  rapidly. 
These  clicks  were  the  uniform,  stenographic  sym- 
bols of  his  emotions,  and  he  could  give  them  an 
infinite  variety  of  meaning.    He  listened  to  the 
rest  in  a  deep  silence  hardly  affected  by  the  low, 
"  Yes,  master,"  whenever  Renouard  paused. 

"You  understand?"  the  latter  insisted.  "Nopre- 
parations  are  to  be  made  till  we  land  in  the  morning. 
And  you  are  to  say  that  Mr.  Walter  has  gone  off 
in  a  trading  schooner  on  a  round  of  the  islands." 
"  Yes,  master." 
"  No  mistakes— ^nind  I  " 
"  No,  master." 

Renouard  walked  back  towards  the  sea.    Luiz, 
foUowing  him,  proposed  to  caU  out  half  a  dozen 
boys  and  man  the  canoe. 
"  Imbecilel " 
"Tsel  Tsel  Tsel" 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  83 

"Don't  you  understand  that  you  haven't  seen 

Illcf 

"Yes,master.    But  what  a  long  swim.    Suppose 
you  drown."  ^^^ 

"  Then  you  can  say  of  me  and  of  Mr.  Walter  what 
you  Uke.    The  dead  don't  mind." 

Renouard  entered  the  sea  and  heard  a  faint 
Tsel  Tsel  Tsel  of  concern  from  the  half-caste 
who  had  already  lost  sight  of  the  master's  dark 
nead  on  the  overshadowed  water. 

Renouard  set  his  direction  by  a  big  star  that, 
dipping  on  the  horizon,  seemed  to  look  curiously 
m  ohjsface.    On  this  swim  back  he  felt  themoum- 
ftJ  fatigue  of  all  that  length  of  the  traversed  road 
which  brought  him  no  nearer  to  his  desire     It 
w«  as  if  his  love  had  saj.ped  the  invisible  supports 
of  his  strength.    There  came  a  moment  when  it 
seemed  to  him  that  he  must  have  swum  beyond  the 
confines  of  hfe.    He  had  a  sensation  of  eternity 
dose  at  hand,  demanding  no  effort-offering  its 
peace.    It  was  easy  to  swim  like  this  beyond 
the  confines  of  life  looking  at  a  star.    But  the 
thought:    "They  will  think  I   dared  not   face 
them  and  committed  suicide,"  caused  a  revolt  of 
his  mmd  which  carried  him  on.    He  returned  on 
board,  as  he  had  left,  unheard  and  unseen.    He 
lay  m  his  hammock  utterly  exhausted  and  with  a 


84  THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 

confused  feeling  that  he  had  been  beyond  the  con- 
fines of  life,  somewhere  near  a  star,  and  that  it  was 
very  quiet  there. 


IX 

SHEtTERED  by  the  squat  headland  from  the  first 
morning  sparkle  of  the  sea  the  Uttle  bay  breathed 
a  delicious  freshness.  The  party  from  the  schooner 
landed  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden.  They  ex- 
changed insignificant  words  in  studiously  casuaJ 
tones.  The  professor's  sister  put  up  a  long-handled 
eye-glass  as  if  to  scan  the  novel  surroundings,  but 
in  reality  searching  for  poor  Arthur  anxiously. 
Having  never  seen  him  otherwise  than  in  his  town 
clothes  she  had  no  idea  what  he  would  look  like. 
It  had  been  left  to  the  professor  to  help  his  ladies 
out  of  the  boat  because  Renouard,  as  if  intent  on 
giving  directions,  had  stepped  forward  at  once  to 
meet  the  half-caste  Luiz  hurrying  down  the  path. 
In  the  distance,  in  front  of  the  dazzlingly  sunlit 
bungalow,  a  row  of  dark-faced  house-boys  unequal 
in  stature  and  varied  in  complexion  preserved  the 
immobility  of  a  guard  of  honour. 

Luiz  had  taken  off  his  soft  felt  hat  before  coming 
within  earshot.  Renouard  bent  his  head  to  his 
rapid  talk  of  domestic  arrangements  he  meant  to 
make  for  the  visitors;  another  bed  in  the  master's 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  85 

room  for  the  ladies  and  a  cot  for  the  genOeman 
to  be  hung  in  the  room  opposite  where— where 
Mr.  Walter— here  he  gave  a  scared  look  all  round— 
Jlr.  Walter— had  died. 

"  Very  good,"  assented  Renouard  in  an  even 
undertone.  "  And  remember  what  you  have  to 
say  of  him." 

"Yes,  master.  Only  "-he  wriggled  sUghtly 
and  put  one  bare  foot  on  the  other  for  a  moment 
in  apologetic  embarrassment—"  only  I—I— don't 
like  to  say  it." 

Renouard  looked  at  him  without  anger,  with- 
out any  sort  of  expression.  "  Frightened  of  the 
dead?  Eh?  WeU-aU  right.  I  wiU  say  it  my- 
self—I suppose  once  for  all.  ..."  t  mediately 
he  raised  his  voice  very  much. 

"  Send  the  boys  down  to  bring  up  the  luggage." 

"  Yes,  master." 

i^enouard  turned  to  his  distinguished  guests  who, 
h.  personaUy  conducted  party  of  tourists,  had 
stopped  and  were  looking  about  them. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  he  began  with  an  impassive  face. 
"  My  man  has  just  told  me  that  Mr.  Walter  .  .  ." 
he  managed  to  smile,  but  didn't  correct  himself 
"  has  gone  in  a  trading  schooner  on  a  short  tour 
of  the  islands,  to  the  westward." 

This  communication  was  received  in  profound 
silence. 


86 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 


Renouard  forgot  himself  in  the  thought:  "  It's 
done  I  "  But  the  sight  of  the  string  of  boys  march- 
ing up  to  the  house  with  suit-cases  and  dressing- 
bags  rescued  him  from  that  appalling  abstraction. 

"  All  I  can  do  is  to  beg  you  to  make  yourselves  at 
home  .  .  .  with  what  patience  you  may." 

This  was  so  obviously  the  only  thing  to  do  that 
everybody  moved  on  at  once.  The  professor 
walked  alongside  Renouard,  behind  the  two 
ladies. 
"  Rather  unexpected— this  absence." 
"  Not  exactly,"  muttered  Renouard.  "  A  trip 
has  to  be  made  every  year  to  engage  labour." 

"  I  see  . . .  And  he  .  . .  How  vexin;jly  elusive 
the  poor  fellow  has  become!  I'll  begin  to  thinly 
that  some  wicked  fairy  is  favouring  this  'ove  tale 
with  unpleasant  attentions." 

Renouard  noticed  that  the  party  did  not  seem 
weighed  down  by  this  new  disappointment.  On 
the  contrary  they  moved  with  a  freer  step.  The 
professor's  sister  dropped  her  eye-glass  to  the  end 
of  its  chain.  Miss  Moorsom  took  the  lead.  The 
professor,  his  lips  unsealed,  lingered  in  the  open: 
but  Renouard  did  not  listen  to  that  man's  talk. 
He  looked  after  that  man's  daughter— if  indeed 
that  creature  of  iixesistible  seductions  were  a 
daughter  of  mortals.  The  very  intensity  of  his 
desire,  as  if  iiis  soul  were  streaming  after  ba 


THE  riANTER  OF  MALATA  87 

through  his  eyes,  defeated  his  object  of  keeping 
hold  of  her  as  long  as  possible  with,  at  least,  one  of 
his  senses.  Her  moving  outlines  dissolved  into 
a  misty  coloured  shimmer  of  a  woman  made  of 
flame  and  shadows,  crossing  the  threshold  of  his 
house. 

ITie  days  which  followed  were  not  exactly  such 
as  Renouard  had  feared— yet  they  were  not  better 
than  his  fears.  They  were  accursed  in  all  the 
moods  they  brought  him.  But  the  general  aspect  of 
things  was  quiet.  The  professor  smoked  innumer- 
able pipes  with  the  air  of  a  worker  on  his  holiday, 
always  in  movement  and  looking  at  things  with 
that  mysteriously  sagacious  aspect  of  men  who  are 
admittedly  wiser  than  the  rest  of  the  world.  His 
white  head  of  hair— whiter  than  anything  within 
the  horizon  except  the  broken  water  on  the  reefs- 
was  glimpsed  in  every  part  of  the  plantation 
alvr^ys  on  the  move  under  the  white  parasol. 
And  once  he  cUmbed  the  headland  and  appeared 
suddenly  to  those  below,  a  white  speck  elevated 
in  the  blue,  with  a  diminutive  but  statuesque  effect. 

Felicia  Moorson  remained  near  the  house. 
Sometimes  she  could  be  seen  with  a  despairing 
expression  scribbUng  rapidly  in  her  lock-up  dairy. 
Bui  only  for  a  moment.  At  the  sound  of  Re- 
nouard's  footsteps  she  would  turn  towards  him 
her  beautiful  face,  adorable  in  that  cahn  which  was 


88 


THE  PLANTER  OF  BIALATA 


like  a  wilful,  like  a  cruel  ignoring  of  her  tremendous 
power.  Whenever  she  sat  on  the  verandah,  on  a 
chair  more  specially  reserved  for  her  use,  Renouard 
would  stroll  up  and  sit  on  the  steps  near  her,  mostly 
silent,  and  often  not  trusting  himself  to  turn  his 
glance  on  her.  She,  very  still  with  her  eyes  half- 
closed,  looked  down  on  his  head — so  that  to  a  be- 
holder (such  as  Professor  Moorsom,  for  instance)  she 
would  appear  to  be  turning  over  in  her  mind  pro- 
found thoughts  about  that  man  sitting  at  her  feet, 
his  shoulders  bowed  a  little,  his  hands  listless— as 
if  vanquished.  And,  indeed,  the  moral  poison  of 
falsehood  has  such  a  decomposing  power  that 
Renouard  felt  his  old  personality  turn  to  dead 
dust.  Often,  in  the  evening,  when  they  sat  out- 
side conversing  languidly  in  the  dark,  he  felt  that 
he  must  rest  his  forehead  on  her  feet  and  burst 
into  tears. 

The  professor's  sister  suffered  from  some  little 
strain  caused  by  the  unstabihty  of  her  own 
feelings  toward  Renouard.  She  could  not  tell 
whether  she  really  did  dislike  him  or  not.  At 
times  he  appeared  to  her  most  fascinating;  and, 
though  he  generally  ended  by  saying  something 
shockingly  crude,  she  could  not  resbt  her  inclina- 
tion to  talk  with  him— at  least  not  alwajrs.  One 
day  when  her  niece  had  left  them  alone  on  the 
verandah  she  leaned  forward  in  her  chair — speck- 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  89 

less,  resplendent,  and,  in  her  way,  almost  as 
striking  a  personality  as  her  niece,  who  did  not 
resemble  her  in  the  least.  "  Dear  Felicia  has 
inherited  her  hair  and  the  greatest  part  of  her 
appearance  from  her  mother,"  the  maiden  lady 
used  to  tell  people. 
She  leaned  forward  then,  confidentially. 
"  Oh  I  Mr.  RenouardI  Haven't  you  something 
comforting  to  say  ?  " 

He  looked  up,  as  surprised  as  if  a  voice  from 
heaven  had  spoken  with  this  perfect  society  intona- 
tion, and  by  the  puzzled  profundity  of  his  blue 
eyes  fluttered  the  wax-flo\.  r  of  refined  woman- 
hood. She  continued.  "  For  -I  can  speak  to 
you  openly  on  this  tiresome  subject— only  think 
what  a  terrible  strain  this  hope  deferred  must  be 
for  Felicia's  heart— for  her  nerves." 

"  Why  speak  to  me  about  it,"  he  muttered  feel- 
ing half  choked  suddenly. 

"Why I  As  a  friend  — a  well-wisher  —  the 
kindest  of  hosts.  I  am  afraid  we  are  really  eating 
you  out  of  house  and  home."  She  laughed  a  little. 
"  Ah !  When,  when  will  this  suspense  be  relieved  I 
That  poor  lost  Arthur !  I  confess  that  I  am  ahnost 
afraid  of  the  great  moment.  It  will  be  like  seeing 
a  ghost." 

"  Have  you  ever  seen  a  ghost  ? "  asked  Renouard, 
in  a  dull  voice. 


90 


THE  Pi^NTER  OF  MALATA 


She  shifted  her  hands  a  little.  Her  pose  was 
perfect  in  its  ease  and  middle-aged  grace. 

"  Not  actually.  Only  in  a  photograph.  But 
we  have  uany  friends  who  had  the  experience  of 
apparitions." 

"  Ah  I  They  see  ghosts  in  London,"  mumbled 
Renouard,  not  looking  at  her. 

"  Frequently — in  a  certain  very  interesting  set. 
But  all  sorts  of  people  do.  We  have  a  friend,  a 
very  famoi  s  author — his  ghost  is  a  girl.  One  of 
my  brother's  intimates  is  a  very  great  man  of 
science.  He  is  friendly  with  a  ghost  ...  Of  a 
girl  too,"  she  added  in  a  voice  as  if  struck  for  the 
first  time  by  the  coincidence.  "  It  is  the  photo- 
graph of  that  apparition  which  I  have  seen.  Very 
sweet.  Most  interesting.  A  little  cloudy  naturally. 
. . .  Mr.  Renouard  I  I  hope  you  are  not  a  sceptic. 
It's  so  consoling  to  think  . .  ." 

"  Those  plantation  boys  of  mine  see  ghosts  too," 
said  Renouard  grimly. 

The  sister  of  the  philosopher  sat  up  stifBy.  What 
crudenessi  It  was  always  so  with  this  strange 
yotmg  man. 

"  Mr.  Renouard  I  How  can  you  compare  the 
superstitious  fancies  of  your  honible  savages  with 
the  manifestations  . .  ." 

Words  failed  her.  She  broke  off  with  a  very 
faint  primly  angry  smile.    She  was  perhaps  the 


THE  PLANTER  OF  BIALATA  91 

more  offended  with  him  because  of  that  flu*  ter  at 
the  beginning  of  the  conversation.  And  in  a 
moment  with  perfect  tact  and  dignity  she  got  up 
from  her  chair  and  left  hiro  alone. 

Renouard  didn't  even  look  up.    It  was  not  the 
displeasure  of  the  lady  which  deprived  him  of 
his  sleep  that  night.    He  was  beginning  to  forget 
what  simple,  honest  sleep  was  like.    His  hammock 
from  the  ship  had  been  hung  for  him  on  a  side 
verandah,  and  he  spent  his  nights  in  it  on  his  back, 
his  hani's  folded  on  his  chest,  in  a  sort  of  half 
conscious,  oppressed  stupor.    In  the  morning  he 
watched  with  unseeing  eyes  the  hea'''    d  come 
out  a  shapeless  inkblot  against  the  thin  light  of 
the  false  dawn,  pass  through  all  the  stages  of 
daybreak  to  the  deep  purple  of  its  outlined  mass 
nimbed  gloriously  with  the  gold  of  the  rising 
sun.    He  listened  to  the  vaguc  sounds  of  waking 
within  the  house:  and  suddenly  he  became  aware 
of  Luiz  standing  by  the  hammock— obviously 
troubled. 
"What's  the  matter?" 
"Tsel    Tse!    Tse!" 

"  Well,  what  now  ?    Trouble  with  the  boys  ? 
"  No,  master.    The  gentleman  when  I  take  him 
his  bath  water  he  speak  to  me.    He  ask  me— L? 
ask— when,  when,  I  think  Mr.  Walter,  he  come 
back." 


9a 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 


The  h»lf-c«8te'8  teeth  chattered  slightly.  Re- 
nouard  got  out  of  the  hammock. 

"  And  he  is  here  all  the  time— eh  ?  " 

Luiz  nodded  a  scared  afiinnative,  but  at  once 
protested,  "  I  no  see  him.  I  never.  Not  II  The 
ignorant  wild  bo3rs  say  they  see  .  .  .  Something  I 
Oughl" 

He  clapped  his  teeth  on  another  short  rattle,  and 
stood  there,  shrunk,  blighted,  like  a  man  in  a 
freezing  blast. 

"  And  what  did  you  say  to  the  gentleman  ?  " 

"  I  say  I  don't  know — and  I  clear  out.    I I 

don't  likii  to  speak  of  him." 

"  All  right.  We  shall  try  to  lay  that  poor  ghost," 
said  Renouard  gloomily,  going  oft  to  a  small  hut 
near  by  to  dress.  He  was  saying  to  himself: 
"  This  fellow  will  end  by  giving  me  away.  The 
last  thing  that  I  .  .  .  Nol  That  mustn't  be." 
And  feeling  his  hand  being  forced  he  discovered 
the  whole  extent  of  his  cowardice. 


That  morning  wandering  about  his  plantation, 
more  like  a  frightened  soul  than  its  creator  ind 
master,  he  dodged  the  white  parasol  bobbing  up 
here  and  there  like  a  buoy  adrift  on  a  sea  of  dark* 
green  plants.    The  crop  promised  to  be  magnifi- 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  93 

cent,  and  the  fashionable  philosopher  of  the  age 
took  other  than  a  merely  scientific  interest  in  the 
experiment.  His  investments  were  juc!  dous,  but 
he  had  always  some  little  money  lying  by,  for 
experiments. 

After  lunch,  being  left  alone  wii  1  Renouard,  he 
talked  a  litOe  of  cultivation  and  such  matters. 
Then  suddenly: 

"  By  the  way,  is  it  tr  what  my  sister  tells  me, 
that  your  plantation  boys  have  been  disturbed 
by  a  ghost?  " 

Renouard,  who  since  the  ladies  had  left  the  table 
was  not  keeping  such  a  strict  watch  0  limself,  came 
out  of  his  abstraction  with  a  start  aud  a  stifi  smile. 
"My  foreman  had  some  trouble  with  them 
during  my  absence.  They  funk  working  in  1 
certain  field  on  the  slope  of  the  hill." 

"A  ghost  here! "  exclaimed  the  amused  pro- 
fessor. "Then  our  whole  conception  of  the 
psychology  of  ghosts  must  be  revised.  This  island 
has  been  uninhabited  probably  since  the  dawn  of 
ages.  How  did  a  ghost  come  here.  By  air  or 
water?  And  why  did  it  leave  its  native  haunts. 
Was  it  from  misanthropy  ?  Was  he  expeUed  from 
some  community  of  spirits?  " 

Renouard  essayed  to  respond  in  the  same  tone. 
The  words  died  on  his  lips.  Was  it  a  man  or  a 
woman  ghost,  the  professor  inquired. 


94 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 


"  I  don't  know."  Renouard  made  an  effort  to 
appear  at  ease.  He  had,  he  said,  a  couple  of 
Tahitian  amongst  his  boys — a  ghost-ridden  race. 
They  had  started  the  scare.  They  had  probably 
brought  their  ghost  with  them. 

"  Let  us  investigate  the  matter,  Renouard," 
propof^ed  the  professor  half  in  earnest.  "  We  may 
make  some  interesting  discoveries  as  to  the  state 
of  primitive  minds,  at  any  rate." 

This  was  too  much.  Renouard  jumped  up 
and  leaving  the  room  went  out  and  walked  about 
in  front  of  the  house.  He  would  allow  no  one  to 
force  his  hand.  Presently  the  professor  joined 
him  outside.  He  carried  his  parasol,  but  had 
neither  his  book  nor  his  pipe  with  him.  Amiably 
serious  he  laid  his  hand  on  his  "  dear  young 
friend's  "  arm. 

"  We  are  all  of  us  a  Uttle  strung  up,"  he  said. 
"  For  my  part  I  have  been  like  sister  Anne  in  the 
story.  But  I  cannot  see  anything  coming.  Any- 
thing that  would  be  the  least  good  for  anybody — 
I  mean." 

Renouard  had  recovered  sufficiently  to  murmur 
coldly  his  regret  of  this  waste  of  time.  For  that 
was  what,  he  supposed,  the  professor  had  in  his 
mind. 

"  Time,"  mused  Professor  Moorsom.  "  I  don't 
know  that  time  can  be  wasted.    But  I  will  tell 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  95 

you.  my  dear  friend,  what  this  is:  it  is  an  awful 
waste  of  life.  I  mean  for  aU  of  us.  Even  for  my 
sister,  who  has  got  a  headache  and  is  gone  to  Ue 
down." 

He  shook  gently  Renouard's  arm.    "  Yes,  for 
all  of  us  I    One  may  meditate  on  life  endlessly, 
one  may  even  have  a  poor  opinion  of  it— but  the 
fact  remains  that  we  have  only  one  life  to  live. 
And  it  is  short.    Think  of  that,  my  young  friend." 
He  released  Renouard'r  arm  and  stepped  out 
of  the  shade  opening  his  parasol.    It  was  clear 
that  there  was  something  more  in  his  mind  than 
mere  anxiety  about  the  date  of  his  lectures  for 
fashionable  audiences.    What  did  the  man  mean 
by   his   confounded   platitudes?    To   Renouard, 
scared  by  Luiz  in  the  morning  (for  he  felt  that 
nothing  could  be  more  fatal  than  to  have  his  decep- 
tion unveiled  otherwise  than  by  personal  confes- 
sion), this  talk  sounded  like  encouragement  or  a 
warning  from  that  man  who  seemed  to  him  to  be 
very  brazen  and  very  subtle.    It  was  Hke  being 
bullied  by  the  dead  and  cajoled  by  the  living  into 
a  throw  of  dice  for  a  supreme  stake. 

Renouard  went  away  to  some  distance  from  the 
house  and  threw  himself  down  in  the  shade  of  a 
tree.  He  lay  there  perfectly  stiU  with  his  forehead 
resting  on  his  folded  arms,  light-headed  and  think- 
ing.   It  seemed  to  him  that  he  must  be  on  fire,  then 


96 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 


that  he  had  fallen  into  a  cool  whirlpool,  a  smooth 
funnel  of  water  swirling  about  with  nauseating 
rapidity.  And  then  (it  must  have  been  a  reminis- 
cence of  his  boyhood)  he  was  walking  on  the 
dangerous  thin  ice  of  a  river,  unable  to  turn  back. 
.  .  .  Suddenly  it  parted  from  shore  to  shore  with 
a  loud  crack  like  the  report  of  a  gun. 

With  one  leap  he  found  himself  on  his  feet.  All 
was  peace,  stillness,  sunshine.  He  walked  away 
from  there  slowly.  Had  he  been  a  gambler  he 
would  have  perhaps  been  supported  in  a  measure 
by  the  mere  excitement.  But  he  was  not  a  gambler. 
He  had  always  disdained  that  artificial  manner  of 
challenging  the  fates.  The  bungalow  came  into 
view,  bright  and  pretty,  and  all  about  everything 
was  peace,  stillness,  sunshine. . . . 

While  he  was  plodding  towards  it  he  had  a  dis- 
agreeable sense  of  the  dead  man's  company  at  his 
elbow.  The  ghost  I  He  seemed  to  be  everywhere 
but  in  his  grave.  Could  one  ever  shake  him  oS? 
he  wondered.  At  that  moment  Miss  Moorsom 
came  out  on  the  verandah;  and  at  once,  as  if  by  a 
mystery  of  radiating  waves,  she  roused  a  great 
tumult  in  his  heart,  shook  earth  and  sky  together — 
but  he  plodded  on.  Then  like  a  grave  song-note 
in  the  stor.    .  \er  voice  came  to  him  ominously. 

"  Ah  I  Mr.  Renouard.  .  .  ."  He  came  up  and 
smiled,  but  she  was  very  serious.    "  I  can't  keep 


97 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  ^ 

■•»<!  .11  direct  y„„.    To  S, « •.   "" '"■'»=^' 
She  was  wearing  a  itmt  „anki«  skirl  a  „„ai„ 

pa  h  begins  where  these  three  pahns  a  e     The 
only  pahns  on  the  island."  ^^^ 

"  I  see." 

She  never  turned  her  hpaH     a** 
observed:    "  This  nath  .   I      ^^*^'- ^  ^^le  she 

r^,^  P  "*   ^°°^S   as     f  it   had   been 

made  recently."  *° 

"Quite  recently,"  he  assented  very  low 

They  went  on  chmbing  steadily  without  exchan. 

'^  veiled  ,he  „^  C^^,^^"'^' 

ft 


98 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 


of  wrecked  islands,  the  restless  myriads  of  sea- 
birds  rolled  and  unrolled  dark  ribbons  on  the  sky, 
gathered  in  clouds,  soared  and  stooped  like  a  play 
of  shadows,  for  they  were  too  far  for  them  to  hear 
their  cries. 

Renouard  broke  the  silence  in  low  tones. 

"  They'll  be  settUng  for  the  night  presently." 
She  made  no  sound.  Round  them  all  was  peace 
and  declining  sunshine.  Near  by,  the  topmost 
pinnacle  of  Malata,  resembling  the  top  of  a  buried 
tower,  rose  a  rock,  weather-worn,  grey,  weary  of 
watching  the  monotonous  centuries  of  the  Pacific. 
Renouard  leaned  his  shoulders  against  it.  Felicia 
Moorsom  faced  him  suddenly,  her  splendid  black 
eyes  full  on  his  face  as  though  she  had  made  up 
her  mind  at  last  to  destroy  his  wits  once  and  for 
all.    Dazzled,  he  lowered  his  eyeUds  slowly. 

"  Mr.  Renouard!  There  is  something  strange 
in  all  this.    Tell  me  where  he  is  ?  " 

He  answered  deUberately. 

"  On  the  other  side  of  this  rock.  I  buried  him 
there  myself." 

She  pressed  her  hands  to  her  breast,  struggled  for 
her  breath  for  a  moment,  then:  "  Ohhhl . . .  You 
buried  him  1  .  .  .  What  sort  of  man  are  >uU? . . . 
You  dared  not  tell!  .  .  .  He  is  another  of  your 
victims?  .  .  .  You  dared  not  confess  that  evening. 
.     .    You  must  have  killed  him.   What  could  he 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  99 

have  done  to  you?...  You  fastened  on  him  some 
atrocious  quarrel  and  . . ." 

Her  vengeful  aspect,  her  poignant  cries  left  him 
as  unmoved  as  the  weary  rock  against  which  he 
l«med.  He  only  raised  his  eyelids  to  look  at  her 
and  lowered  them  slowly.  Nothing  more.  It 
sJ«ced  her.  And  as  if  ashamed  she  made  a 
gesture  with  her  hand,  putting  away  from  her  that 
thought.    He  spoke,  quietly  ironic  at  first 

•Hal  the  legendary  Renouard  of  sensitive 
^o^the  nithless  adventurer-the  ogre Tth" 

1  don  t  thmk  that  the  a.«atest  fool  of  them  all  ever 
dru^d  hmt  such  a  stupid  thing  of  me  that  I  killed 
men  for  nothing.  No,  I  had  noticed  this  man  in  a 
hotel.  He  had  come  from  up  country  I  was  told 
and  was  domg  nothing.  I  saw  him  sitting  ther^ 
lonely  ma  comer  like  a  sick  crow,  and  I  went  ov^ 
oneevemngtotalktohim.  Just  on  impulse.  He 
wasnt  mipressive.  He  was  pitiful.  My  worst 
enemy  could  W  told  you  he  wasn't  good'enou^h 
to  be  one  of  Renouard's  victims.    It  didn't  take 

J^r^r-  ,^ry'*^«Kenouardofshopkeepers' 
legend.    Listenl    I  would  never  have  be£  je^ou. 


100    THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 

of  him.  And  yet  I  am  jealous  of  the  air  you 
breathe,  of  the  soil  you  tread  on,  of  the  world  that 
sees  you — moving  free — not  mine.  But  nevermind. 
I  rather  liked  him.  For  a  certain  reason  I  proposed 
he  should  come  to  be  my  assistant  here.  He  said 
he  believed  this  would  save  him.  It  did  not  save 
him  from  death.  It  came  to  him  as  it  were  from 
nothing — ^just  a  fall.  A  mere  sUp  and  tumble  of 
ten  feet  into  a  ravine.  But  it  seems  he  had  been 
hurt  before  up-coimtry — by  a  horse.  He  ailed 
and  ailed.  No,  he  was  not  a  steel-tipped  man. 
And  his  poor  soul  seemed  to  have  been  damaged 
too.    It  gave  way  very  soon." 

"  This  is  tragic! "  Felicia  Moorsom  whispered 
with  feeling.  Renouard's  lips  twitched,  but  his 
level  voice  continued  mercilessly. 

"  That's  the  story.  He  raUied  a  little  one 
night  and  said  he  wanted  to  tell  me  something.  I, 
being  a  gentleman,  he  said,  he  could  confide  in  me. 
I  told  him  that  he  was  Uilstaken.  That  there  was 
a  good  deal  of  a  plebeian  in  me,  that  he  couldn't 
know.  He  seemed  disappointed.  He  muttered 
something  about  his  innocence  and  something  that 
sounded  Uke  a  curse  on  some  woman,  then  turned 
to  the  wall  and — just  grew  cold." 

"  On  a  woman,"  cried  Miss  Moorsom  indignantly. 
"What woman?  " 

"  I  wonder!  "  said  Renouard,  raising  his  eyes 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA         loi 

and  noting  the  crimson  of  her  ear-lobes  against 
the  Uve  whiteness  of  her  complexion,  the  sombre, 
as  if  secret,  night-splendour  of  her  eyes  under  the 
writhing  iiames  of  her  hair.    "  Some  woman  who 

wouldn't  believe  in  that  poor  innocence  of  his 

Yes.  You  probably.  And  now  you  will  not 
believe  in  me— not  even  in  me  who  must  in  truth 
be  what  I  am— even  to  death.  No  I  You  won't. 
And  yet,  Felicia,  a  woman  Uke  you  and  a  man  hke 
me  do  not  often  come  together  on  this  earth." 

The  flame  of  her  glorious  head  scorched  his  face. 
He  flung  his  hat  far  away,  and  his  suddenly  lowered 
eyelids  brought  out  startlingly  his  resemblance 
to  antique  bronze,  the  profile  of  Pallas,  still, 
austere,  bowed  a  little  in  the  shadow  of  the  rock.' 
"Oh!  If  you  could  only  understand  the  truth 
that  is  in  me!  "  he  added. 

She  waited,  as  if  too  astounded  to  speak,  till  he 
looked  up  again,  and  then  with  unnatural  force  as 
if  defending  herself  from  some  unspoken  aspersion. 
"  It's  I  who  stand  for  truth  here !  Believe  in  you ! 
In  you,  who  by  a  heartless  falsehood— and  nothing 
else,  nothing  else,  do  you  hear?— have  brought  me 
here,  deceived,  cheated,  as  in  some  abommable 
farce! "  She  sat  down  on  a  boulder,  rested  her 
chin  in  her  hands,  in  the  pose  of  simple  grief- 
mourning  for  herself. 
"  It  only  wanted  this.    Why!    Oh!    Why  is 


4 

m 


loa    THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 

it  that  ugliness,  ridicule,  and  baseness  must  fall 
across  my  path." 

On  that  height,  alone  with  the  sky,  they  spoke 
to  each  other  as  if  the  earth  had  fallen  away  from 
under  their  feet. 

"  Are  you  grieving  for  your  dignity  ?  He  was  a 
mediocre  soul  and  could  have  given  you  but  an 
unworthy  existence." 

She  did  not  even  smile  at  those  words,  but, 
superb,  as  if  Uf  ting  a  comer  of  the  veil,  she  turned 
on  him  slowly. 

"And  do  you  imagine  I  would  have  devoted 
myself  to  him  for  such  a  purpose!  Don't  you 
know  that  reparation  was  due  to  him  from  me?  A 
sacred  debt — a  fine  duty.  To  redeem  him  would 
not  have  been  in  my  power— I  know  it.  But  he 
was  blameless,  and  it  v.  as  for  me  to  come  forward. 
Don't  you  see  that  in  the  eyes  of  the  world  nothing 
could  have  rehabilitated  him  so  completely  as 
hismarriage  with  me?  No  word  of  evil  could  be 
whispered  of  him  after  I  had  given  him  my  hand. 
As  to  giving  myself  up  to  anything  less  than  the 
shaping  of  a  man's  destiny— if  I  thought  I  could 
do  it  I  would  abhor  myself.  .  .  ."  She  spoke  with 
authority  in  her  deep  fascinating,  unemotional 
voice.  Renouard  meditated,  gloomy,  as  if  over 
some  sinister  riddle  of  a  beautiful  sphinx  met  on 
the  wild  road  of  his  life. 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA         103 

"Yes.    Your  father  was  right.    You  are  one 
of  these  aristocrats ..." 
She  drew  herself  up  haughtily. 
"  What  do  you  say?    My  fatherl  ...    I  an 
aristocrat." 

"  OhI   I  don't  mean  that  you  are  Uke  the  men 
and  women  of  the  time  of  armours,  castles,  and 
great  deeds.    Oh,  no  I    They  stood  on  the  naked 
soil,  had  traditions  to  be  faithful  to,  had  their  feet 
on  this  earth  of  passions  and  death  which  is  not  a 
hothouse.    They  would  have  been  too  plebeian 
for  you  since  they  had  to  lead,  to  suffer  with  to 
understand  the  commonest  humanity.    No   you 
are  merely  of  the  topmost  layer,  disdainful  and 
supenor,  the  mere  pure  froth  and  bubble  on  the 
mscrutable  depths  which  some  day  will  toss  you 
out  of  existence.    But  you  are  you!    You  are 
you!    You  are  the  eternal  love  itself-only    0 
Divinity,  it  isn't  your  body,  it  is  your  soul  thiit  is 
made  of  foam." 

She  listened  as  if  in  a  dream.  He  had  succeeded 
so  weU  m  his  effort  to  drive  back  the  flood  of  his 
passion  that  his  life  itself  seemed  to  run  with  it 
out  of  his  body.  At  that  moment  he  felt  as  one 
dead  speaking.  But  the  headlong  wave  return- 
ing with  tenfold  force  flung  him  on  her  suddenly 
with  open  ams  and  blazing  eyes.  She  found 
herself  like  a  feather  in  his  grasp,  helpless,  unable 


104    THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 

to  struggle,  with  her  feet  off  the  ground.  But 
this  contact  with  her,  maddening  like  too  much 
felicity,  destroyed  its  own  end.  Fire  ran  through 
his  veins,  turned  his  passion  to  ashes,  burnt  him 
out  and  left  him  empty,  without  force— almost 
without  desire.  He  let  her  go  before  she  could 
cry  out.  And  she  was  so  used  to  the  forms  of 
repression  enveloping,  softening  the  crude  impulses 
of  old  humanity  that  she  no  longer  believed  in 
their  existence  as  if  it  were  an  exploded  legend. 
She  did  not  recognise  what  had  happened  to  her. 
She  came  safe  out  of  his  arms,  without  a  struggle, 
not  even  having  felt  afraid. 

"  What's  the  meaning  of  this?  "  she  said,  out- 
raged but  calm  in  a  scornful  way. 

He  got  dfiv.Ti  on  his  knees  in  silence,  bent  low 
to  her  very  feet,  while  she  looked  down  at  him,  a 
little  surprised,  without  animosity,  as  if  merely 
curious  to  see  what  he  would  do.  Then,  while 
he  remained  bowed  to  the  ground  pressing  the  hem 
of  her  skirt  to  his  lips,  she  made  a  slight  movement. 
He  got  up. 

"  No,"  he  said.  "  Were  you  ever  so  much  mine 
what  could  I  do  with  you  without  your  consent? 
No.  You  don't  conquer  a  wraith,  cold  mist,  stuff 
of  dreams,  illusion.  It  must  come  to  you  and 
cling  to  your  breast.  And  then  I  Oh  I  And 
then  I" 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA         105 
AU  ecstasy,  aU  expression  went  out  of  his  face 

have  no  fr"*^'"  ^'  '^^'  "  *^°"«'>  y°"  «« 
J«ve  no  clann  on  my  consideration  after  having 

decoyed  me  here  for  the  vile  purpose,  apparently' 
of  gloating  over  me  as  your  possible  prey.  :  wiU 
^U  you  that  I  am  not  perhaps  the  exL;d;nI^ 
bemgyouthinklam.  You  may  believe  me.  hZ 
I  stand  for  truth  itself." 

"What's  that  to  me  what  you  are?  "heanswered, 
At  a  sign  from  you  I  would  climb  up  to  the 
seventh  heaven  to  bring  you  down  to  eartS  for  my 
own-and  if  I  saw  you  steeped  to  the  «ps  in  vice 
m  cnme.  m  mud.  I  would  go  after  you.  take  you' 
to  my  ams-wear  you  for  an  incomparable  jewel 
on  my  breast.    And  that's  love-true  love-the 
gift  and  the  curse  of  the  gods.    There  is  no  other." 
ne  truth  vibrating  in  his  voice  made  her  recoU 
^hUy.  for  she  was  not  fit  to  hear  it-not  even  a 
nttle-not  even  one  single  time  in  her  hfe.    It  was 
revoltmg  to  her;    and  in  her  trouble.  pcrhTL 
prompted  by  the  suggestion  of  his  name  or  To 
soften  die  harshness  of  expression,  for  she  wa^ 
obscurely  moved,  she  spoke  to  him  in  French 
Assez/  J-ai  horreur  de  tout  cela."  she  said 
He  was  white  to  his  very  Ups.  but  he'  was 
trembhngnomore.    The  dice  had  been  cast,  and 
not  even  violence  could  alter  the  throw     She 
passed  by  him  unbendingly,  and  he  followed  her 


io6         THE  PLANTER  OF  BIALATA 

down  the  path.    After  a  time  the  heard  him 

laying: 

"And  your  dream  is  to  influence  a  human 
destiny?  " 

"  Yes  I  "  she  answered  curtly,  unabashed,  with 
woman's  complete  assurance. 

'  Then  you  may  rest  content.  You  have  done 
it." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  sUghtly.  But  just 
before  reaching  the  end  of  the  path  she  relented, 
stopped,  and  went  back  to  him. 

"  I  don't  suppose  you  are  very  anxious  for  people 
to  know  how  near  you  came  to  absolute  turpitude. 
You  may  rest  easy  on  that  point.  I  shall  speak  t-^ 
my  father,  of  course,  and  we  will  agree  to  say  that 
he  has  died — nothing  more." 

"  Yes,"  said  Rcnouard  in  a  lifeless  voice.  "  He 
is  dead.  His  very  ghost  shall  be  done  with 
presently." 

She  went  on,  but  he  remained  standing  stock  still 
in  the  dusk.  She  had  ah-eady  reached  the  three 
palms  when  she  heard  behind  her  a  loud  peal  of 
laughter,  cynical  and  joyless,  such  as  is  heard  in 
smoking-rooms  at  the  end  oi  a  scandalous  story. 
It  made  her  feel  positively  faint  for  a  moment. 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 


X07 


XZ 

SlowLv  .  ccanpiete  dartoess  enveloped  Gcoftev 

«  ead  of  following  FeUcia  Into  the  hou«  he  lid 
stopped  under  the  three  pahns,  and  Sg  J^,^j 
a  «nooth  trunk  had  abandoned  himself  "0  a^^i 

r^e:S:L"/lSe::Jta^-^^^^^^^^^^ 
gone  too  far-so  far  that  there  Ln^^tf 

JM  he  he  had  to  give  up,  and  with  a  sort  of 
d«pa.r«,g  self-possession  he  tried  to  unde^and 
the  cause  cf  the  defeat.  He  did  not  ascrii  t^o 
that  absurd  dead  man.  ° 

The  hesitating  shadow  of  Luiz  approached  him 

savrj^.r^      ^"''  ^"^e?    You  must 
say  I  beg  to  be  excused.    I  can't  come     But  I 

^s.  them  to-mo.ow  morning,  at  tilafi; 
place.    Take  your  orders  from  the  professor  wtf 
the  saihng  of  the  schooner.    Go  now  " 
Luiz.  dumbfounded,  retreated  into  the  darkness. 


lo8    THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 

Renouard  did  not  move,  but  hours  afterwards, 
like  the  bitter  fruit  of  his  immobility,  the  words: 
"  I  had  nothing  to  offer  to  her  vanity,"  came  from 
his  lips  in  the  silence  of  the  island.  And  it  was 
then  only  that  he  stirred,  only  to  wear  the  night 
out  in  restless  tramping  up  and  down  the  various 
paths  of  the  plantation.  Luiz,  whose  sleep  was 
made  light  by  the  consciousness  of  some  impending 
change,  heard  footsteps  passing  by  his  hut,  the 
firm  tread  of  the  master;  and  turning  on  his  mats 
emitted  a  faint  Tse!  Tse!  Tsel  of  deep  concern. 

Lights  had  been  burning  in  the  bungalow  almost 
all  through  the  night;  and  with  the  first  sign  of 
day  began  the  bustle  of  departure.  House  boys 
walked  processionally  carrying  suit-cases  and 
dressing-bags  down  to  the  schooner's  boat,  which 
csime  to  the  landing  place  at  the  bottom  of  the 
garden.  Just  as  the  rising  sun  threw  its  golden 
nimbus  aroimd  the  piuple  shape  of  the  headland, 
the  Plsinter  of  Malata  was  perceived  pacing  bare- 
headed the  curve  of  the  httle  bay.  He  exchanged 
a  few  words  with  the  sailing-master  of  the  schooner, 
then  remained  by  the  boat,  standing  very  upright, 
his  eyes  on  the  ground,  waiting. 

He  had  not  long  to  wait.  Into  the  cool,  over- 
shadowed garden  the  professor  descended  first,  and 
came  jauntily  down  the  path  in  a  lively  cracking  of 
small  shells.    With  his  closed  parasol  hooked  on  his 


■'W0t   -K. 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA  109 
far^,  and  a  book  in  his  hand,  he  resembled  a 
banal  tounst  more  than  was  permissible  to  a  man  of 
his  ,m,que  distinction.    He  waved  the  disen^^ed 

!f  t    hands.    He  seemed  to  appraise  the  aspect 
oHhe  man  with  a  sharp  glance,  and  made  up'Ss 

"We  are  going  back  by  Suez."  he  began  almost 
^  terous  y.  ..  I  have  been  looking  up'the  sailing 
^sts.  If  the  zephirs  of  your  Pacific  are  only 
moderately  propitious  I  think  we  are  sure  to  catch 

uirm'  t  "  ''"''''''  °"  ''^  ^'^^^ 
March.     This  will  suit  me  exceUently.         "    He 

lowered  his  tone.    "  My  dear  young  friend    iZ 
deeply  grateful  to  you."  ^  '  ^ " 

Renouard's  set  lips  moved. 
"  ^hy  are  you  grateful  to  me>  " 
'•Ah!  Why?  In  the  first  place  you  might  have 
made  us  m.ss  the  next  boat,  mightn't  you  ?  1 

don  t  thank  you  for  your  hospitahty.  You  can't 
be  ^g^  with  me  for  saying  that  I  am  truly  thank- 
M  to  e«:ape  from  it.  But  I  am  grateful  to  you 
f«r  what  you  have  done,  and-for  being  What 

It  was  difiicult  to  define  the  flavour  of  that 
speech,  but  Renouard  received  it  with  an  austerely 
eqmvocal  smile.    The  professor  stepping  into  the 


no        THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 

boat  opened  his  parasol  and  sat  down  in  the  stem- 
sheets  waiting  for  the  ladies.  No  sound  of  human 
voice  broke  the  fresh  silence  of  the  morning  while 
they  walked  the  broad  path,  Miss  Moorsom  a  little 
in  advance  of  her  aunt. 

When  she  came  abreast  of  him  Renouard  raised 
his  head. 

"  Good-bye,  Mr.  Renouard,"  she  said  in  a  low 
voice,  meaning  to  pass  on;  but  there  was  such  a 
look  of  entreaty  in  the  blue  gleam  of  his  sunken 
eyes  that  after  an  imperceptible  hesitation  she  laid 
her  hand,  which  was  ungloved,  in  his  extended 
palm. 

"  Will  you  condescend  to  remember  me? "  he 
asked,  while  an  emotion  with  which  she  was  angry 
made  her  pale  cheeks  flush  and  her  black  eyes 
sparkle. 

"  This  is  a  strange  request  for  you  to  make," 
she  said  exaggerating  the  coldness  of  her  tone. 

"  Is  it?  Impudent  perhaps.  Yet  I  am  not  so 
guilty  as  you  think;  and  bear  in  mind  that  to  me 
you  can  never  make  reparation." 

"Reparation?  To  you  I  It  is  you  who  can 
offer  me  no  reparation  for  the  offence  against  my 
f eeUngs — and  my  person ;  for  what  reparation  can 
be  adequate  for  your  odious  and  ridiculous  plot  so 
scornful  in  its  implication,  so  humiliating  to  my 
pride.    Not  I  don't  want  to  remember  you." 


Ill 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA         „, 

«»->.  steppe.  r,iUr.™fnf 

ratae.  ^'^  <I"PP«<' "  »iu,  .  fata, 

moment  afterwards  softening    L  ^''*"'  * 

only  his  back  in  the  disian..  '^'^ 

the  bungalow.    She^tchS^r"'  ^^""'^ 
beforeshe  tooleft  the  sJ^ofnttf""—^- 

Nobody  disturbed  Renouard  in  thot- 
he  had  shut  himself  in  to^^t"e^e"°"  "'''*' 
Perfmne  of  her  who  for  him  wa^^^^^'  '"^.r"* 
in  the  afternoon  when  thiSal^^Te  w^^  ^.''*" 
the  other  side  of  the  door     ""^^^  ^^  ^^^ard  on 


Iia    THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 

He  wanted  the  master  to  know  that  the  trader 
Janet  was  just  entering  the  cove. 

Renouard's  strong  voice  on  his  side  of  the  door 
gave  him  most  unexpected  instructions.  He  was 
to  pay  off  the  boys  with  the  cash  in  the  office  and 
arrange  with  the  captain  of  the  Janet  to  take  every 
worker  away  from  Maiata,  returning  them  to  their 
respective  homes.  An  order  on  the  Dtmster  firm 
would  be  given  to  b>m  in  payment. 

And  again  the  siJence  of  the  bungalow  remained 
unbroken  till,  next  morning,  the  half-caste  came  to 
report  that  everjrthing  was  done.  The  plantation 
boys  were  embarking  now. 

Through  a  crack  in  the  door  a  hand  thrust  at 
him  a  piece  of  paper,  and  the  door  slammed  to  so 
sharply  that  Luiz  stepped  back.  Then  approach- 
ing cringingly  the  keyhole,  in  a  propitiatory  tone 
he  asked: 

"  Do  I  go  too,  master?  " 

"  Yes.    You  too.    Everybody." 

"  Master  stop  here  alone?  " 

Silence.  And  the  half-caste's  eyes  grew  wide 
with  woi.der.  But  he  also,  like  those  "  ignorant 
savages,"  the  plantation  boys,  was  only  too  glad 
to  leave  an  island  haunted  by  the  ghost  of  a  white" 
man.  He  backsd  away  noiselessly  from  the 
mysterious  silence  in  ihe  closed  room,  and  only  in 
the  very  doorway  of  the  bungalow  allowed  himself 


THE  PUNIER  OF  MAIAT^         „, 
"Tsel    Tsel    Tsel  " 


XII 

«  town.    Thufthe  1,      "^'^^"^Hourhours 

afterwards  from  relLJ  '  ^"^  "°*  P^^^^"*  him 
-anly  tears  in  SseyesT^^^^  ""'''  ''''''''■  ^'^ 
the  fashionable  Jdl,  T  ""'^^  ^°°^^°'"- 
betrothedinMlt?o„,w         "^^"^y-^^^nd   her 

Most  people  ^'Xt  T  "!  '^  *^ '"  ^^^  -™s. 

^-asthrta.o;atr-t;f^"-^-- 

frieni::^;e::?rnTed?r  "^"^-^'^  ^^ 
rest  of  the  world"^'  Crof     •°"  "°"  *^^"  ^''^ 
perhaps,  he  th^rste^^  a  ft"""'' r"""^"'^^' 
f  etail.    And  when  he  «:  iLlrj  .'T^^ 
^y'-g  -  port  day  after  day  hfru^  ^    .°"^^ 
n^aster  to  leam  the  reas  J     rT  '"'""« 

that  such  wer»  his  iT\-  '"^"  *°^^  him 

ordered  to  he  the':  a  :lTif    "^  '^'^  ''- 
Malata.    And  the  montr^^  °'''  ''*"™"«  to 

ask  you  to  give  Z7^LT--'':^''IZ    "  '  ^ 
He  landed  in  the  mT        '^''^  ^''^  Editor. 

the  mormng  at  the  bottom  of 


114 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA 


the  garden  and  found  peace,  stillness,  sunshine 
reigning  everywhere,  the  doors  and  windows  of  the 
bungalow  standing  wide  open,  no  sight  of  a  human 
being  anywhere,  the  plants  growing  rank  and  tall 
on  the  deserted  fields.  For  hours  the  Editor  and 
the  schooner's  crew,  excited  by  the  mystery,  roamed 
over  the  island  shouting  Renouard's  name;  and 
at  last  set  themselves  in  grim  silence  to  explore 
systematically  the  uncleared  bush  and  the  deeper 
ravines  in  search  of  his  corpse.  What  had  happened  ? 
Had  he  been  murdered  by  the  boys?  Or  had  he 
simply,  capricious  and  secretive,  abandoned  his 
plantation  taking  the  people  with  him.  It  was  im- 
possible to  tell  what  had  happened.  At  last,  towards 
the  decUne  of  the  day,  the  Editor  and  the  sailing 
master  discovered  a  track  of  sandals  crossing  a  strip 
of  sandy  beach  on  the  north  shore  of  the  bay. 
Following  this  track  fearfully,  they  passed  round 
the  spur  of  the  headland,  and  there  on  a  large  stone 
found  the  sandals,  Renouard's  white  jacket,  and  the 
Malay  sarongof  chequered  pattern  which  theplantei 
of  Malata  was  well  known  to  wear  when  going  to 
bathe.  These  things  made  a  little  heap,  and  the 
sailor  remarked,  after  gazing  at  it  in  silence — 

"  Birds  have  been  hovering  over  this  for  many 
a  day." 

"  He's  gone  bathing  and  got  drowned,"  cried  the 
Editor  in  dismay. 


THE  PLANTER  OF  MALATA         „5 

^blt^l'"''^-  " '^^'"d  been  downed  any- 
where «,tlu„  a  mile  from  the  shore  the  body  would 
have  been  washed  out  on  th  ,eefs.  AndoilTts 
have  found  nothing  so  far"  ""TDoats 

Nothing   was    ever    found -and   Renouard's 
du^ppeai^ce  remained  in  the  main  inexpUcaWe 
For  to  whom  could  it  have  occurred  that  a  man 

onxfe-with  a  steady  stroke-his  eyes  fixed  on  a 

Next  evenmg  fron,  the  receding  schooner,  the 
EAtor  looked  back  for  the  last  time  at  the  de- 

Tt  f  "'u  ^  '^^^'^  ^'""'^  '^-S  hstlessly  ot 
the  high  rock  on  the  middle  hill;  and  under 
«.e  mysterious  silence  of  that  shadow  M^t" 

sunset,  as  if  remembering  the  heart  that  was 
broken  there.  ^ 


Dtc.  1913. 


V 


THE    PARTNER 

"  And  that  be  hanged  for  a  silly  yam.  The  boat- 
men here  in  Westport  have  been  telling  this  lie  to 
the  summer  visitors  for  years.  The  sort  that  gets 
taken  out  for  a  row  at  a  shilling  a  head— and  asks 
foolish  questions— must  be  told  something  to  pass 
the  time  away.  D'ye  know  anything  more  silly 
than  being  pulled  in  a  boat  along  a  beach  ? . . .  It's 
like  drinking  weak  lemonade  when  you  aren't 
thirsty.  I  don't  know  why  they  do  it  I  They 
don't  even  get  sick." 

A  forgotten  glass  of  beer  stood  at  his  elbow;  the 
locality  was  a  small  respectable  smoking-room  of  a 
small  respectable  hotel,  and  a  taste  for  forming 
chance  acquaintances  accounts  for  my  sitting  up 
late  with  him.  His  great,  flat,  furrowed  cheeks 
were  shaven;  a  thick,  square  wisp  of  white  hairs 
hung  from  his  chin;  its  waggling  gave  additional 
point  to  his  deep  utterance;  and  his  general  con- 
tempt for  mankind  with  its  activities  and  morali- 
ties was  expressed  in  the  rakish  set  of  his  big  soft 
hat  of  black  felt  with  a  large  rim.  which  he  kept 
always  on  Lij  head. 

"9 


130 


THE  PARTNER 


His  appearance  was  that  of  an  oH  adventurer, 
retired  after  many  unholy  experiences  in  the  darkest 
parts  of  the  earth;  but  I  had  every  reason  to  believe 
that  he  had  never  been  outside  England.  From  a 
casual  remark  somebody  dropped  I  gathered  that 
in  his  early  days  he  must  have  been  somehow  con- 
nected with  shipping — with  ships  in  docks.  Of 
individuality  he  had  plenty.  And  it  was  this 
which  attracted  my  attention  at  first.  But  he 
was  not  easy  to  classify,  and  before  the  end  of  the 
week  I  gave  him  up  with  the  vague  definition,  "  an 
imposing  old  ruffian." 

One  rainy  afternoon,  oppressed  by  infinite  bore- 
dom, I  went  into  the  smoking-room.  He  was 
sitting  there  in  absolute  immobility,  which  wa^ 
really  fakir-like  and  impressive.  I  began  to  wonder 
what  could  be  the  associations  of  that  sort  of  man, 
his  "  milieu,"  his  private  connections,  his  views,  his 
morality,  his  friends,  and  even  his  wife — ^when  to 
my  surprise  he  opened  a  conversation  in  a  deep, 
muttering  voice. 

I  must  say  that  since  he  had  learned  from  some- 
body that  I  was  a  writer  of  stories  he  bad  been 
acknowledging  my  existence  by  means  of  some 
vague  growls  in  the  morning. 

He  was  essentially  a  tacitiun  man.  There  was 
an  effect  of  rudeness  in  his  fragmentary  sentences. 
It  was  some  time  before  I  discovered  that  what  he 


THE  PARTNER  ui 

woulu  be  at  wu  the  process  by  which  stories- 
stories  for  periodicals— were  produced. 

What  could  one  say  to  a  fellow  like  that?  But 
I  was  bored  to  death;  the  weather  continued  im- 
possible; and  I  resolved  to  be  amiable. 

"  And  so  you  make  these  tales  up  on  your  own. 
How  do  they  ever  come  into  your  head?  "  he 
rumbled. 

I  explained  that  one  generally  got  a  hint  for 
a  tale. 

"What  sort  of  hint?" 

"Well,  for  instance,"  I  said,  "I  got  myself 
rowed  out  to  the  rocks  the  other  day.  My  boat- 
man told  me  of  the  wreck  on  these  rocks  nearly 
twenty  years  ago.  That  could  be  used  as  a  hint 
for  a  mainly  descriptive  bit  of  story  with  some 
such  title  as  '  In  the  Channel,'  for  instance." 

It  was  then  that  he  flew  out  at  the  boatmen  and 
the  summer  visitors  who  listen  to  their  tales.  With- 
out moving  a  muscle  of  his  face  he  emitted  a  power- 
ful "  Rot,"  from  somewhere  out  of  the  depths  of 
his  chest,  and  went  on  in  his  hoarse,  fragmentary 
mumble.  "Stare  at  the  silly  rocks— nod  their 
silly  heads  [the  visitors,  I  presume].  What  do 
they  think  a  man  is— blown-out  paper  bag  or  what  ? 

—go  ofi  pop  like  that  when  he's  hit Damn 

siUy  yam Hint  indeed ! . . .    A  lie  ?  " 

You  must  imagine  this  statuesque  ruffian  en- 


na  THE  PARTNER 

haloed  in  the  black  rim  of  his  hat,  letting  all  this 
out  as  an  old  dog  growls  sometimes,  with  his  head 
up  and  staring-away  eyes. 

"Indeed!"  I  exclaimed.  "WeU,  but  even  if 
untrue  it  is  a  hint,  enabling  me  to  see  these  rocks, 
this  gale  they  speak  of,  the  heavy  seas,  etc.,  etc., 
in  relation  to  mankind.  The  struggle  against 
natural  forces  and  the  effect  of  the  issue  on  at  least 
one,  say,  exalted " 

He  interrupted  me  by  an  aggressive— 

"  Would  truth  be  any  good  to  you?  " 

"  I  shouldn't  like  to  say,"  I  answered,  cautiously. 
"  It's  said  that  truth  is  stranger  than  fiction." 

"  Who  saj^  that?  "  he  mouthed. 

"  Oh  I    Nobody  in  particular." 

I  turned  to  the  window;  for  the  contemptuous 
beggar  was  oppressive  to  look  at,  with  his  immov- 
able arm  on  the  table.  I  suppose  my  uncere- 
monious maimer  provoked  him  to  a  comparatively 
long  speech. 

"  Did  you  ever  see  such  a  silly  lot  of  rocks? 
Like  plums  in  a  sUce  of  cold  pudding." 

I  was  looking  at  them — an  acre  or  more  of  black 
dots  scattered  on  the  steel-grey  shades  of  the  level 
sea,  imder  the  uniform  gossamer  grey  mist  with  a 
formless  brighter  patch  in  one  place — the  veiled 
whiteness  of  the  cliff  coming  through,  like  a  diffused, 
mysterious  radiance.  It  was  a  deUcate  and  wonder- 


'I 


THE  PARTNER 


z« 


All  picture,  sometluniB  •'xpressive,  suggestive,  and 
desolate,  a  symphc  -ly  in  gicy ;  -d  black— a  Whist- 
ler. But  the  nex*  th  ag  said  jy  the  voice  behind 
me  made  me  turn  re  ca.-!  It  fjrowled  out  contempt 
for  all  associated  notions  of  roaring  seas  with  con- 
cise energy,  then  went  on— 

"  I— no  such  foolishness— looking  at  the  rocks 
out  there— more  Hkely  call  to  mind  an  office— I 
used  to  look  in  sometimes  at  one  time— office  in 
London— one  of  them  small  streets  behind  Cannon 

Street  Station " 

He  was  very  deUberate;  not  jerky,  only  frag- 
mentary; at  times  profane. 

"  That's  a  rather  remote  connection,"  I  observed, 
approaching  him. 

"Connection?  To  Hades  with  your  connec- 
tions.   It  was  an  accident." 

"  Still,"  I  said,  "  an  accident  has  its  backward 
and  forward  connections,  which,  if  they  could  be 

set  forth " 

Without  moving  he  seemed  to  lend  an  atten- 
tive ear. 

"Aye!  Set  forth.  That's  perhaps  what  you 
could  do.  Couldn't  you  now?  There's  no  sea  Ufe 
in  this  connection.  But  you  can  put  it  in  out  of 
your  head— if  you  like." 

"  Yes.  I  could,  if  necessary,"  I  said.  "  Some- 
times it  pays  to  put  in  a  lot  out  of  one's  head,  and 


124 


THE  PARTNER 


sometimes  it  doesn't.  I  mean  that  the  story  isn't 
worth  it.    Everything's  in  that." 

It  amused  me  to  talk  to  him  Uke  this.  He  re- 
flected audibly  that  he  guessed  story-writers  were 
out  after  money  like  the  rest  of  the  world  which 
bad  to  live  by  its  wits:  and  that  it  was  extra- 
ordinary how  far  people  who  were  out  after  money 
would  go. . . .    Some  of  them. 

Then  he  made  a  sally  against  sea  Ufe.  Silly  sort 
of  Ufe,  he  called  it.  No  opportunities,  no  experi- 
ence, no  variety,  nothing.  Some  fine  men  came 
out  of  it — ^he  admitted — but  no  more  chance  in  the 
world  if  put  to  it  than  fly.  Kids.  So  Captain 
Harry  Dunbar.  Good  sailor  Great  name  as  a 
skipper.  Big  man;  short  side-whiskers  going  grey, 
fine  face,  loud  voice.  A  good  fellow,  but  no  more 
up  to  people's  tricks  than  a  baby. 

"  That's  the  captain  of  the  Sagamore  you're  talk- 
ing about,"  I  said,  confidently. 

After  a  low,  scornful  "  Of  course  "  he  seemed 
now  to  hold  on  the  wall  with  his  fixed  stare  the 
vision  of  that  city  office,  "  at  the  back  of  Cannon 
Street  Station,"  while  he  growled  and  mouthed  a 
fragmentary  description,  jerking  his  chin  up  now 
and  then,  as  if  angry. 

It  was,  according  to  his  account,  a  modest  place 
of  business,  not  shady  in  any  sense,  but  out  of  the 
way,  in  a  small  street  now  rebuilt  from  end  to  end. 


THE  PARTNER 


125 


"  Seven  doors  from  the  Cheshire  Cat  pubUc  house 
under  the  railway  bridge.  I  used  to  take  my  lunch 
there  when  my  business  called  me  to  the  city. 
Cloete  would  come  in  to  have  his  chop  and  make 
the  girl  laugh.  No  need  to  talk  much,  either,  for 
that.  Nothing  but  the  way  he  would  twinkle  his 
spectacles  on  you  and  give  a  twitch  of  his  thick 
mouth  was  enough  to  start  you  off  before  he  began 
one  of  his  little  tales.  Funny  fellow,  Cloete. 
C-1-o-e-t-e— Cloete." 

"What  was  he— a  Dutchman?  "  I  asked,  not 
seeing  in  the  least  what  all  this  had  to  do  with 
the  Westport  boatmen  and  the  Westport  summer 
visitors  and  this  extraordinary  old  fellow's  irritable 
view  of  them  as  liars  and  fools.  "  Devil  knows," 
he  grunted,  his  eyes  on  the  wall  as  if  not  to  miss 
a  single  movement  of  a  cinematograph  picture. 
"  Spoke  nothing  but  English,  anyway.  First  I 
saw  him— comes  off  a  ship  in  dock  from  the  States 
— passenger.  Asks  me  for  a  small  hotel  near  by. 
Wanted  to  be  quiet  and  have  a  look  round  for  a 
few  days.  I  took  him  to  a  place — friend  of  mine. 
. . .  Next  time— in  the  City— Hallo !  You're  very 
obliging— have  a  drink.  Talks  plenty  about  him- 
self. Been  years  in  the  States.  All  sorts  of  busi- 
ness all  over  the  place.  With  some  patent 
medicine  people,  too.  Travels.  Writes  advertise- 
ments and  all  that.    Tells  me  funny  stories.    Tall, 


126 


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loose-limbed  fellow.  Black  hair  up  on  end,  like  a 
bnish;  long  face,  long  legs,  long  arms,  twinkle 
in  his  specs,  jocular  way  of  speaking — ^in  a  low 
voice.  .  .  .    See  that?  " 

I  nodded,  but  he  was  not  looking  at  me. 

"  Never  laughed  so  much  in  my  Ufe.  The  beggar 
—would  make  you  laugh  teUing  you  how  he  skinned 
his  own  father.  He  was  up  to  that,  too.  A  man 
who's  been  in  the  patent-medicine  trade  will  be  up 
to  auything  from  pitch-and-toss  to  wilful  murder. 
And  that's  a  bit  of  hard  truth  for  you.  Don't  mind 
what  they  do — think  they  can  carry  o£E  anything 
and  talk  themselves  out  of  anything—all  the 
world's  a  fool  to  them.  Business  man,  too,  Cloeta. 
Came  over  with  a  few  hundred  pounds.  Looking 
for  something  to  do — in  a  quiet  way.  Nothing 
like  the  old  country,  after  all,  says  he.  .  .  .  And  so 
we  part — I  with  more  drinks  in  me  than  I  was 
used  to.  After  a  time,  perhaps  six  months  or  so, 
I  nm  up  against  liim  again  in  Mr.  George  Dunbar's 
office.  Yes,  that  office.  It  wasn't  often  that  I .  .  . 
However,  there  was  a  bit  of  his  cargo  in  a  ship  in 
dock  that  I  wanted  to  ask  Mr.  George  about.  In 
comes  Cloete  out  of  the  room  at  the  back  with  some 
papers  in  his  hand.    Partner.    You  understand  ? " 

"  Aha !  "  I  said.    "  The  few  hundred  pounds." 

"  And  that  tongue  of  his,"  he  growled.  "  Don't 
forget  that  tongue.    Some  of  his  tales  must  have 


THE  PARTNER 


xa7 


opened  George  Dunbar's  eyes  a  bit  as  to  what 
business  means." 
"  A  plausible  fellow,"  I  suggested. 

"  H'm!    You  must  have  it  in  your  own  way 

of  course.    WeU.    Partner.    George  Dunbar  puts 

his  top-hat  on  and  tells  me  to  wait  a  moment 

George  always  looked  as  though  he  were  making  a 
few  thousands  a  year— a  city  swell.  .  .  .  Come 
along,  old  man !  And  he  and  Captain  Harry  go 
out  together— some  business  with  a  soUcitor  round 
the  comer.  Captain  Harry,  when  he  was  in  Eng- 
land, used  to  turn  up  in  his  brother's  office  regularly 
about  twelve.  Sat  in  a  comer  hke  a  good  boy, 
reading  the  paper  and  smoking  his  pipe.  So  they 
go  out. . . .  Model  brothers,  says  Cloete— two  love- 
birds—I am  looking  after  the  tinned-fruit  side  of 
this  cozy  Uttle  show.  .  .  Gives  me  that  sort  of 
talk.  Then  by-and-by:  What  sort  of  old  thing  is 
that  Sagamore?  Finest  ship  out— eh?  I  dare 
say  ail  ships  are  fine  to  you.  You  Uve  by  them.  I 
teU  you  what;  I  would  just  as  soon  put  my  money 
into  an  old  stocking.    Sooner!  " 

He  drew  a  breath,  and  I  noticed  his  hand,  lying 
loosely  on  the  table,  close  slowly  into  a  fist.  In 
that  immovable  man  it  was  startUng,  ominous,  Uke 
the  famed  nod  of  the  Commander. 

"  So,  akeady  at  that  time— note— already,"  he 
growled. 


128 


THE  PARTNER 


"  But  hold  on,"  I  interrupted.    "  The  Sagamore 
belonged  to  Mundy  and  Rogers,  I've  been  told." 

He  snorted  contemptuously.  "  Damn  boatmen 
—know  no  better.  Flew  the  firm's  house-flag. 
That's  another  thing.  Favour.  It  was  like  this: 
When  old  man  Dunbar  died.  Captain  Harry  was 
ahready  in  command  with  the  firm.  George 
chucked  the  bank  he  was  clerking  in — to  go  on  his 
own  with  what  there  was  to  share  after  the  old 
chap.  George  was  a  smart  man.  Started  ware- 
housing ;  then  two  or  three  things  at  a  time :  wood- 
pulp,  preserved-fruit  trade,  and  so  on.  And 
Captain  Harry  let  him  have  his  share  to  work  with. 
...  I  am  provided  for  in  my  ship,  he  says.  . . .  But 
by-and-by  Mundy  and  Rogers  begin  to  sell  out 
to  foreigners  all  their  ships— go  into  steam  right 
away.  Captain  Harry  gets  very  upset— lose  com- 
mand, part  with  the  ship  he  was  fond  of — very 
wretched.  Just  then,  so  it  happened,  the  brothers 
came  in  for  some  money — an  old  woman  died  or 
something.  Quite  a  tidy  bit.  Then  young  George 
says:   There's  enough  between  us  two  to  buy  the 

Sagamore  with But  you'll  need  more  money 

for  your  business,  cries  Captain  Harry— and  the 
other  laughs  at  him :  My  business  is  going  on  all 
right.  Why,  I  can  go  out  and  make  a  handful  of 
sovereigns  while  you  are  trying  to  get  your  pipe 
to  draw,  old  man.  .  .  .    Mundy  and  Rogers  very 


V 


THE  PARTNER  tag 

friendly  about  it:  Certainly,  Captain.  And  we 
will  manage  her  for  you,  if  you  like,  as  if  she  were 
still  our  own.  .  .  .  Why,  with  a  connection  Ukc 
that  it  was  good  investment  to  buy  that  ship. 
Good  I    Aye,  at  the  time." 

The  turning  of  his  head  slightly  toward  me  at 
this  point  was  like  a  sign  of  strong  feeling  in  any 
other  man. 

"  You'U  mind  that  this  was  long  before  Cloete 
came  into  it  at  all,"  he  muttered,  wamingly. 

"  Yes.  I  will  mind,"  I  said.  "  We  generally 
say:  some  years  passed.    That's  soon  done." 

He  eyed  me  for  a  while  silently  in  an  unseeing 
way,  as  if  engrossed  in  the  thought  of  the  years  so 
easily  dealt  with;  his  own  years,  too,  they  were, 
the  years  before  and  the  years  (not  so  many)  after 
Cloete  came  upon  the  scene.  When  he  began  to 
speak  again,  I  discerned  his  intention  to  point 
out  to  me,  in  his  obscure  and  graphic  manner,  the 
influence  on  George  Dunbar  of  long  association 
with  Cloete's  easy  moral  standards,  unscrupulously 
persuasive  gift  of  humour  (funny  fellow),  and 
adventurously  reckless  disposition.  He  desired  me 
anxiously  to  elaborate  this  view,  and  I  assured 
him  it  was  quite  within  my  powers.  He  wished 
me  also  to  understand  that  George's  business  had 
its  ups  and  downs  (the  other  brother  was  meantime 
sailing  to  and  fro  serenely);  that  he  got  into  low 


130 


THE  PARTNER 


water  at  times,  which  worried  him  rather,  because 
he  had  married  a  young  wife  with  expensive  tastes. 
He  was  having  a  pretty  anxious  time  of  it  generally ; 
and  just  then  Cloete  ran  up  in  the  city  somewhere 
against  a  man  working  a  patent  medicine  (the 
fellow's  old  trade)  with  some  success,  but  which, 
with  capital,  capital  to  the  time  of  thousands  to  be 
spent  with  both  hands  on  advertising,  could  be 
turned  into  a  great  thing — infinitely  better-paying 
than  a  gold-mine.  Cloete  became  excited  at  the 
possibilities  of  that  sort  of  business,  in  which  he 
was  an  expert.  I  understood  that  George's  partner 
was  all  on  fire  from  the  contact  with  this  unique 
opportunity. 

"  So  he  goes  in  every  day  into  George's  room 
about  eleven,  and  sings  that  tune  till  George 
gnashes  bis  teeth  with  rage.  Do  shut  up.  What's 
the  good  ?  No  money.  Hardly  any  to  go  on  with, 
let  alone  pouring  thousands  into  advertising. 
Never  dare  propose  to  his  brother  Harry  to  sell 
the  ship.  Couldn't  think  of  it.  Worry  him  to 
death.  It  would  be  like  the  end  of  the  world 
coming.  And  certainly  not  for  a  business  of  that 
kindl  ...  Do  you  think  it  would  be  a  swindle? 
asks  Cloete,  twitching  his  mouth.  .  .  .  George 
owns  up :  No — ^would  be  np  better  than  a  squeamish 
ass  if  he  thought  that,  after  all  these  years  in 
business. 


THE  PARTNER 


X3X 


i 


"  Qoete  looks  at  him  hard—  Never  thought  of 
selling  the  ship.  Expected  the  blamed  old  thing 
wouldn't  fetch  half  her  insured  value  by  this  time. 
Then  George  flies  out  at  him.  What's  the  mean- 
ing, then,  of  tht  se  silly  jeers  at  ship-owning  for  the 
last  three  weeks  ?    Had  enough  of  them,  anyhow. 

"  Angry  at  having  his  mouth  made  to  water, 
see.  Cloete  don't  get  excited.  ...  I  am  no 
squeamish  ass,  either,  says  he,  very  slowly.  'Tisn't 
seUing  your  old  Sagamore  wants.  The  blamed 
thing  wants  tomahawking  (seems  the  name  Saga- 
more means  an  Indian  chief  or  something.  The 
figure-head  was  a  half-naked  savage  with  a  feather 
over  one  ear  and  a  hatchet  in  his  belt).  Tomahawk- 
ing, says  he. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  asks  George.  .  . 
Wrecking— it  could  be  managed  with  perfect 
safety,  goes  on  Cioete— your  brother  would  then 
put  in  his  share  of  insurance  money.  Needn't 
tell  him  exactly  what  for.  He  thinks  you're  the 
smartest  business  man  that  ever  lived.  Make 
his  fortune,   too.  .  .  .     George  grips  the  desk 

with  both  hands  in  his  rage You  think  my 

brother's  a  man  to  cast  away  his  ship  on  purpose. 
I  wouldn't  even  dare  think  of  such  a  thing  in  the 
same  room  with  him— the  finest  fellow  that  ever 
lived.  .  .  .  Don't  make  such  noise;  they'll  hear 
you  outside,  says  Cloete;  and  he  tells  him  that  his 
brother  is  the  salted  pattern  of  aU  virtues,  but  aU 


I3a 


THE  PARTNER 


that's  necessary  is  to  induce  him  to  stay  ashore 
for  a  voyage— for  a  hohday— take  a  rest-why 
not  ? . . .  In  fact,  I  have  in  view  somebody  up  to 
that  sort  of  game— Cloete  whispers. 

"  George  nearly  chokes So  you  think  I  am 

of  that  sort- you  think  me  capable—  What  do 
you  take  me  for?  .  .  .  He  ahnost  loses  his  head, 
while  Cloete  keeps  cool,  only  gets  white  about  the 

gills I  take  you  for  a  man  who  will  be  most 

cursedly  hard  up  before  long.  ...  He  goes  to  the 
door  and  sends  s^w.y  the  clerk&-there  were  only 
two— to  take  tfteu  iunch  hour.  Comes  back. 
What  are  you  indignant  about?  Do  I  want  you 
to  rob  the  widow  and  orphan  ?  Why,  man  I  Lloyd's  a 
corporation,  it  hasn't  got  a  body  to  starve.  There's 
forty  or  more  of  them  perhaps  who  underwrote  the 
lines  on  that  silly  ship  of  yours.  Not  one  human 
being  would  go  hungry  or  cold  for  it.  They  take 
every  risk  into  consideration.    Everything  I  tell 

you That  sort  of  talk.    H'ml    George  too 

upset  to  speak— only  gurgles  and  waves  his  arms; 
so  sudden,  you  see.  The  other,  warming  his  back 
at  the  fire,  goes  on.  Wood-pulp  business  next  door 
toafaUure.  Tinned-fruit  trade  nearly  played  out. 
.  .  .  You're  frightened,  he  says;  but  the  law  is 
only  meant  to  frighten  fools  away.  .  .  .  And  he 
shows  how  safe  casting  away  that  ship  would  be. 
Premiums  paid  for  so  many,  many  years.    No 


THE  PARTNER  ,33 

shadow  of  suspicion  could  arise.    And,  dash  it  aU  I 
a  ship  must  meet  her  end  some  day. . . . 

"  I  am  not  frightened.  I  am  indignant,  says 
George  Dunbar. 

"  Qoete  boiling  with  rage  inside.  Chance  of  a 
Wetune-his  chance!  And  he  says  kindly:  Your 
wife  11  be  much  more  indignant  when  you  ask  her 
to  get  out  of  that  pretty  house  of  yours  and  pUe 
m  into  a  two-pair  back-with  kids  perhaps,  too. 

George  had  no  children.    Married  a  couple  of 
years;  looked  forward  to  a  kid  or  two  very  much 
Feels  more  upset  than  ever.    Talks  about  an  honest 
man  for  father,  and  so  on.    Cloete  grins:    You  be 
quick  before  they  come,  and  they'U  have  a  rich 

man  for  father,  and  no  one  the  worse  for  it     That's 
the  beauty  of  the  thing. 

"  George  nearly  cries.     I  believe  he  did  cry  at 

odd  times.    This  went  on  for  weeks.    He  couldn't 

quanel  with  Cloete.    Couldn't  pay  off  his  few 

hundreds;  and  besides,  he  was  used  to  have  him 

about.    Weak  fellow.  George.     Cloete  generous 

too.  .  .  .    Don't  think  of  my  litUe  pile,  says  he. 

Of  course  ,t  s  gone  when  we  have  to  shut  up.    But 

I  dont  care,  he  says.  ...    And  then  there  was 

George  .  new  wife.    When  Cloete  dines  there,  the 

beggar  puts  on  a  dress  suit;  little  woman  liked  if 

•  •  •  Mr.  Cloete.  my  husband's  partner;    such  a 

clever  man,  man  of  the  world,  so  amusing! 


194 


THE  PARTNER 


When  he  dines  there  and  they  are  alone:  Oh,  Mr. 
Cloete,  I  wish  George  would  do  something  to  im- 
prove our  prospects.  Our  position  is  really  so 
mediocre.  .  .  .  And  Cloete  smiles,  but  isn't  sur- 
prised, because  he  had  put  all  these  notions  himself 
into  her  empty  head.  .  .  .  What  your  husband 
wants  is  enterprise,  a  little  audacity.    You  can 

encourage  him  best,  Mrs.  Dunbar She  was  a 

silly,  extravagant  little  fool.  Had  made  George 
take  a  house  in  Norwood.  Live  up  to  a  lot  of 
people  better  off  than  themselves.  I  saw  her 
once;  silk  dress,  pretty  boots,  all  feathers  and 
scent,  pink  face.  More  like  the  Promenade  at  the 
Alhambra  than  a  decent  home,  it  looked  to  me. 
But  some  women  do  get  a  devil  of  a  hold  on  a  man." 
"  Yes,  some  do,"  I  assented.  "  Even  when  the 
man  is  the  husband." 

"  My  missis,"  he  addressed  me  unexpectedly, 
in  a  solemn,  surprisingly  hollow  tone,  "  could  wind 
me  round  her  little  finger.  I  didn't  find  it  out  till 
she  was  gone.  Aye.  But  she  was  a  woman  of 
sense,  while  that  piece  of  goods  ought  to  have  been 
walking  the  streets,  and  that's  all  I  can  say.  .  .  . 
You  must  make  her  up  out  of  your  head.  You 
will  know  the  sort." 
"  Leave  all  that  to  me,"  I  said. 
"H'ml"  he  grunted,  doubtfully,  then  going 
back  to  his  scornful  tone:  "  A  month  or  so  after- 


THE  PARTNER 


135 


I 


wards  the  Sagamore  arrives  home.  All  very  jolly 
at  first.  ..  .  Hallo,  George  boy!  Hallo,  Hany, 
old  man!  ...  But  by  and  by  Captain  Harry 
thinks  his  clever  brother  is  not  looking  very  well. 
And  George  begins  to  look  worse.    He  can't  get 

rid  of  Cloete's  notion.     It  has  stuck  in  his  head 

There's  nothing  wrong— quite  well.  .  .  .    Captain 
Harry  still  anxious.    Business  going  all  right,  eh? 
Quite  right.     Lots  of  business.    Good  business. 
...    Of  course  Captain  Harry  believes  that  easily. 
Starts  chaffing  his  brother  in  his  jolly  way  about 
rolling  in  money.    George's  shirt  sticks  to  his  back 
with  perspiration,  and  he  feels  quite  angry  with 
the  captain.  ...    The  fool,  he  says  to  himself. 
Rolling  in  money,  indeed!    And  then  he  thinks 
"iddenly :  Why  not  ? . . .    Because  Cloete's  notion 
*  hold  of  his  mind, 
next  day  he  weakens  and  says  to  Cloete 
.  .  .    Perhaps  it  would  be  best  to  sell.    Couldn't 
you  talk  to  my  brother?  and  Cloete  explains  to 
him  over  again  for  the  twentieth  time  why  selUng 
wouldn't  do,  anyhow.    No!    The  Sagamore  must 
be  tomahawked— as  he  would  caU  it;    to  spare 
George's  feelings,  maybe.    But  every  time  he  says 
the  word,  George  shudders.  . . .     I've  got  a  man  at 
hand  competent  for  the  job  who  wiU  do  the  trick 
for  five  hundred,  and  only  too  pleased  at  the  chance, 
says  Cloete.  .  ,  .    George  shuts  his  eyes  tight  at 


%aF^m,: 


10'     J 


136 


THE  PARTNER 


that  sort  of  talk— but  at  the  same  time  he  thinks: 
Humbug!  There  can  be  no  such  man.  And  yet  if 
there  was  such  a  man  it  would  be  safe  enough — 
perhaps. 

"And  Cloete  alwajrs  funny  about  it.  He 
couldn't  talk  about  anything  without  it  seeming 
there  was  a  great  joke  in  it  somewhere. . . .  Now, 
says  he,  I  know  you  are  a  moral  citizen,  George. 
Morality  is  mostly  funk,  and  I  think  you're  the 
funkiest  man  I  ever  came  across  in  my  travels. 
Why,  you  are  afraid  to  speak  to  your  brother. 
Afraid  to  open  your  mouth  to  him  with  a  fortune 
for  us  all  in  sight.  .  .  .  George  flares  up  at  this: 
no,  he  ain't  afraid;  he  will  speak;  bangs  fist  on  the 

desk.    And  Cloete  pats  him  on  the  back We'll 

be  made  men  presently,  he  says. 

"  But  the  first  time  George  attempts  to  speak 
to  Captain  Harry  his  heart  slides  down  into  his 
boots.  Captain  Harry  only  laughs  at  the  notion 
of  staying  ashore.  He  wants  no  holiday,  not  he. 
But  Jane  thinks  of  remaining  in  England  this  trip. 
Go  about  a  bit  and  see  some  of  her  people.  Jane 
was  the  Captain's  wife;  roimd-faced,  pleasant 
lady.  George  gives  up  that  time;  but  Cloete 
won't  let  him  rest.  So  he  tries  s^ain;  and  the 
Captain  frowns.  He  frowns  because  he's  puzzled. 
He  can't  make  it  out.  He  has  no  notion  of  living 
away  from  his  Sagamore. . . ." 


THE  PARTNER 


l» 


"  Ahl  "  I  cried.    "  Now  I  understand." 

"  No,  you  don't,"  he  growled,  his  black,  con- 
temptuous stare  turning  on  me  crushingly. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  I  murmured. 

"H'ml     Very  well,  then.     Captain  Harry  looks 

very  stem,  and  George  crumples  all  up  inside 

He  sees  through  me,  he  thinks.  ...  Of  course  it 
could  not  be;  but  George,  by  that  time,  was  scared 
at  his  own  shadow.  He  is  shirking  it  with  Cloete, 
too.  Gives  his  partner  to  understand  that  his 
brother  has  half  a  mind  to  try  a  spell  on  shore, 
and  so  on.  Cloete  waits,  gnawing  his  fingers;  so 
anxious.  Cloete  really  had  found  a  man  for  the 
job.  BeUeve  it  or  not,  he  had  found  him  inside 
the  very  boarding-house  he  lodged  in— somewhere 
about  Tottenham  Court  Road.  He  had  noticed 
down-stairs  a  fellow— a  boarder  and  not  a  boarder 
—hanging  about  the  dark  part  of  the  passage 
mostly;  sort  of  '  man  of  the  house,'  a  slinking 
chap.  Black  eyes.  White  face.  The  woman  of 
the  house— a  widow  lady,  she  called  herself— 
very  full  of  Mr.  Stafford;  Mr.  Stafford  this  and  Mr. 
Stafford  that.  .  .  .  Anyhow,  Cloete  one  evening 
takes  him  out  to  have  a  drink.  Cloete  mostly 
passed  away  his  evenings  in  saloon  bars.  No 
drunkard,  though,  Cloete;  for  company;  Uked  to 
talk  to  all  sorts  there;  just  habit;  American 
fashion. 


138 


THE  PARTNER 


"  So  Cloete  takes  that  chap  out  more  than  once. 
Not  very  good  company,  though.  Little  to  say 
for  himself.  Sits  quiet  and  drinks  what's  given 
to  him,  eyes  always  half  closed,  speaks  sort  of 
demure.  ...  I've  had  misfortunes,  he  says.  The 
truth  was  they  had  kicked  him  out  of  a  big  steam- 
ship company  for  disgraceful  conduct;  nothing 
to  afiect  his  certificate,  you  understand;  and  he 
had  gone  down  quite  easily.  Liked  it,  I  expect. 
Anything's  better  than  work.  Lived  on  the  widow 
lady  who  kept  that  boarding-house." 

"That's  almost  incredible,"  I  ventured  to 
interrupt  "  A  man  with  a  master's  certificate, 
do  you  mean?  " 

"  I  do;  I've  known  them  'bus  cads,"  he  growled, 
contemptuously.  "  Yes.  Swing  on  the  tail-board 
by  the  strap  and  yell,  'tuppence  all  the  way.' 
Through  drink.  But  this  Stafiord  was  of  another 
kind.  Hell's  full  of  such  Stafiords;  Cloete  would 
make  fim  of  him,  and  then  there  would  be  a  nasty 
gleam  in  the  fellow's  half-shut  eye.  But  Cloete  was 
generally  Idnd  to  him.  Cloete  was  a  fellow  that 
would  be  kind  to  a  mangy  dog.  Anyhow,  he 
used  to  stand  drinks  to  that  object,  and  now  and 
then  gave  him  half  a  crown — ^because  the  widow 
lady  kept  Mr.  Stafford  short  of  pocket-money. 
They  had  rows  almost  every  day  down  in  the 
basement. . . . 


THE  PARTNER 


139 


"  It  was  the  fellow  being  a  sailor  that  put  into 
Cloete's  mind  the  first  notion  of  doing  away  with 
the  Sagamore.  He  studies  him  a  bit,  thinks  there's 
enough  devil  in  him  yet  to  be  tempted,  and  one 
evening  he  says  to  him  ...  I  suppose  you  wouldn't 
mind  going  to  sea  again,  for  a  spell  ?  . . .  The  other 
never  raises  his  eyes;  says  it's  scarcely  worth  one's 
while  for  the  miserable  salary  one  gets.  . .  .  Well, 
but  what  do  you  say  to  captain's  wages  f'..-  a  time, 
and  a  couple  of  hundred  extra  if  you  are  compelled 
to  come  home  without  the  ship.  Accidents  will 
happen,  says  Cloete.  ...  Oh  I  sure  to,  says  that 
Stafford;  and  goes  on  taking  sips  of  his  drink  as 
if  he  had  no  interest  in  the  matter. 

"  Cloete  presses  him  a  bit;  but  the  other 
observes,  impudent  and  languid  like:  You  see, 
there's  no  future  in  a  thing  Uke  that — ^is  there? 
...  Oh  I  no,  says  Cloete.  Certainly  not.  I  don't 
mean  this  to  have  any  future — as  far  as  you  are 
concerned.  It's  a  '  once  for  all '  transaction. 
Well,  what  do  you  estimate  your  future  at?  he 
asks.  .  .  .  The  fellow  more  listless  than  ever — 
nearly  asleep.  I  believe  the  skunk  was  really  too 
lazy  to  care.  Small  cheating  at  cards,  wheedling 
or  bullying  his  living  out  of  some  woman  or  other, 
was  more  his  style.  Cloete  swears  at  him  in 
whispers  something  awful.  All  this  in  the  saloon 
bar  of  the  Horse  Shoe,  Tottenham  Court  Road. 


140 


THE  PARTNER 


FInaUy  they  agree,  over  the  second  sixpennyworth 
of  Scotch  hot,  on  five  hundred  pounds  as  the  price 
of  tomahawking  the  Sagamore.  And  Cloete  waits 
to  see  what  George  can  do. 

"  A  week  or  two  goes  by.  The  other  feUow  loafs 
about  the  house  as  if  there  had  been  nothing,  and 
Cloete  begins  to  doubt  whether  he  reaL'y  means 
ever  to  tackle  that  job.  But  one  day  he  stops 
Cloete  at  the  door,  with  his  downcast  eyes:  What 
sb-.ut  that  employment  you  wished  to  give  me? 
h>  asks.  .  .  .  You  see,  he  had  played  some  more 
than  usual  dirty  trick  on  the  woman  and  expected 
awful  ructions  presently;  and  to  be  fired  out  for 
sure.  Cloete  very  pleased.  George  had  been  pre- 
varicating to  him  such  a  lot  that  he  really  thought 
the  thing  was  as  well  as  settled.  And  he  says: 
Yes.  It's  time  I  introduced  you  to  my  frien.' 
Just  get  your  hat  and  we  will  go  now. . . . 

"  The  two  come  into  th?;  office,  and  George  at 
his  desk  sits  up  in  a  sudden  panic — staring.  Sees  a 
tallish  fellow,  sort  of  nasty-handsome  face,  heavy 
eyes,  half  shut ;  short  drab  overcoat,  shabby  bowler 
hat,  very  careful-like  in  his  movements.  And  he 
thinks  to  himself.  Is  that  how  such  a  .nan  looks! 
No.  the  thing's  impossible.  .  .  .  Cloete  does  the 
introduction,  and  the  fellow  turns  round  to  look 
behind  him  at  the  chair  before  he  sits  down.  .  .  . 
A  thoroughly  competent  man,  Qoete  goes  on. . .  . 


THE  PARTNER  14J 

The  man  says  nothing,  dts  perfectly  quiet.  And 
George  can't  speak,  throat  too  diy.  Then  he  makes 
an  effort:  H'm!  H'ml  Oh  yes-unfortunately— 
Sony  to  disappoint— my  brother— made  other 
arrangements— going  himself. 

"  The  fellow  gets  up,  never  raising  his  eyes  off 
the  ground,  like  a  modest  girl,  and  goes  out  softly, 
right  out  of  the  office  without  a  sound.  Cloete 
sticks  his  chin  in  his  hand  and  bites  all  his  fingers 
at  once.    George's  heart  slows  down  and  he  speaks 

to  Qoete This  can't  be  done.    How  can  it 

be?  Directly  the  ship  is  lost  Harry  would  see 
through  it.  You  know  he  is  a  man  to  go  to  the 
underwriters  himself  with  his  suspicions.  And 
he  would  break  his  heart  over  me.  How  can  I 
play  that  on  him?    There's  only  two  of  us  in  the 

world  belonging  to  each  other 

"  Ck)ete  lets  out  a  horrid  cuss-word,  jumps  up, 
bolts  away  into  his  room,  and  George  hears  hini 
there  banging  things  around.  After  a  while  he 
goes  to  the  door  and  says  in  a  trembling  voice: 
You  ask  me  for  an  impossibility.  .  .  .  Cloete  in- 
side ready  to  fly  out  like  a  tiger  and  rend  him.  but 
he  opens  the  door  a  little  way  and  says  softly: 
Talking  of  hearts,  yours  is  no  bigger  than  a  mouse's, 
let  me  tell  you But  George  doesn't  care- 
load  off  the  heart,  anyhow.  And  just  then  Captain 
Harry  comes  in HaUo,  George  boy.    I  am 


Z4S 


THE  PARTNER 


a  little  late.  What  about  a  chop  at  the  Cheshire, 
now?  . .  .  Right  you  are,  old  man. .  .  .  And  off 
they  go  to  lunch  together.  Qoete  has  nothing 
to  eat  that  day. 

"  George  feels  a  new  man  for  a  time;  but  all  of 
a  sudden  that  fellow  Stafford  begins  to  hang  about 
the  street,  in  sight  of  the  house  door.  The  first 
time  George  sees  him  he  thinks  he  made  a  mistake. 
But  no;  next  time  he  has  to  go  out,  there  is  the 
very  fellow  skulking  on  the  other  side  of  the  road. 
It  makes  George  nervous;  but  he  must  go  out  on 
business,  and  when  the  fellow  cuts  across  the  road- 
way he  dodges  him.  He  dodges  him  once,  twice, 
three  times;  but  at  last  he  gets  nabbed  in  his  very 

doorway What  do  you  want  ?  he  says,  trying 

to  look  fierce. 

"  It  seems  that  ructions  had  come  in  the  base- 
ment of  that  boarding-house,  and  the  widow  lady 
had  turned  on  him  (being  jealous  mad),  to  the 
extent  of  talking  of  the  police.  That  Mr.  Stafford 
couldn't  stand ;  so  he  cleared  out  like  a  scared  stag, 
and  there  he  was,  chucked  into  the  streets,  so  to 
speak.  Cloete  looked  so  savage  as  he  went  to  and 
fro  that  he  hadn't  the  spunk  to  tackle  him;  but 
George  seemed  a  softer  kind  to  his  eye.  He  would 
have  been  glad  of  half  a  quid,  anything. . . .  I've 
had  misfortunes,  he  says  softly,  in  his  demure  way, 
which  frightens  George  more  than  a  row  would 


THE  PARTNER 


143 


have  done.  .  .  .    Consider  the  severity  of  my  dis- 
appointment, he  says. . . . 
"  George,  instead  of  telling  him  to  go  to  the  devil, 

loses  his  head I  don't  know  you.    What  do 

you  want?  he  cries,  and  bolts  up-stairs  to  Cloete. 
. . .  Look  what's  come  of  it,  he  gasps ;  now  we  are 
at  the  mercy  of  that  horrid  feUow.  .  .  .  Cloete 
tries  to  show  him  that  the  feUow  can  do  nothing; 
but  George  thinks  that  some  sort  of  scandal  may 
be  forced  on,  anyhow.  Says  that  he  can't  live 
with  that  horror  haunting  him.  Cloete  would 
laugh  if  he  weren't  too  weary  of  it  all.    Then  a 

thought  strikes  him  and  he  changes  his  tune 

Well,  perhaps  I  I  will  go  down-stairs  and  send  him 
away  to  begin  with.  ...  He  comes  back.  .  .  . 
He's  gone.  But  perhaps  you  are  right.  The 
fellow's  hard  up,  and  that's  what  makes  people 
desperate.  The  best  thing  would  be  to  get  him 
out  of  the  country  for  a  time.  Look  here,  the  poor 
devil  is  really  in  want  of  employment.  I  won't 
ask  you  much  this  time:  only  to  hold  your  tongue; 
and  I  shall  try  to  get  your  brother  to  take  him  as 
chief  officer.  At  this  George  lays  his  arms  and  his 
head  on  his  desk,  so  that  Cloete  feels  sorry  for  him. 
But  altogether  Qoete  feels  more  cheerful  because  he 
has  shaken  the  ghost  a  bit  into  that  Stafford.  That 
very  afternoon  he  buys  him  a  suit  of  blue  clothes, 
and  tells  him  that  he  will  have  to  turn  to  and  work 


144 


THE  PARTNER 


for  his  living  now.  Go  to  sea  as  mate  of  the  Saga- 
more. The  skunk  wasn't  very  willing,  but  what 
with  having  nothing  to  eat  and  no  place  to  sleep 
in,  and  the  woman  having  frightened  him  with  the 
talk  of  some  prosecution  or  other,  he  had  no  choice, 
in-operly  speaking.    Cloete  takes  care  of  him  for 

a  couple  of  days Our  arrangement  still  stands, 

says  he.  Here's  the  ship  bound  for  Port  Elizabeth ; 
not  a  safe  anchorage  at  all.  Should  she  by  chance 
part  from  her  anchors  in  a  north-east  gale  and  get 
lost  on  the  beach,  as  many  of  them  do,  why,  it's 
five  hundred  in  your  pocket— and  a  quick  return 
home.    You  are  up  to  the  job,  ain't  you  ? 

"  Otu-  Mr.  Stafford  takes  it  all  in  with  downcast 

eyes I  am  a  competent  seaman,  he  says,  with 

his  sly,  modest  air.  A  ship's  chief  mate  has  no 
doubt  many  opportunities  to  manipulate  the  chains 
and  anchors  to  some  purpose.  ...  At  this  Cloete 
thumps  him  on  the  back:  You'll  do,  my  noble 
sailor.    Go  in  and  win.  . .  . 

"Next  thing  George  knows,  his  brother  tells 
him  that  he  had  occasion  to  oblige  his  partner. 
And  glad  of  it,  too.  Likes  the  partner  no  end. 
Took  a  friend  of  his  as  mate.  Man  had  his  troubles, 
been  ashore  a  year  nursing  a  dying  wife,  it  seems. 
Down  on  his  luck.  .  .  .  George  protests  earnestly 
that  he  knows  nothing  of  the  person.  Saw  him 
once.    Not  very  attractive  to  look  at.  .  .  .    And 


mmm 


THE  PARTNER  ^^ 

Captain  Hany  say,  b  his  hearty  way.  That's  so 

but  must  give  the  poor  devil  a  chance 

"  So  Mr.  Stafford  joins  in  dock.    And  it  seems 
that  he  did  manage  to  monkey  with  one  of  the 
cables— keeping  his  mind  on  Port  Elizabeth     The 
riggers  had  all  the  cable  ranged  on  deck  to  clean 
lockers.    The  new  mate  watches  them  go  ashore- 
dmner  hour-and  sends  the  ship-keeper  out  of  the 
ship  to  fetch  him  a  bottle  of  beer.    Then  he  goes 
to  work  whittling  away  the  forelock  of  the  forty- 
five-fathom  shackle-pin.  gives  it  a  tap  or  two  with 
a  hammer  just  to  make  it  loose,  and  of  course  that 
cable  wasn't  safe  any  more.    Riggers  come  back- 
you  know  what  riggers  are:   come  day.  go  day 
axid  God  send  Sunday.    Down  goes  the  chain  into 
the  locker  without  their  foreman  looking  at  the 
shackles  at  aU.    What  does  he  care?    He  ain't 
going  m  the  ship.    And  two  days  later  the  ship 
goes  to  sea "  *^ 

At  this  point  I  was  incautious  enough  to  breathe 
out  another  "  I  see."  which  gave  offence  again 
and  brought  on  me  a  rude  "  No.  you  don't  "-sis 
before.  But  in  the  pause  he  remembered  the  glass 
of  beer  at  his  elbow.  He  drank  half  of  it.  Mdped 
lus  mustaches,  and  remarked  grimly— 

"Don't  you  think  that  there  will  be  any  sea  life 


in  this,  because  there  ain't.    If 


m 


you  re  going  to  put 


any  out  of  your  own  head,  now's  your  chance, 


146 


THE  PARTNER 


I  suppose  you  know  what  ten  days  of  bad  weather 
in  the  Channel  are  like?  I  don't.  Anyway,  ten 
whole  days  go  by.  One  Monday  Cloete  comes  to 
the  office  a  little  late — hears  a  woman's  voice  in 
George's  room  and  looks  in.  Newspapers  on  the 
desk,  on  the  floor;  Captain  Harry's  wife  sitting 
with  red  eyes  and  a  bag  on  the  chair  near  her. . . . 
Look  at  this,  says  George,  in  great  excitement, 
showing  him  a  paper.  Cloete's  heart  gives  a  jump. 
Ha  I  Wreck  in  Westport  Bay.  The  Sagamore  gone 
ashore  early  hours  of  Sunday,  and  so  the  news- 
paper men  had  time  to  put  in  some  of  their  work. 
Columns  of  it.  Lifeboat  out  twice.  Captain  and 
crew  remain  by  the  ship.  Tugs  summoned  to 
assist.  If  the  weather  improves,  this  well-known 
fine  ship  may  yet  be  saved.  .  .  .  You  know  the 
way  these  chaps  put  it.  .  .  .  Mrs.  Harry  there  on 
her  way  to  catch  a  train  from  Cannon  Street  Got 
an  hour  to  wait. 

"  Cloete  takes  George  aside  and  whispers:  Ship 
saved  yet  I  Oh,  damn  I  That  must  never  be; 
you  hear?  B-  ^  George  looks  at  him  dazed,  and 
Mrs.  Harry  keeps  on  sobbing  quietly:  ...  I 
ought  to  have  been  with  him.  But  I  am  going  to 
him.  .  .  .  We  are  all  going  together,  cries  Cloete, 
all  of  a  sudden.  He  rushes  out,  sends  the  woman 
a  cup  of  hot  bovril  from  the  shop  across  the  road, 
buys  a  rug  for  her,  thinks  of  everything ;  and  in  the 


THE  PARTNER  x^ 

train  tucks  her  in  and  keeps  on  talking,  thirteen 
to  the  dozen,  aU  the  way,  to  keep  her  spirits  up, 
as  it  were;   but  reaUy  because  he  can't  hold  his 
peace  for  very  joy.    Here's  the  thing  done  aU  at 
once,  and  nothing  to  pay.    Done.    Actually  done. 
His  head  swims  now  and  again  when  he  thinks  of 
it.    What  enormous  luck!    It  ahnost  frightens 
him.    He  would  Uke  to  yeU  and  sing.    Meantime 
George  Dunbar  sits  in  his  comer,  looking  so  deadly 
miserable  that  at  last  poor  Mrs.  Harry  tries  to 
comfort  him,  and  so  cheers  herself  up  at  the  same 
time  by  talking  about  how  her  Harry  is  a  prudent 
man;  not  Ukely  to  risk  his  crew's  life  or  his  own 
unnecessarily-  -and  so  on. 

"  First  thing  they  hear  at  Westport  station  is 
that  the  Ufe-boat  has  been  out  to  the  ship  again, 
and  has  brought  of!  the  second  officer,  who  had  hurt 
himself,  and  a  few  sailors.  Captain  and  the  rest 
of  the  crew,  about  fifteen  i  all,  are  still  on  board. 
Tugs  expected  to  arrive  .v.  y  moment. 

They  take  Mrs.  Harry  to  the  inn,  nearly  oppo- 
site the  rocks;  she  bolts  straight  up-stairs  tt  look 
out  of  the  window,  and  she  lets  out  a  great  cry  when 
she  sees  the  wreck.  She  won't  rest  till  she  gets  on 
board  to  her  Harry.  Cloete  soothes  her  all  he  can. 
•  ■  .  AU  right;  you  try  to  eat  a  mouthful,  and  we 
will  go  to  make  inquiries. 
"  He  draws  George  out  of  the  room:  Look  here. 


M 


THE  PARTNER 


■he  can't  go  on  board,  but  I  ihall.  I'll  lee  to  it 
that  he  doesn't  stop  in  the  ship  too  long.  Let's 
go  and  find  the  coxswain  of  the  life-boat.  .  .  . 
George  follows  him,  shivering  from  time  to  time. 
The  waves  are  washing  over  the  old  pier;  not  much 
wind,  a  wild,  gloomy  sky  over  the  bay.  In  the 
whole  world  only  one  tug  away  ofi,  heading  to  the 
seas,  tossed  in  and  out  of  sight  every  minute  as 
regular  as  clockwork. 

"  They  meet  the  coxswain  and  he  tells  them: 
Yes  I  He's  going  out  again.  No,  they  ain't  in 
danger  on  board — not  yet.  But  the  ship's  chance 
is  very  poor.  Still,  if  the  wind  doesn't  pipe  up 
again  and  the  sea  goes  down  something  might  be 
tried.  After  some  talk  he  agrees  to  take  Cloete  on 
board;  supposed  to  be  with  an  urgent  message 
from  the  owners  to  the  captain. 

"  Whenever  Cloete  looks  at  the  sky  he  feels 
comforted;  it  looks  so  threatening.  George  Dim- 
bar  follows  him  about  with  a  white  face  and  saying 
nothing.  Cloete  takes  him  to  have  a  drink  or  two, 
and  by  and  by  he  begins  to  pick  up.  .  .  .  That's 
better,  says  Cloete;  dash  me  if  it  wasn't  like  walk- 
ing about  with  a  dead  man  before.  You  ought  to 
be  throwing  up  your  cap,  man.  I  feel  as  if  I  wanted 
to  stand  in  the  street  and  cheer.  Your  brother 
is  safe,  the  ship  is  lost,  and  we  are  made  men. 

"Are  you  certain  she's  lost?  asks  George.    It 


THE  PARTNER 


149 


would  be  an  awful  blow  after  aU  the  agonies  I  have 
gone  through  in  my  mind,  since  you  first  spoke  t 
me,  if  she  were  to  be  got  off— and— and— all  tk. 

temptation  to  begin  over  again For  we  had 

nothing  to  do  with  this;  had  we? 
"Of  course  not.   says  Cloete.    Wasn't  your 

brother  himself  in  charge?    It's  providential 

Oh  I  cries  George,  shocked WeU.  say  it's  the 

devil,  says  Cloete.  cheerfully.  I  don't  mind!  You 
had  nothing  to  do  with  it  any  more  than  a  baby 
unborn,  you  great  softy,  you. . . .  Cloete  has  got 
so  that  he  ahnost  loved  George  Dunbar.  Well. 
Yes.  That  was  so.  I  don't  mean  he  respected 
him.    He  was  just  fond  of  his  partner. 

"  They  go  back,  you  may  say  fairly  skipping,  to 
the  hotel,  and  find  the  wife  of  the  captain  at  the 
open  window,  with  her  eyes  on  the  ship  as  if  she 

wanted  to  fly  across  the  bay  over  there Now 

then.  Mrs.  Dunbar,  cries  Cloete,  you  can't  go,  but 
I  am  going.  Any  messages?  Don't  be  shy. '  I'U 
deliver  every  word  faithfully.  And  if  you  would 
like  to  give  me  a  kiss  for  him,  I'U  deliver  that  too, 
dash  me  if  I  don't. 

"  He  makes  Mrs.  Harry  laugh  with  his  patter. 
Oh,  dear  Mr.  Cloete.  you  are  a  cahn.  reasonable 
man.    Make  him  behave  sensibly.    He's  a  bit 
obstinate,  you  know,  and  he's  so  fond  of  the  ship, 
too.    Tell  him  I  am  here— looking  on Trust 


150 


THE  PARTNER 


me,  Mrs.  Dunbar.  Only  shut  that  window,  that's 
a  good  girl.  You  will  be  sure  to  catch  cold  ii  you 
don't,  and  the  Captain  won't  be  pleased  coming  ofi 
the  wreck  to  find  you  coughing  and  sneezing  so 
that  you  can't  tell  him  how  happy  you  are.  And 
now  if  you  can  get  me  a  bit  of  tape  to  fasten  my 
glasses  on  good  to  my  ears,  I  will  be  going. . . . 

"  How  he  gets  on  board  I  don't  know.  All  wet 
and  shaken  and  excited  and  out  of  breath,  he  does 
get  on  board.  Ship  lying  over,  smothered  in 
sprays,  but  not  moving  very  much;  just  enough 
to  jag  one's  nerve  a  bit.  He  finds  them  all  crowded 
on  the  deck-house  forward,  in  their  shiny  oUskins, 
with  faces  like  sick  men.  Captain  Harry  can't 
believe  his  eyes.  What!  Mr.  Cloetel  What 
are  you  doing  here,  in  God's  name?  .  .  .  Your 
wife's  ashore  there,  looking  on,  gasps  out  Cloete; 
and  after  they  had  talked  a  bit.  Captain  Harry 
thinks  it's  uncommonly  plucky  and  kind  of  his 
brother's  partner  to  come  off  to  him  like  this. 
Man  glad  to  have  somebody  to  talk  to. . . .  It's  a 
bad  business,  Mr.  Cloete,  he  says.  And  Cloete 
rejoices  to  hear  that.  Captain  Harry  thinks  he 
had  done  his  best,  but  the  cable  had  parted  when 
he  tried  to  anchor  her.  It  was  a  great  trial  to  lose 
the  ship.  Well,  he  would  have  to  face  it.  He 
fetches  a  deep  sigh  now  and  then.  Cloete  almost 
sorry  he  had  come  on  board,  because  to  be  on  that 


THE  PARTNER 


151 


wreck  keeps  his  chest  in  a  tight  band  all  'he  time. 
They  crouch  out  of  the  wind  under  the  port  boat, 
a  little  apart  from  the  men.  The  life-boat  had 
gone  away  after  putting  Cloete  on  board,  but  was 
coming  back  next  high  water  to  take  off  the  crew 
if  no  attempt  at  getting  the  ship  afloat  could  be 
made.  Dusk  was  falling;  winter's  day;  black 
sky;  wind  rising.  Captain  Harry  felt  melancholy. 
God's  will  be  done.  If  she  must  be  left  on  the 
rocks— why,  she  must.  A  man  should  take  what 
God  sends  5i„ti  standing  up.  .  .  .  Suddenly  his 
voice  breaks,  and  he  "squeezes  Cloete's  arm:  It 
seems  as  if  I  couldn't  leave  her,  he  whispers. 
Cloete  looks  round  at  the  men  hke  a  lot  of  huddled 
sheep  and  thinks  to  himself:  They  won't  stay.  .  .  . 
Suddenly  the  ship  hfts  a  httle  and  sets  down  with 
a  thump.  Tide  rising.  Everybody  beginning  to 
look  out  for  the  life-boat.  Some  of  the  men  made 
her  out  far  away  and  also  two  more  tugs.  But  the 
gale  has  come  on  again,  and  everybody  knows  that 
no  tug  will  ever  dare  come  near  the  ship. 

"  That's  the  end,  Captain  Harry  sajrs,  very  low. 
.  .  .  Qoete  thinks  he  never  felt  so  cold  in  all  his 
life.  .  .  .    And  I  feel  as  if  I  didn't  care  to  live  on 

just  now,  mutters  Captain  Harry Your  wife's 

ashore,  looking  on,  says  Qoete.  .  .  .  Yes.  Yes. 
It  must  be  awful  for  her  to  look  at  the  poor  old 
ship  lying  here  done  for.    Why,  that's  our  home. 


15a 


THE  PARTNER 


"  Qoete  thinks  that  as  long  as  the  Sagamore's 
done  for  he  doesn't  care,  and  only  wishes  himself 
somewhere  else.  The  sUghtest  movement  of  the 
ship  cuts  his  breath  like  a  blow.  And  he  feels 
excited  by  the  danger,  too.    The  captain  takes 

him  aside The  life-boat  can't  come  near  us 

for  more  than  an  hour.    Look  here,  Cloete,  since 
you  are  here,  and  such  a  plucky  one— do  something 

for  me He  teUs  him  then  that  down  in  his 

cabin  aft  in  a  certain  drawer  there  is  a  bundle  of 
important  papers  and  some  sixty  sovereigns  in  a 
small  canvas  bag.    Asks  Cloete  to  go  and  get  these 
things  out.    He  hasn't  been  below  since  the  ship 
struck,  and  it  seems  to  him  that  if  he  were  to  take 
his  eyes  off  her  she  would  fall  to  pieces.    And  then 
the  men— a  scared  lot  by  this  time— if  he  were  to 
leave  them  by  themselves  they  would  attempt  to 
launch  one  of  the  ship's  boats  in  a  panic  at  some 
heavier  thump— and  then  some  of  them  bound  to 
get  drowned.  .  .  .    There  are  two  or  three  boxes 
of  matches  about  my  shelves  in  my  cabin  if  you 
want  a  light,  says  Captain  Harry.    Only  wipe 
your  wet  hands  before  you  begin  to  feel  for  them. . . . 
"  Qoete  doesn't  like  the  job,  but  doesn't  like  to 
show  funk,  either— and  he  goes.    Lots  of  water 
on  the  main-deck,  and  he  splashes  along;  it  was 
getting  dark,  too.    All  at  once,  by  the  mainmast, 
somebody  catches  him  by  the  arm.    Stafford. 


THE  PARTNER  153 

He  wasn't  thinking  of  Stafford  at  aU.  Captain 
Hany  had  said  something  as  to  the  mate  not  being 
quite  satisfactory,  but  it  wasn't  much.  Cloete 
doesn't  recognise  him  in  his  oilskins  at  first  He 
sees  a  white  face  with  big  eyes  peering  at  him. . . 
Are  you  pleased,  Mr.  Cloete  .  .  .  ? 

"Cloete  is  moved  to  laugh  at  the  whine,  and 
shakes  him  off.  But  the  fellow  scrambles  on  after 
hmi  on  the  poop  and  follows  him  down  into  the 
cabin  of  that  wrecked  ship.  And  there  they  are 
the  two  of  them;  can  hardly  see  each  other.  . 
You  don't  mean  to  make  me  beUeve  you  have  had 
anything  to  do  with  this,  says  Cloete. 

"  They  both  shiver,  nearly  out  of  their  wits  with 
the  excitement  of  being  on  board  that  ship.  She 
thumps  and  lurches,  and  they  stagger  together, 
feehng  sick.  Cloete  again  bursts  out  laughing 
at  that  wretched  creature  Stafford  pretending  to 
have  been  up  to  something  so  desperate.  .  Is 
that  how  you  think  you  can  treat  me  now?  yells 

the  other  man  all  of  a  sudden 

"  A  sea  strikes  the  stem,  the  ship  trembles  and 
groans  all  round  them,  there's  the  noise  o:  the  seas 
about  and  overhead,  confusing  Cloete,  and  he 
hears  the  other  screaming  as  if  crazy.  Ah 

you  don't  believe  mel  Go  and  look  at  the  pori 
Cham  Parted?  Eh?  Go  and  see  if  it's  parted. 
Go  and  find  the  broken  link.    You  can't.    There's 


154 


THE  PARTNER 


no  broken  link.  That  means  a  thousand  pounds 
for  me.  No  less.  A  thousand  the  day  after  we 
get  ashore— prompt.  I  won't  wait  till  she  breaks 
up,  Mr.  Cloete.  To  the  underwriters  I  go  if  I've 
to  walk  to  London  on  my  bare  feet.  Port  cablet 
Look  at  her  port  cable,  I  will  say  to  them.  I 
doctored  it — for  the  owners — tempted  by  a  low 
rascal  called  Cloete. 

"  Cloete  does  not  '.mderstand  what  it  means 
exactly.  All  he  sees  is  that  the  fellow  means  to 
make  mischief.  He  sees  trouble  ahead.  ...  Do 
you  think  you  can  scare  me?  he  asks, — you  poor 
miserable  skunk.  .  .  .  And  Stafford  faces  him 
out — both  holding  on  to  the  cabin  table :  No,  damn 
you,  you  s\re  only  a  dirty  vagabond;  but  I  can 
scare  the  other,  the  chap  in  the  black  coat. . . . 

"  Meaning  George  Dunbar.  Cloete's  brain  reels 
at  the  thought.  He  doesn't  imagine  the  fellow 
can  do  any  real  harm,  but  he  knows  what  George 
is;  give  the  show  away;  upset  the  whole  business 
he  had  set  his  heart  on.  He  says  nothing;  he 
hears  the  other,  what  with  the  funk  and  strain  and 
excitement,  panting  like  a  dog — and  then  a  snarl. 
...  A  thousand  down,  twenty-four  hours  after 
we  get  ashore;  day  after  to-morrow.  That's  my 
last  word,  Mr.  Cloete.  ...  A  thousand  pounds, 
day  after  to-morrow,  says  Cloete.  Oh  yes.  And 
to-day  take  this,  you  dirty  cur.  ...    He  hits 


THE  PARTNER 


155 


straight  from  the  shoulder  in  sheer  rage,  nothing 
else.    Stafford  goes  away  spinnmg  along  the  bulk- 
head.    Seeing  this,  Cloete  steps  out  and  lands  him 
another  one  somewhere  about  the  jaw.    The  fellow 
staggers  backward  right  into  the  captain's  cabin 
through  the  open  door.    Cloete,  foUowing  him  up. 
hears  him  fall  down  heavily  and  roU  to  leeward, 
then  slams  the  door  to  and  turns  the  key. 
There!  says  he  to  himself,  that  will  stop  you  from 
making  trouble." 
"  By  Jove  I  "  I  murmured. 
The  old  feUow  departed  from  his  impressive 
immobihty  to  turn  his  rakishly  hatted  head  and 
look  at  me  with  his  old,  black,  lack-lustre  eyes. 

"  He  did  leave  him  there,"  he  uttered,  weightily, 
returning  to  the  contemplation  of  the  wall.  "  Cloete 
didn't  mean  to  allow  anybody,  let  alone  a  thing 
hke  Stafford,  to  stand  in  the  way  of  his  great 
notion  of  making  George  and  himself,  and  Captain 
Hany,  too,  for  that  matter,  rich  men.    And  he 
didn't  think  much  of  consequences.    These  patent- 
medicine  chaps  don't  care  what  they  say  or  what 
they  do.    They  think  the  world's  bound  to  swallow 
any  story  they  like  to  tell.    ..    He  stands  hstening 
for  a  bit.    And  it  gives  him  quite  a  turn  to  hear 
a  thump  at  the  door  and  a  sort  of  muffled  raving 
screech  inside  the  captain's  room.    He  thinks  he 
hears  his  own  name,  too,  through  the  awful  crash 


ifam^^-M-m' 


156 


THE  PARTNER 


as  the  old  Sagamore  rises  and  falls  to  a  sea.  That 
noise  and  that  awful  shock  make  him  clear  out  of 
the  cabin.  He  collects  his  senses  on  the  poop. 
But  his  heart  sinks  a  little  at  the  black  wildness 
of  the  night.  Chances  that  he  will  get  drowned 
himself  before  long.  Puts  his  head  down  the 
companion.  Through  the  wind  and  breaking  seas 
he  can  hear  the  noise  of  Stafford's  beating  against 
the  door  and  cursing.  He  Ustens  and  says  to  him- 
self: No.    Can't  trust  him  now. . . . 

"  When  he  gets  back  to  the  top  of  the  deck-house 
he  says  to  Captain  Harry,  who  asks  him  if  he  got 
the  things,  that  he  is  very  sorry.  There  was  some- 
thing wrong  with  the  door.  Couldn't  open  it. 
And  to  tell  you  the  truth,  says  he,  I  didn't  hke  to 
stop  any  longer  in  that  cabin.    There  are  noises 

there  as  if  the  ship  were  going  to  pieces Captain 

Harry  thinks:  Nervous;  can't  be  anjrthing  wrong 
with  the  door.  But  he  says:  Thanks — ^nevermind, 
never  mind.  ...  All  hands  looking  out  now  for  the 
life-boat.  Everybody  thinking  of  himself  rather. 
Cloete  asks  himself,  will  they  miss  him?  But  the 
fact  is  that  Mr.  Stafford  had  made  such  poor  show 
at  sea  that  after  the  ship  struck  nobody  ever  paid 
any  attention  to  him.  Nobody  cared  what  he  did 
or  where  he  was.  Pitch  dark,  too — ^no  counting  of 
heads.  The  light  of  the  tug  with  the  Ufe-boat  in  tow 
is  seen  making  for  the  ship,  and  Captain  Harry 


*     —  .:»■ 


THE  PARTNER 


W 


asks:  Are  we  aU  there?  .  .  .  Somebody  answers- 
AU  here,  sir....  Stand  by  to  leave  the  ship,  then 
says  Captain  Harry;  and  two  of  you  help  the 
gentleman  over  first.  ..  .  Aye,  aye.  sir.  .  .  . 
Cloete  was  moved  to  ask  Captain  Hany  to  let 
him  stay  tiU  last,  but  the  Ufe-boat  drops  on  a 
grapnel  abreast  the  fore-rigging,  two  chaps  lay 
hold  of  him,  watch  their  chance,  and  drop  hun 
into  her,  all  safe. 

"  He's  nearly  exhausted;  not  used  to  that  sort 
of  thing,  you  see.    He  sits  in  the  stem-sheets  with 
his  eyes  shut.    Don't  want  to  look  at  the  white 
water  boiling  all  around.    The  men  drop  into  the 
boat  one  after  another.    Then  he  hears  Captain 
Harry's  voice  shouting  in  the  wind  to  the  cox- 
swain, to  hold  on  a  moment,  and  some  other  words 
he  can't  catch,  and  the  coxswain  yelling  back- 
Don't  be  long,  sir.  .  .  .    What  is  it?  Cloete  asks 
feeUng  faint.  .  .  .    Something  about  the  ship's 
papers,  says  the  coxswain,   very  anxious.    It's 
no  time  to  be  fooling  about  alongside,  you  under- 
stand.   They  haul  the  boat  off  a  little  and  wait. 
The  water  flies  over  her  in  sheets.    Cloete's  senses 
ahnost  leave  him.    He  thinks  of  nothing.    He's 
numb  all  over,  till  there's  a  shout:  Here  he  is! .  . . 
They  see  a  figure  in  the  fore-rigging  waiting-they 
slack  away  on  the  grapnel-Une  and  get  him  in  the 
boat  quite  easy.    There  is  a  little  shouting-it's 


.     -        -V    '.!■. 


Mi.(K"ii  a'  -  ^•'  j&s-^-  ■ 


X58 


THE  PARTNER 


all  mixed  up  with  the  noise  of  the  sea.  Goete 
fancies  that  Stafford's  voice  is  talking  away  quite 
close  to  his  ear.  There's  a  lull  in  the  wind,  and 
Stafford's  voice  seems  to  be  speaking  very  fast  to 
the  coxswain;  he  tells  him  that  of  course  he  was 
near  his  skipper,  was  all  the  time  near  him,  till  the 
old  man  said  at  the  last  moment  that  he  must  go 
and  get  the  ship's  papers  from  aft;  would  insist 
on  going  himself;  told  him,  Stafford,  to  get  into 
the  life-boat.  ...  He  had  meant  to  wait  for  his 
skipper,  only  there  came  this  smooth  of  the  seas, 
and  he  thought  he  would  take  his  chance  at  once. 

"  Cloete  opens  his  eyes.  Yes.  There's  Stafford 
sitting  close  by  him  in  that  crowded  life-boat. 
The  coxswain  stoops  over  Cloete  and  cries:  Did 
you  hear  what  the  mate  said,  sir?  .  .  .  Cloete's 
face  feels  as  if  it  were  set  in  plaster,  Ups  and  all. 
Yes,  I  did,  he  forces  himself  to  answer.  The  cox- 
swain waits  a  moment,  then  says:  I  don't  like  it. 
. . .  And  he  turns  to  the  mate,  telling  him  it  was 
a  pity  he  did  not  try  to  run  along  the  deck  and 
hurry  up  the  captain  when  the  lull  came.  Stafford 
answers  at  once  that  he  did  think  of  it,  only  he  was 
afraid  of  missL.g  him  on  the  deck  in  the  dark. 
For,  says  he,  the  captain  might  have  got  over  at 
once,  thinking  I  was  already  in  the  life-boat,  and 
you  would  have  hauled  off  perhaps,  leaving  me 
behind. .  .  .    True  enough,  says  the  coxswain.    A 


THE  PARTNER  ijg 

minute  or  so  passes.  This  won't  do,  mutters  tlie 
coxswain.  Suddenly  Stafford  spealcs  up  in  a  sort 
of  hoUow  voice:  I  was  by  wlien  he  told  Mr.  Cloete 
here  that  he  didn't  know  how  he  would  ever  have 
the  courage  to  leave  the  old  ship;  didn't  he.  now? 
. . .  And  Cloete  feels  his  arm  being  gripped  quietly 
in  the  dark....  Didn't  he  now?  We  were  stand- 
ing together  just  before  you  went  over,  Mr 
Cloete? .  .  . 

"  Just  then  the  coxswain  cries  out:   I'm  going 

on  board  to  see Cloete  tears  his  arm  away: 

I  am  going  with  you. .  . . 

"When  they  get  aboard,  the  coxswain  teUs 
Cloete  to  go  aft  along  one  side  of  the  ship  and  he 
would  go  along  the  other  so  as  not  to  miss  the 
captain.  .  .  .    And  feel  about  with  your  hands, 
too.  says  he;  he  might  have  faUen  and  be  lying 
insensible  somewhere  on  the  deck.  .  .  .    When 
Cloete  gets  at  last  to  the  cabin  companion  on  the 
poop  the  coxswain  U  ah^dy  there,  peering  down 
and  sniffing.    I  detect  a  smell  of  smoke  down  there, 
says  he.    And  he  yeUs:   Are  you  ...ere,  sir?  .  .  .' 
This  is  not  a  case  for  shouting,  says  Cloete,  feeling 
his  heart  go  stony,  as  it  were.  .  . .    Down  they  go. 
Pitch  dark;  the  inclination  so  sharp  that  the  cox- 
swain, groping  his  way  into  the  captain's  room, 
sKps  and  goes  tumbUng  down.    Cloete  hears  him' 
cry  out  as  though  he  had  hurt  himself,  and  asks 


i6o 


THE  PARTNER 


what's  the  matter.  And  the  coxswain  answers 
quietly  that  he  had  fallen  on  the  captain,  lying 
there  insensible.  Goete  without  a  word  begins  to 
grope  all  over  the  shelves  for  a  box  of  matches, 
finds  one,  and  strikes  a  light.  He  sees  the  cox- 
swain in  his  cork  jacket  kneeling  over  Captain 
Hairy.  .  . .  Blood,  says  the  coxswain,  looking  up, 
and  the  match  goes  out.  .  .  . 

"  Wait  a  bit,  says  Cloete;  I'll  make  paper  spills. 
...  He  had  felt  the  back  oi  books  on  the  shelves. 
And  so  he  stands  lighting  one  spill  from  another 
while  the  coxswain  turns  poor  Captain  Harry  over. 
Dead,  he  says.  Shot  through  the  heart.  Here's 
the  revolver.  ...  He  hands  it  up  to  Cloete,  who 
looks  at  it  before  putting  it  in  his  pocket,  and  sees 
a  plate  on  the  butt  with  H.  Dunbar  on  it. . . .  His 
own,  he  mutters. . . .  Whose  else  revolver  did  you 
expect  to  find?  snaps  the  coxswain.  And  look, 
he  took  ofi  his  long  oilskin  in  the  cabin  before  he 
went  in.  But  what's  this  lot  of  burnt  paper?  What 
could  he  want  to  bum  the  ship's  papers  for?  . . . 

"  Cloete  sees  all  the  httle  drawers  drawn  out, 
and  asks  the  coxswain  to  look  well  into  them. . . . 
There's  nothing,  says  the  man.  Cleaned  out. 
Seems  to  have  pulled  out  all  he  could  lay  his  hands 
on  and  set  fire  to  the  lot.  Mad— that's  what  it  i»— 
went  mad.  And  now  he's  dead.  You'll  have  to 
break  it  to  his  wife. . . . 


THE  PARTNER  ^l 

"I  feel  as  if  I  were  going  mad  myself,  says  Cloete 
suddenly,  and  the  coxswain  begs  him  for  God's  sake 
o  puUhm,sel£  together,  and  drags  him  away  from 
the  cabm.  They  had  to  leave  the  body,  and  as 
It  was  they  were  just  in  time  before  a  furious 
«iuall  came  on.  Cloete  is  dragged  into  the  life- 
boat and  the  coxrwain  tumbles  in.    Haul  away 

hLl^S  ^^""'  *"  '''°"*''  '^"  "^P*^"  ^''^  '^°' 
•'  Cloete  was  like  a  dead  man-^idn't  care  for 
anything.  He  let  that  Stafford  pinch  his  arm 
twice  without  making  a  sign.  Most  of  Westport 
«^  on  the  old  pier  to  see  the  men  out  of  the  life- 
boat, and  at  first  there  was  a  sort  of  confused 
cheery  uproar  when  she  came  alongside;  but  after 
the  coxswain  has  shouted  something  the  voices 

ta^;.T      IT'^'"'''"^'''^''-    As  soon 
as  Cloete  has  set  foot  on  something  firm  he  becomes 

hmself  again.    The  coxswain  shakes  hands  with 
tarn:    Poor  woman,  poor  woman,  I'd  rather  you 

had  the  job  than  I ' 

"Where's  the  mate?  "  asks  Cloete.  He's  the 
last  man  who  spoke  to  the  master. . . .  Somebody 
ran  along-the  crew  were  being  taken  to  the 
Mission  Hall,  where  there  was  a  fire  and  shake! 
downs  ready  for  them-somebody  ran  along  the 
pier  and  caught  up  with  Stafford.  ...  Here! 
The  owner's  agent  wants  you.  .  .  .    Cloete  tucks 


z6a 


THE  PARTNER 


the  fellow's  aim  under  his  own  and  walks  away 
with  him  to  the  left,  where  the  fishing-harbour 
is.  .  .  .  I  suppose  I  haven't  misunderstood  you. 
You  wish  me  to  look  after  you  a  bit,  says  he.  The 
other  hangs  on  him  rather  limp,  but  gives  a  nasty 
little  laugh:  You  had  better,  he  mumbles;  but 
mind,  no  tricks;  no  tricks,  Mr.  Cloete;  we  are  on 
land  now. 

"  There's  a  police  office  within  fifty  yards  from 
here,  says  Cloete.  He  turns  into  a  little  public 
house,  pushes  Stafford  along  the  passage.  The 
landlord  runs  out  of  the  bar.  . . .  This  is  the  mate 
of  the  ship  on  the  rocks,  Cloete  explains;  I  wish 
you  would  take  care  of  him  a  bit  to-night.  .  .  . 
What's  the  matter  with  him?  asks  the  man. 
Stafford  leans  against  the  wall  in  the  passage, 
looking  ghastly.  And  Cloete  says  it's  nothing — 
done  up,  of  course.  ...  I  will  be  responsible  for 
the  expense;  I  am  the  owner's  agent.  I'll  be 
round  in  an  hour  or  two  to  see  him. 

"  And  Cloete  gets  back  to  the  hotel.  The  news 
had  travelled  there  already,  and  the  first  thing  he 
sees  is  George  outside  the  door  as  white  as  a  sheet 
waiting  for  him.  Cloete  just  gives  him  a  nod  and 
they  go  in.  Mrs.  Harry  stands  at  the  head  of  the 
stairs,  and,  when  she  sees  only  these  two  coming 
up,  flings  her  arms  above  her  head  and  runs  into 
her  room.    Nobody  had  dared  tell  her,  but  not 


.an./tjwj«» 


'^'V.  afWt 


1  A*  °  k  ^ 


THE  PARTNER 


«63 


■ecing  her  husband  was  enough.    Cloete  hears  an 

"^^l!;-    <^°  »«"'«'' he  says  to  George. 

While  he  s  alone  in  the  private  parlour  Cloete 
dnnks  a  glass  of  brandy  and  thinks  it  all  out 
Then  George  comes  in.  .  .  .     |.,e  landlady's  with 
her.  he  says.    And  he  begins  tn  Wulk  uv  anr'  down 
the  room,  flinging  his  arms  about  and  talk.n^'  dis- 
connected like,  his  fac.  :.(   hard  a.  Clo  to  has 
never  seen  it  before. . .      What  rnua  Ho  must  be 
Dead-^nly   brother.    Weil,    ,lea.]-his   troubles 
over.    But  we  are  living,  he  says  ^.  CIo<  te    and  I 
suppose,  says  he,  glaring  at  him  v.  ith  liot,  dry  eyes 
that  you  won't  forget  to  wire  in  the  morning  to 
your  friend  that  we  are  coming  in  for  certain. . 

"Meaning  the  patent-medicine  fellow 
Death  is  death  and  business  is  business.  George 
goes  on;  and  !ook-my  hands  are  clean,  he  says 
showmg  them  to  Cloete.  Cloete  thinks-  He's 
gomg  crazy.  He  catches  hold  of  him  by  the 
shoulders  and  begins  to  shake  him:  Damn  you- 
if  you  had  had  the  sense  to  know  what  to  say  to 
your  brother,  if  you  had  had  the  spmik  to  speak 
to  bm  at  aU,  you  moral  creature  you.  he  would  be 
ahve  now,  he  shouts. 

"At  this  George  stares,  then  bt  rsis  r.  wiping 
with  a  great  bellow.  He  throw.  hi.a«.lf  on  the 
couch,  buries  his  face  in  a  cushion,  i-. ;  icwis  like 
a  tod.  .  .  .    That's  better,  thinks  Cloeie,  and  he 


■  if-^^m  "^B 


164 


THE  PARTNER 


leaves  him,  telling  the  landlord  that  he  must  go 
out,  as  he  has  some  little  business  to  attend  to 
that  night.  The  landlord's  wife,  weeping  herself, 
catches  him  on  the  stairs;  Oh,  sir,  that  poor  lady 
will  go  out  of  her  mind.  .  .  . 

"  Cloete  shakes  her  off,  thinking  to  himself: 
Oh  no!  She  won't.  She  will  get  over  it.  Nobody 
will  go  mad  about  this  affair  unless  I  do.  It  isn't 
sorrow  that  makes  people  go  mad,  but  worry. 

"  There  Cloete  was  wrong.  What  affected  Mrs. 
Harry  was  that  her  husband  should  take  his  own 
life,  with  her,  as  it  were,  looking  on.  She  brooded 
over  it  so  that  in  less  than  a  year  they  had  to  put 
her  into  a  Home.  She  was  very,  very  quiet;  just 
gentle  melancholy.  She  Uved  for  ^oite  a  long 
time. 

"  Well,  Cloete  splashes  along  in  the  wind  and 
rain.  Nobody  in  the  streets — all  the  excitement 
over.  The  publican  runs  out  to  meet  him  in  the 
passage  and  says  to  him :  Not  this  way.  He  isn't 
in  his  room.  We  couldn't  get  him  to  go  to  bed 
nohow.  He's  in  the  little  parlour  there.  We've 
lighted  him  a  fire.  .  .  .  You  have  been  giving  him 
drinks  too,  says  Cloete;  I  never  said  I  would  be 
responsible  for  drinks.  How  many?  .  .  .  Two, 
says  the  other.  It's  all  right.  I  don't  mind  doing 
that  much  for  a  shipwrecked  sailor.  .  .  .  Cloete 
smiles  his  funny  smile:    Eh?    Come.    He  paid 


THE  PARTNER 


165 


for  them. ...  The  publican  just  Winks. .. .  Gave 
you  gold,  didn't  he  ?  Speak  up ! . . .  What  of  that  • 
cnes  the  man.  What  are  you  after,  anyway? 
He  had  the  right  change  for  his  sovereign. 

"Just  so,  says  Cloete.  He  walks  into  the 
parlour,  and  there  he  sees  our  Stafford;  hair  all 
up  on  end,  landlord's  shirt  and  pants  on,  bare  feet 
m  slippers,  sitting  by  the  fire.  When  he  sees 
Cloete  he  casts  his  eyes  down. 

"  You  didn't  mean  us  ever  to  meet  again,  Mr. 
Cloete,  Staiford  says,  demurely.  .  .  .  That  fellow 
when  he  had  the  drink  he  wanted— he  wasn't  -1 
drunkard-wouJd  put  on  this  sort  of  sly,  modest 

air But  since  the  captain  committed  suicide 

he  says,  I  have  been  sitting  here  thinking  it  out.' 
All  sorts  of  things  happen.  Conspiracy  to  lose 
the  ship— attempted  murder— and  this  suicide 
For  If  it  was  not  suicide,  Mr.  Cloete,  then  I  know  of 
a  victmi  of  the  most  cruel,  cold-blooded  attempt 
at  murder;  somebody  who  has  suffered  a  thousand 
deaths.  And  that  makes  the  thousand  pounds  of 
which  we  spoke  once  a  quite  insignificant  sum. 
Look  how  very  convenient  this  suicide  is.  .  . 

"  He  looks  up  at  Cloete  then,  who  smUes  at  him 
and  comes  quite  close  to  the  table. 

"  You  killed  Harry  Dunbar,  he  whispers 
The  fellow  glares  at  him  and  shows  his  teeth-  Of 
course  I  didl    I  had  been  in  that  cabin  for  an  hour 


fn 


i66 


THE  PARTNER 


and  a  half  like  a  rat  in  a  trap.  .  .  .  Shut  up  and 
left  to  dro'vn  in  that  wreck.  Let  flesh  and  blood 
judge.  Of  course  I  shot  him!  I  thought  it  was 
you,  you  mvirdering  scoundrel,  come  back  to  settle 
me.  He  opens  the  door  flying  and  tumbles  right 
down  upoii  me;  I  had  a  revolver  in  my  hand,  and 
I  shot  him.  I  was  crazy.  Men  have  gone  crazy 
for  less. 

"  Cloete  looks  at  him  without  flinching.  Aha! 
That's  your  story,  is  it?  .  .  .  And  he  shakes  the 
table  a  Uttle  in  his  passion  as  he  speaks. . . .  Now 
Usten  to  mine.  What's  this  conspiracy?  Who's 
going  to  prove  it?  You  were  there  to  rob.  You 
were  rifling  his  cabin ;  he  came  upon  you  unawares 
with  your  hands  in  the  drawer;  and  you  shot  him 
with  his  own  revolver.  You  killed  to  steal — to 
steal!  His  brother  and  the  clerks  in  the  office 
know  that  he  took  sixty  pounds  with  him  to  sea. 
Sixty  pounds  in  gold  in  a  canvas  bag.  He  told  me 
where  they  were.  The  coxswain  of  the  Ufe-boat 
can  swear  to  it  that  the  drawers  were  all  empty. 
And  you  are  such  a  fool  that  before  you're  half  an 
hour  ashore  you  change  a  sovereign  to  pay  for  a 
drink.  Listen  to  me.  If  you  don't  turn  up  day 
after  to-morrow  at  George  Dunbar's  solicitors,  to 
make  the  proper  deposition  as  to  the  loss  of  the 
ship,  I  shall  set  the  police  on  your  track.  Day 
after  to-morrow.  .  .  . 


I 


r-.*;,:  ^'^:' 


fk. 


THE  PARTNER 


167 


"  And  then  wb.  do  you  think?  That  Stafford 
begins  to  tear  his  hair.  Just  so.  Tugs  at  it  with 
both  hands  without  saying  anything.  Cloete  gives 
a  push  to  the  table  which  nearly  sends  the  fellow 
off  his  chair,  tumbhng  inside  the  fender;  so  that 
he  has  got  to  catch  hold  of  it  to  save  himself 

"  You  know  the  sort  of  man  I  am,  Cloete  says, 
fiercely.  I've  got  to  a  point  that  I  don't  care 
what  happens  to  me.  I  would  shoot  you  now 
for  tuppence. 

"  At  this  the  cur  dodges  under  the  table.    Then 
•Cloete  goes  out,  and  as  he  turns  in  the  street— you 
;.!.» V  little  fishermen's  cottages,  all  dark;  raining 
j^  ;n  to  :^nts,  too— the  other  opens  the  window  of 

•  i<    pa>-   ur  and  speaks  in  a  sort  of  crying  voice — 

'  '  •■    ow  Yankee  fiend— I'U  pay  you  off  some 

A -»e  passes  by  with  a  damn  bitter  laugh, 
I ..  -ise  he  thinks  that  the  fellow  in  a  way  has  paid 
iii  a  off  already,  if  he  only  knew  it." 

My  impressive  ruffian  drank  what  remained  of 
his  beer,  while  his  black,  sunken  eyes  looked  at  me 
over  the  rim. 

"  I  don't  quite  understand  this,"  I  laid.  "  In 
what  way?  " 

He  unbent  a  little  and  explained  without  too 
much  scorn  that  Captain  Harry  being  dead,  his 


i68 


THE  PARTNER 


half  of  the  insurance  money  went  to  his  wife,  and 
her  trustees  of  course  bought  consols  with  it. 
Enough  to  keep  her  comfortable.  George  Dun- 
bar's half,  a.  oloete  feared  from  the  first,  did  not 
prove  sufficient  to  launch  the  medicine  well;  other 
moneyed  men  stepped  in,  and  these  two  had  to 
go  out  of  that  business,  pretty  nearly  shorn  of 
everytliing. 

"  I  am  curious,"  I  said,  "  to  learn  what  the  motive 
force  of  this  tragic  affair  was-I  mean  the  patent 
medicine.     Do  you  know?" 

He  named  it,  and  I  whistled  respectfully.  Noth- 
ing less  than  Parker's  Lively  Lumbago  Pills. 
Enormous  property!  You  know  it;  all  the  world 
knows  it.  Every  second  man,  at  least,  on  this 
globe  of  ours  has  tried  it. 

"  Why!  "  I  cried,  "  they  missed  an  immense 
fortune." 

"  Yes,"  he  mumbled,  "  by  the  price  of  a  revolver- 
shot." 

He  told  me  also  that  eventually  Cloete  returned 
to  the  States,  passenger  in  a  cargo-boat  from  Albert 
Dock.  The  night  before  he  sailed  he  met  him 
wandering  about  the  quays,  and  took  him  home 
for  a  drink.  '  Funsy  chap,  Cloete.  We  sat  all 
night  drinking  grogs,  till  it  was  time  for  him  to  go 
on  board." 

It  was  then  that  Cloete.  unembittered  but  weary. 


I 

I 


THE  PARTNER  ^9 

told  him  this  story,  with  that  utterly  unconscious 
franlmess  of  a  patent-medicine  man  stranger  to  all 
moral  standards.  Cloete  concluded  by  remarking 
that  he  had  "  had  enough  of  the  old  country  " 
George  Dunbar  had  turned  on  him,  too,  in  the  end. 
Cloete  was  clearly  somewhat  disillusioned 

As  to  Stafford,  he  died,  professed  loafer,  in  some 
tast  End  hospital  or  other,  and  on  his  last  day 

womed  hmi  for  kilhng  an  imiocent  man.  "  Wanted 
jebody  to  tell  him  it  was  all  right,"  growled  my 
^d  ruffian,  contemptuously.  "  He  told  the  parson 
that  I  knew  this  Cloete  who  had  tried  to  murder 
him,  and  so  the  parson  (he  worked  among  the  dock 
k  Wrs)  once  spoke  to  me  about  it.  That  skunk 
of  a  feUow  finding  himself  trapped  yelled  for  mercy. 
•••    ^romisedtobegoodandsoon.  ..      Then  he 

^f^u   '.  •  '"'^"'^  ^""^  *^^^  '^^W  about, 
beat  his  head  against  the  bulkheads  ...  you  can 
gue«s  aU  that-.h?  ...  till  he  was  exhrust^ 
Gave  up.    Threw  himself  down,   shut  his  ets 
and  wanted  to  pray.    So  he  says.     Tried  to  tS 

temfi  H  "T"  '"'  ^  '1"^'=''  ^^^th-he  was  that 
temfied.    Thought  that  if  he  had  a  knife  or  some 

Then  he  thmks:   No!  Would  try  to  cut  awav  the 
wood  about  the  lock  v   /  '" ''"^  **ay  the 

pocket  „'°*=^-    •    He  had  no  knife  in  his 

I^et.  ...    He  was  weeping  and  calling  on  God 


170 


THE  PARTNER 


to  send  him  a  tool  of  some  kind  when  suddenly 
he  thinks:  Axel  In  most  ships  there  is  a  spare 
emergency  axe  kept  in  the  master's  room  in  some 
iocker  or  other.  ...  Up  he  jumps.  .  .  .  Pitch 
dark.  Pulls  at  the  drawers  to  find  matches  and, 
groping  for  them,  the  first  thing  he  comes  upon— 
Captain  Harry's  revolver.  Loaded  too.  He  goes 
perfectly  quiet  all  over.  Can  shoot  the  lock  to 
pieces.  See?  Saved!  God's  providence  1  There 
are  boxes  of  matches  too.  Thinks  he:  I  may 
just  as  well  see  what  I  am  about. 

"  Strikes  a  light  and  sees  the  little  canvas  bag 
tucked  away  at  the  back  of  the  drawer.  Knew 
at  once  what  that  was.  Rams  it  into  his  pocket 
quick.  Aha!  says  he  to  himself:  this  requires 
more  light.  So  he  pitches  a  lot  of  paper  on  the 
floor,  set  fire  to  it,  and  starts  in  a  hurry  rummaging 
for  more  valuables.  Did  you  ever?  He  told  that 
East-End  parson  that  the  devil  tempted  him. 
First  God's  mercy— then  devil's  work.  Turn  and 
turn  about. . . . 

"  Any  squirming  skunk  can  talk  like  that.  He 
was  so  busy  with  the  drawers  that  the  first  thing 
he  heard  was  a  shout.  Great  Heavens.  He  looks 
up  and  there  was  the  door  open  (Cloete  had  left 
the  key  in  the  lock)  and  Captain  Harry  holding  on, 
well  above  him,  very  fierce  in  the  light  of  the  burn- 
ing papers.    His  eyes  were  starting  out  of  his  head. 


THE  PARTNER  xy. 

Thieving,  he  thunders  at  him.  A  saUorl  An 
officerl  Nol  A  wretch  Uke  you  deserves  no  better 
than  to  be  left  here  to  drown. 

"This  Stafford— on  his  death-bed— told  the  par- 
son that  when  he  heard  these  words  he  went  crazy 
agam.  He  snatched  his  hand  with  the  revolver 
m  It  out  of  the  drawer,  and  fired  without  aiming. 
Captain  Harry  feU  right  in  with  a  crash  like  a 
stone  on  top  of  the  burning  papers,  putting  the 
blaze  out.  AU  dark.  Not  a  sound.  He  listened 
for  a  bit  then  dropped  the  revolver  and  scrambled 
out  on  deck  hke  mad. " 

The  old  fellow  struck  the  table  with  his  ponderous 
fist. 

"  What  makes  me  sick  is  to  hear  these  silly  boat- 
men telling  people  the  captain  committed  suicide. 
Pah  I  Captain  Harry  was  a  man  that  could  face 
his  Maker  any  time  up  there,  and  here  below,  too. 
He  wasn't  the  sort  to  slink  out  of  life.  Not  he  I 
He  was  a  good  man  down  to  the  ground.  He  gave 
me  my  first  job  as  stevedore  only  three  days  after 
I  got  married." 

As  the  vindication  of  Captain  Harry  from  the 
charge  of  suicide  seemed  to  'je  his  only  object  I 
did  not  thank  him  very  effusively  for  his  material. 
And  then  it  was  not  worth  many  thanks  in  any 
case.  ' 

For  it  is  too  startling  even  to  think  of  such 


IfZ 


THE  PARTNER 


thinj/s  happening  in  our  respectable  Channel  in 
full  view,  80  to  speak,  of  the  luxurious  continental 
traffic  to  Switzerland  and  Monte  Carlo.  This  story 
to  be  acceptable  should  have  been  transposed  to 
somewhere  in  th^  South  Seas.  But  it  would  have 
been  too  much  >  :>uble  to  cook  it  for  the  consump- 
tion of  maga;.',c  readers.  So  here  it  is  raw,  so 
to  speak— just  as  it  was  told  to  me— but  un- 
fortunately robbed  of  the  striking  effect  of  the 
narrator;  the  most  imposing  old  ruffian  that  ever 
followed  the  unromantic  trade  of  master  stevedore 
in  the  port  of  London. 

oa.  191U 


,"t.-h.-^"     r 


IHE    INN    OF    THE    TWO 
WITCHES 

A  FIND 

This  tale,  episode.  experience-<aU  it  how  you 

by  a  n,a^  who,  by  his  own  confession,  was  siZ 
yean,  old  at  the  time.    Sixty  is  not  a  J^ 

plated  by  the  majority  of  us  with  mixed  feelings 
It  IS  a  calm  age;  the  game  is  practically  over  by 
^n;  and  standing  aside  one  begins  to  rememb^ 
Zt   certam  vividness  what  a  fine  feUow  one  used 

tio^of  lj^^:\°'^"'^  '^''  by  an  amiable  atten- 
tion of  Providence,  most  people  at  sixty  begin 
to  take  a  romantic  view  of  themselves  iSr 
ve^  faUures  exhale  a  chann  of  peculiar  pot^^ 
And  mdeed  the  hopes  of  the  future  arfa  Z 
company  to  live  with,  exquisite  fonns,  fascinatbg 
'f  you  hke^but-^  to  speak-^aked,  stripped  for 
a  run^   The  robes  of  glamour  are  luciTthe 

'75 


Mioocorr  resolution  tbt  chart 

(ANSI  ond  ISO  TEST  CHART  No.  2) 


APPLIED  IIVHGE    Inc 

IG53  Eoit  Uain  Street 

RochMttr.  New  Yorti        14609       USA 

(716)  482  -0300  -  Phon* 

(716)  258  -  5989  -  fOK 


176  THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES 

I  suppose  it  was  the  romanticism  of  growing  age 
which  set  our  man  to  relate  his  experience  for  his 
otvn  satisfaction  or  for  the  wonder  of  his  posterity. 
It  could  not  have  been  for  his  glory,  because  the 
experience  was  simply  that  of  an  abominable 
fright — terror  he  calls  it.  You  would  have  guessed 
that  the  relation  aUuded  to  in  the  very  first  Unes 
was  in  writing. 

This  writing  constitutes  the  Find  declared  in  the 
sub-title.  The  title  itself  is  my  own  contrivance 
(can't  call  it  invention),  and  has  the  merit  of 
veracity.  We  will  be  concerned  with  an  inn  here. 
As  to  the  witches  that's  merely  a  conventional 
expression,  and  we  must  take  our  man's  word  for 
it  that  it  fits  the  case. 

The  Find  was  made  in  a  box  of  books  bought  in 
London,  in  a  street  which  no  longer  exists,  from  a 
second-hand  bookseller  in  the  last  stage  of  decay. 
As  to  the  books  themselves  they  were  at  least 
twentieth-hand,  and  on  inspection  turned  out  not 
worth  the  very  small  sum  of  money  I  disbursed. 
It  might  have  been  some  premonition  of  that  fact 
which  made  me  say:  "  But  I  must  have  the  box 
too."  The  decayed  bookseller  assented  by  the 
careless,  tragic  gesture  of  a  man  already  doomed 
to  extinction. 

A  litter  of  loose  pages  at  the  bottom  of  the  box 
excited  my  curiosity  but  faintly.    The  close,  neat. 


THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES  177 
regular  handwriting  was  not  attractive  at  first 
sight  But  in  one  place  the  statement  that  in  a  d 
1813  the  writer  was  twenty-two  years  old  caught 
my  eye.  Two  and  twenty  is  an  interesting  age 
m  which  one  is  easily  reckless  and  easily  frightened  • 
the  faculty  of  reflection  being  weak  and  the  power 
of  unagination  strong. 

In  another  place  the  phrase  ."At  night  we  stood 
m  again,"  arrested  my  languid  attention,  because 
It  was  a  sea  phrase.  "  Let's  see  what  it  is  all 
about. '  I  thought,  without  excitement. 

Oh  I  but  it  was  a  dull-faced  MS.,  each  line  re- 
sembling every  other  line  in  their  close-set  and 
regular  order.    It  was  like  the  drone  of  a  mono- 
tonous voice.    A  treatise  on  sugar-refining  (the 
dreanest  subject  I  can  think  of)  could  have  been 
given  a  more  lively  appearance.    "  In  a  d  1813 
I  was  twenty-two  years  old,"  he  begins  earnestly 
and  goes  on  with  every  appearance  of  cabn 
homble  industry.    Don't  imagine,  however,  that 
there  is  anything  archaic  in  my  find.    Diabolic 
ingenuity  in  invention  though  as  old  as  the  world 
IS  by  no  means  a  lost  art.    Look  at  the  telephones 
for  shattering  the  little  peace  of  mind  given  to  us 
m  this  world,  or  at  the  machine  guns  for  letting 
with  dispatch  life  out  of  our  bodies.    Now-a-days 
any  blear-eyed  old  witch  if  only  strong  enough  to 
turn  an  msignificant  little  handle  could  lay  low  a 


w 


178   THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES 

hundred  young  men  of  twenty  in  the  tMonkling  ot 
an  eye. 

If  this  isn't  progress  I .  .  .  Why  inunensel  We 
have  moved  on,  and  so  you  must  expect  to  meet 
here  a  certain  naiveness  of  contrivance  and  sim- 
pUdty  of  aim  appertaining  to  the  remote  epoch. 
And  of  course  no  motoring  tourist  can  hope  to 
find  such  an  inn  anywhere,  now.  This  one,  the 
one  of  the  title,  was  situated  in  Spain.  That  much 
I  discovered  only  from  internal  evidence,  because  a 
good  many  pages  of  that  relation  were  missing — 
perhaps  not  a  great  misfortune  after  all.  The 
writer  seemed  to  have  entered  into  a  most  elaborate 
detail  of  the  why  and  wherefore  of  his  presence 
on  that  coast — presumably  the  north  coast  of 
Spain.  His  experience  has  nothing  to  do  with  the 
sea,  though.  As  far  as  I  can  make  it  out,  he  was 
an  officer  on  board  a  sloop-of-war.  There's 
nothing  strange  in  that.  At  all  stages  of  the  long 
Peninsular  campaign  many  of  om  men-of-war  of 
the  smaller  kind  were  cruising  off  the  north  coast 
of  Spain — as  risky  and  disagreeable  a  station  as 
can  be  well  imagined. 

It  looks  as  though  that  ship  of  his  had  had  some 
special  service  to  perform.  A  careful  explanation 
of  all  the  circumstances  was  to  be  expected  from 
our  man,  only,  as  I've  said,  some  of  his  pages  (good 
tough  paper  too)  were  missing:  gone  in  covers  for 


THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES  179 
jampots  or  in  wadding  for  th.  fowling-pieces  of  his 
m-eve„„t  posterity.  But  it  is  to  be  Ln  cleariy 
that  communication  with  the  shore  and  even  the 
sendmg  of  messengers  inland  was  part  of  her 
-mce  either  to  obtain  intelligence  from  or  to 
taansamt  orders  or  advice  to  patriotic  Spaniards, 
^enlleros  or  secret  juntas  of  the  province  Some^ 
hmgofthe«,rt.  All  this  can  be  only  inferred  from 
the  preserved  scraps  of  his  conscientious  writing. 
Next  we  come  upon  the  panegyric  of  a  very  L 

ratmg  of  the  captam's  coxswain.  He  was  known 
on  board  a.  Cuba  Tom;  not  because  he  was  Cub" 

Bntish  tar  of  that  time,  and  a  man-of-war's  an 
for  years.  He  came  by  the  name  on  accou.  .  of 
^me  wonderful  adventures  he  had  in  that  island 
m  his  yomig  days,  adventures  which  were  the 
favounte  subject  of  the  yarns  he  was  in  the  habit 

?or™ie      °'"^fP'"^*-°f- evening  on  the 
toreca^tle  .^d.    He  was  intelligent,  very  strong, 
-.d  of  proved  courage.     IncidentaUy  we  are  toW 
so  exact  ,s  our  narrator,  that  Tom  had  the  fines 

>.  T:  7       appendage,    much    cared    for    and 
sheathed  tightly  in  a  porpoise  skin,  hung  half  w^y 

^Zil  ^"?"'  *°  ^'^^  ^-*  admiration:' 
all  beiiolders  and  to  the  great  envy  of  some. 


i8o   THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES 

Our  young  officer  dwells  on  the  manly  qualities 
of  Cuba  Tom  with  something  like  affection.  This 
sort  of  relation  between  officer  and  man  was  not 
then  very  rare.  A  youngster  on  joining  the 
service  was  put  under  the  charge  of  a  trustworthy 
seaman,  who  slung  his  first  hammock  for  him  and 
often  later  on  became  a  sort  of  humble  friend  to 
the  junior  officer.  The  narrator  on  joining  the 
sloop  had  found  this  man  on  board  after  some 
years  of  separation.  There  is  something  touching 
in  the  warm  pleasure  he  remembers  and  records  at 
this  meeting  with  the  professional  mentor  of  his 
boyhood. 

We  discover  then  that,  no  Spaniard  being  forth- 
coming for  the  service,  this  worthy  sea  nan  with 
the  unique  pigtail  and  a  very  high  character  for 
courage  and  steadiness  had  been  selected  as 
messenger  for  one  of  these  missions  inland  which 
have  been  mentioned.  His  preparations  were  not 
elaborate.  One  gloomy  autumn  morning  the 
sloop  ran  close  to  a  shallow  cove  where  a  landing 
could  be  made  on  that  iron-bound  shore.  A  boat 
was  lowered,  and  pulled  in  with  Tom  Corbin  (Cuba 
Tom)  perched  in  the  bow,  and  our  young  man  (Mr. 
Edgar  Byrne  was  his  name  on  this  earth  which 
knows  him  no  more)  sitting  in  the  stem  sheets. 

A  few  inhabitants  of  a  hamlet,  whose  grey  stone 
houses  could  >ie  seen  a  hundred  yards  or  so  up  a 


■  i   i 


' 


THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES    i8i 

deep  ravine,  had  come  down  to  the  shore  and 
watched  the  approach  of  the  boat.  The  two 
Englishmen  leaped  ashore.  Either  from  duUness 
or  astonishment  the  peasants  gave  no  greeting, 
and  only  fell  back  in  silence. 

Mr.  Byrne  had  made  up  his  mind  to  see  Tom 
Corbin  started  fairly  on  his  way.  He  looked  round 
at  the  heavy  siUT)rised  faces. 

"  There  isn't  much  to  get  out  of  them,"  he  said. 
"  Let  us  walk  up  to  the  village.  There  will  be  a 
wine  shop  for  sure  where  we  may  find  somebody 
more  promising  to  talk  to  and  get  some  information 
from." 

"  Aye,  aye,  sir,"  said  Tom  falling  into  step  be- 
hind his  officer.  "  A  bit  of  palaver  as  to  courses 
and  distances  can  do  no  harm;  I  crossed  the 
broadest  pat  t  of  Cuba  by  the  help  of  my  tongue  tho' 
knowing  far  less  Spanish  than  I  do  now.  As  they 
say  themselves  it  was  '  four  words  and  no  more  ' 
with  me,  that  time  when  I  got  left  behind  on  shore 
by  the  Blanche,  frigate." 

He  made  light  of  what  was  before  him,  which 
was  but  a  day's  journey  into  the  mountains.  It 
is  true  that  there  was  a  full  day's  journey  before 
striking  the  mountain  path,  but  that  was  nothing 
for  a  man  who  had  crossed  the  island  of  Cuba  on 
his  two  legs,  and  with  no  more  than  four  words  of 
the  language  to  begin  with. 


■ 


i8z   THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES 

The  officer  and  the  man  were  walking  now  on  a 
thick  sodden  bed  of  dead  leaves,  which  the  peasants 
thereabouts  acrumulate  in  the  streets  of  their 
villages  to  rot  during  the  winter  for  field  manure. 
Turning  his  head  Mr.  Byrne  perceived  that  the 
whole  male  population  of  the  hamlet  was  following 
them  on  the  noiseless  springy  carpet.  Women 
stared  from  the  doors  of  the  houses  and  the  children 
had  apparently  gone  into  hiding.  The  village 
knew  the  ship  by  sight,  afar  off,  but  no  stranger 
had  landed  on  that  spot  perhaps  for  a  hundred 
years  or  more.  The  cocked  hat  of  Mr.  Byrne,  the 
bushy  whiskers  and  the  enormous  pigtail  of  the 
sailor,  filled  them  with  mute  wonder.  They 
pressed  behind  the  two  Englishmen  staring  Uke 
those  islanders  discovered  by  Captain  Cook  in  the 
South  Seas. 

It  was  then  that  Byrne  had  his  first  glimpse  of 
the  little  cloaked  man  in  a  yellow  hat.  Faded  and 
dingy  as  it  was,  this  covering  for  his  head  made 
him  noticeable. 

The  entrance  to  the  wine  shop  was  like  a  rough 
hole  in  a  wall  of  flints.  The  owner  was  the  only 
person  who  was  not  in  the  street,  for  he  came  out 
from  the  darkness  at  the  back  where  the  inflated 
forms  of  wine  skins  hung  on  nails  could  be  vaguely 
distinguished.  He  was  a  tall,  one-eyed  Asturian 
with  scrubby,  hollow  cheeks;   a  grave  expression 


THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES   183 

of  countenance  contrasted  enigmatically  with  the 
roaming    restlessness    of    his    solitary    eye.    On 
learning  that  the  matter  in  hand  was  the  sending 
on  his  way  of  that  English  mariner  toward  a  certain 
Gonzales  in  the  mountains,  he  closed  his  good  eye 
for  a  moment  as  if  in  meditation.    Then  opened  it, 
very  lively  again. 
"  Possibly,  possibly.     It  could  be  done." 
A  friendly  murmur  arose  in  the  group  in  the  door- 
way at  the  name  of  Gonzales,  the  local  leader 
against  the  French.    Inquiring  as  to  the  safety 
of  the  road  Byrne  was  glad  to  learn  that  no  troops 
of  that  nation  had  been  seen  in  the  •  ;ighbourh&od 
for  months.    Not  the  smallest  little  detachment 
of  these  impious  poUzones.     While  giving  these 
answers  the  owner  of  the  wine-shop  busied  himself 
in  drawing  into  an  earthenware  jug  some  wine 
which  he  set  before  the  heretic  English,  pocketing 
with  grave  abstraction  the  small  piece  of  money 
the  oflficer  threw  upon  the  table  in  recognition  of 
the  unwritten  law  that  none  may  enter  a  wine- 
shop without  buying  drink.    His  eye  was  in  con- 
stant motion  as  if  it  were  trying  to  do  the  work  of 
the  two;  but  when  Byrne  made  inquiries  as  to  the 
possibility  of  hiring  a  mule,  it  became  immovably 
fixed  in  the  direction  of  the  door  which  was  closely 
besieged  by  the  curious.    In  front  of  them,  just 
within  the  threshold,  the  Uttle  man  in  the  large 


184    THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES 

cloak  and  ycUow  hat  had  taken  his  stand.  He 
was  a  diminutive  person,  a  mere  homunculus, 
Byrne  describes  him,  in  a  ridiculously  mysterious, 
yet  assertive  attitude,  a  comer  of  his  cloak  thrown 
cavalierly  over  his  left  shoulder,  muffling  his  chin 
and  mouth;  while  the  broad-brimmed  yellow  hat 
hung  on  a  comer  of  his  square  little  head.  He 
stood  there  taking  snuff,  repeatedly. 

"A  mule,"  repeated  the  wine-seUer,  his  eyes 
fixed  on  that  qraint  and  snuffy  figure.  ...  "  No, 
sefior  officer  I  Decidedly  no  mule  is  to  be  got  in 
this  poor  p!ace." 

The  coxswain,  who  stood  by  with  the  true 
sailor's  air  of  unconcem  in  strange  surroundings, 
struck  in  quietly — 

"  If  your  honour  will  believe  me  Shank's  pony's 
the  best  for  this  job.  I  would  have  to  leave  the 
beast  somewhere,  anyhow,  since  the  captain  has 
told  me  that  half  my  way  will  be  along  paths  fit 
only  for  goats." 

The  diminutive  man  made  a  step  forward,  and 
speakmg  through  the  folds  of  the  cloak  which 
seemed  to  muffle  a  sarcastic  intention— 

"  Si,  sefior.  They  are  too  honest  in  this  village 
to  have  a  single  mule  amongst  them  for  your 
worship's  service.  To  that  I  can  bear  testimony. 
In  these  times  it's  only  rogues  or  very  clever  men 
who  can  manage  to  have  mules  or  any  other  four- 


THE  INN  OF  THE  IWO  WITCHES  185 
footed  beasts  and  the  wherewithal  to  keep  them 
But  what  this  valiant  mariner  wants  is  a  guide- 
and  here,  sefior,  behold  my  brother-in-law.  Bernar- 
dmo,  wine-seller,  and  alcade  of  this  most  Christian 
and  hospitable  village,  who  wiU  find  you  one." 

This.  Mr.  Byrne  says  in  his  relation,  was  the  only 
thing  to  do.    A  youth  in  a  ragged  coat  and  goat- 
skm  breeches  was  produced  after  some  more  talk 
The  English  officer  stood  treat  to  the  whole  village 
and  while  the  peasants  drank  he  and  tuba  Tom' 
took  their  depirture  accompanied  by  the  guide 
The  diminutive  man  in  the  cloak  had  disappeared ' 
Byrne  went  along  with  the  coxswain  out  c    ■  e 
village.    He  wanted  to  see  him  fairly  on  his  way 
and  he  would  have  gone  a  greater  distance,  if  the 
seaman  had  not  suggested  respectfully  the  advis- 
abiUty  of  return  so  as  not  to  keep  the  ^Hp  a  moment 
longer  than  necessary  so  close  in  with  the  shore 
on  such  an  unpromising  looking  morning.    A  t«ld 
gloomy  sky  hung  over  their  heads  when  they  took 
leave  of  each  other,  and  their  surroundings  of 
rank  bushes  and  stony  fields  wer-  dreary. 
"In  four  days'  time,"  were  byrne's  last  words 
tte  ship  will  stand  in  and  send  a  boat  on  shore 
If  the  weather  pennits.    If  not  you'U  have  to  make 
It  out  on  shore  the  best  you  can  tiU  we  come  along 
to  take  you  ofi."  * 

"  Right  you  are.  sir,"  answered  Tom,  and  strode 


l86   THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES 

on.  Byrne  watched  him  step  out  on  a  narrow 
path.  In  a  thick  pea-jacket  with  a  pair  of  pistols 
in  his  belt,  a  cutlass  by  his  side,  and  a  stout  cudgel 
in  his  hand,  he  looked  a  sturdy  figure  and  well  able 
to  take  care  of  himself.  He  turned  round  for  a 
moment  to  wave  his  hand,  giving  to  Byrne  one 
more  view  of  his  honest  bronzed  face  with  bushy 
whiskers.  The  lad  in  goatskin  breeches  looking, 
Byrne  says,  like  a  faun  or  a  young  satyr  leaping 
ahead,  stopped  to  wait  for  him,  and  then  went  off 
at  a  bound.    Both  disappeared. 

Byrne  tumeil  back.  The  hamlet  was  hidden  in 
a  fold  of  the  ground,  and  the  spot  seemed  the  most 
lonely  comer  of  the  earth  and  as  if  accursed  in  its 
uninhabited  desolate  barrenness.  Before  he  had 
walked  many  yards,  there  appeared  very  suddenly 
from  behind  a  bush  the  muffled  up  diminutive 
Spaniard.    Naturally  Byrne  stopped  short. 

The  other  made  a  mysterious  gesture  with  a  tiny 
hand  peeping  from  tmder  his  cloak.  His  hat  hung 
very  much  at  the  side  of  his  head.  "  Sefior,"  he 
said  without  any  preliminaries.  "Caution I  It 
is  a  positive  fact  that  one-eyed  Bernardino,  my 
brother-in-law,  has  at  this  moment  a  mule  in  his 
stable.  And  why  he  who  is  not  clever  has  a  mule 
there?  Because  he  is  a  rogue;  a  man  without 
conscience.  Because  I  had  to  give  up  the  macho 
to  him  to  secure  for  myself  a  roof  to  sleep  under 


THE  INN  OF  TIIE  TWO  WITCHES  187 
and  a  mouthfuJ  of  o'ln  to  keep  my  soul  in  this 
insignificant  body  of  mine.  Yet,  sefior.  it  cont  'ns 
a  heart  many  times  bigger  than  the  mean  thing 
which  beats  in  the  breast  of  that  brute  connection 
of  mme  of  which  I  am  ashamed,  though  I  jpposed 
that  marriage  with  all  my  power.  Well,  the 
misguided  woman  suffered  enough.  She  had  her 
purgatory  on  this  earth— God  i    t  her  soul." 

Byrne  says  he  was  so  astonished  by  the  sudden 
appearance  of  that  sprite-like  being,  and  by  the 
sardonic  bitterness  of  the  speech,  that  he  was  un- 
able to  disentangle  the  significant  fact  fro  what 
seemed  but  a  piece  of  family  history  firea  out  at 
him  without  rhyme  or  reason.  Not  at  first.  He 
was  confounded  and  a.  the  same  time  he  was 
impressed  by  the  rapid  forcible  deUvery,  quite 
different  from  the  frothy  excited  loquacity  of  an 
Italian.  So  he  stared  while  the  homunculus, 
letting  his  cloak  fall  about  him,  aspired  an  immense 
quantity  of  snuff  out  of  the  hoUow  of  his  palm. 

"  A  mule,"  exclaimed  Byrne  seizing  at  last  the 
real  aspect  of  the  discourse.  "  You  say  he  has 
got  a  mule?  That's  queer!  Why  did  he  refuse 
to  let  me  have  it  ?  " 

The  diminutive  Spaniard  muffled  himself  up 
again  with  great  dignity. 

"  Quien  saber  he  said  coldly,  with  a  shrug  of 
his  draped  shoulders.    "  He  is  a  great  politico  in 


i88  THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES 

everything  he  does.  But  one  thing  your  worship 
may  be  certain  of — that  his  intentions  are  always 
rascally.  This  husband  of  my  defunta  sister  ought 
to  have  been  married  a  long  time  ago  to  the  widow 
with  the  wooden  legs.^ " 

"  I  see.  But  remember  that,  whatever  your 
motives,  ycur  worship  countenanced  him  in  this 
Ue." 

The  bright  imhappy  eyes  on  each  side  of  a  pre- 
datory nose  confronted  Byrne  without  wincing, 
while  with  that  testiaess  which  lurks  so  often  at 
the  bottom  of  Spanish  dignity — 

"  No  doubt  the  senor  officer  would  not  lose  an 
ounce  of  blood  if  1  were  stuck  under  the  fifth  rib," 
he  retorted.  "  But  what  of  this  poor  sinner  here  ?  " 
Then  changing  his  tone.  "  Senor,  by  the  necessi- 
ties of  the  times  I  live  here  in  exile,  a  Castilian 
and  an  old  Christian,  existing  miserably  in  the 
midst  of  these  brute  Asturians,  and  dependent 
on  the  worst  of  them  all,  who  has  less  conscience 
and  scruples  than  a  wolf.  And  being  a  man  of 
intelligence  I  govern  myself  accordingly.  Yet  I 
can  hardly  contain  my  scorn.  You  have  heard 
the  way  I  spoke.  A  caballero  of  parts  like  your 
worship  might  have  guessed  that  there  was  a  cat 
in  there." 

'  The  gallows,  suppoeed  to  be  widowed  of  the  last  executed 
criminal  and  waiting  for  another. 


THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES  189 
"  What  cat  ?  "  said  Byrne  uneasily.  "  Oh,  I 
see.  Something  suspicious.  No.senor.  I  guessed 
nothing.  My  nation  are  not  good  guessers  at  that 
sort  of  thing;  and,  therefore,  I  ask  you  plainly 
whether  that  wine-seller  has  spoken  the  truth  in 
other  particulars?  " 

"  There  are  certainly  no  Frenchmen  anywhere 
about,"  said  the  little  man  with  a  return  to  his 
indifferent  manner. 
"  Or  Tohbei^—ladronei,  ?  " 
"  Ladrones    en   grande—no\    Assuredly    not," 
was  the  answer  in  a  cold  philosophical  tone. 
"What  is  there  left  for  them  to  do  after  the 
French?    And  nobody  travels  in  these  times. 
But  who  can  say !    Opportunity  makes  the  robber. 
Still  that  mariner  of  yours  has  a  fierce  aspect,  and 
with  the  son  of  a  cat  rats  will  have  no  play.  '  But 
there  is  a  saying,  too,  that  where  honey  is  there 
will  soon  be  flies." 

This  oracular  discourse  exasperated  Byrne 
"  In  the  name  of  God,"  he  cried,  "  teU  me  plainly 
if  you  think  my  man  is  reasonably  safe  on  his 
journey." 

The  homunculus,  undergoing  one  of  his  rapid 
changes,  seized  the  officer's  arm.  The  grip  of 
his  little  hand  was  astonishing. 

"  Senorl  Bernardino  had  taken  notice  of  him. 
What  more  do  you  want  ?    And  listen— men  have 


\n 


190  THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES 

disappeared  on  this  road — on  a  certain  portion  of 
this  road,  when  Bernardino  kept  a  meson,  an  inn, 
and  I,  his  brother-in-law,  had  coaches  and  mules 
for  hire.  Now  there  are  no  travellers,  no  coaches. 
The  French  have  ruined  me.  Bernardino  has 
retired  here  for  reasons  of  his  own  after  my  sister 
died.  They  were  three  to  torment  the  life  out  of 
her,  he  and  Erminia  and  Lucilla,  two  aunts  of  his 
— all  affiliated  to  the  devil.  And  now  he  has 
robbed  me  of  my  last  mule.  You  are  an  armed 
man.  Demand  the  macho  from  him,  with  a  pistol 
to  his  head,  senor — it  is  not  his,  I  tell  you — and 
ride  after  your  man  who  is  so  precious  to  you. 
And  then  you  shall  both  be  safe,  for  no  two  travel- 
lers have  been  ever  known  to  disappear  together 
in  those  days.  As  to  the  beast,  I,  its  owner,  I 
confide  it  to  your  honour." 

They  were  staring  hard  at  each  other,  and  Bjrme 
nearly  burst  into  a  laugh  at  the  ingenuity  and 
transparency  of  the  little  man's  plot  to  regain 
possession  of  his  mule.  But  he  had  no  difficulty 
to  keep  a  straight  face  because  he  felt  deep  within 
himself  a  strange  incUnation  to  do  that  very  extra- 
ordinary thing.  He  did  not  laugh,  but  his  lip 
quivered;  at  which  the  diminutive  Spaniard, 
detacliing  his  black  glittering  eyes  from  Byrne's 
face,  turned  his  back  on  him  brusquely  with  a 
gesture  and  a  fling  of  the  cloak  which  somehow 


THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES    191 

expressed  contempt,  bitterness,  and  discourage- 
ment all  at  once.  He  turned  away  and  stood  still, 
his  hat  aslant,  muffled  up  to  the  ears.  But  he 
was  not  offended  to  the  point  of  refusing  the  silver 
dun  which  Byrne  offered  him  with  a  non-committal 
speech  as  if  nothing  extraordinary  had  passed 
between  them. 

"  I  must  make  haste  on  board  now,"  said  Byrne, 
then. 

"  Vaya  usted  con  Dios."  muttered  the  gnome. 
And  this  interview  ended  with  a  sarcastic  low  sweep 
of  the  hat  which  was  replaced  at  the  same  perilous 
angle  as  before. 

Directly  the  boat  had  been  hoisted  the  ship's 
sails  were  filled  on  the  off-shore  tack,  and  Byrne 
imparted  the  whole  story  to  his  captain,  who  was 
but  a  very  few  years  older  than  himself.  There 
was  some  amused  indignation  at  it— but  while 
they  laughed  they  looked  gravely  at  each  other. 
A  Spanish  dwarf  trying  to  beguile  an  officer  of  his 
majesty's  navy  into  steaUng  a  mule  for  him— that 
was  too  funny,  too  ridiculous,  too  incredible. 
Those  were  the  exclamations  of  the  captain.  He 
couldn't  get  over  the  grotesqueness  of  it. 

"  Incredible.    That's  just  it,"  murmured  Byrne 
at  last  in  a  significant  tone. 

They  exchanged  a  long  stare.    "  It's  as  clear 
as  daylight,"  affirmed  the  captain  impatiently. 


192   THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES 

because  in  his  heart  he  was  not  certain.  And 
Tom  the  best  seaman  in  the  ship  for  one,  the  good- 
humouredly  deferential  friend  of  his  boyhood  for 
the  other,  was  becoming  endowed  with  a  compelling 
fascination,  like  a  symbolic  figure  of  loyalty  appeal- 
ing to  their  feeUngs  and  their  conscience,  so  that 
they  could  not  detach  their  thoughts  from  his 
safety.  Several  times  they  went  up  on  deck,  only 
to  look  at  the  coast,  as  if  it  could  tell  them  some- 
thing of  his  fate.  It  stretched  away,  lengthening 
in  the  distance,  mute,  naked,  and  savage,  veiled 
now  and  then  by  the  slanting  cold  shafts  of  rain. 
The  westerly  sweU  rolled  its  interminable  angry 
lines  of  foam  and  big  dark  clouds  flew  over  the 
ship  in  a  sinister  procession. 

"  I  wish  to  goodness  you  had  done  what  your 
Uttle  friend  in  the  yellow  hat  'vanted  you  to  do," 
said  the  commander  of  the  sloop  late  in  the  after- 
noon with  visible  exasperation. 

"  Do  you,  sir?  "  answered  Byrne,  bitter  with 
positive  anguish.  "  I  wonder  what  you  would 
have  said  afterwards?  Why!  I  might  have  been 
kicked  out  of  the  service  for  looting  a  mule  from  a 
nation  in  alliance  with  His  Majesty.  Or  I  might 
have  been  battered  to  a  pulp  with  flails  and  pitch- 
forks-a  pretty  tale  to  get  abroad  about  one  of  your 
officers-while  trying  to  steal  a  mule.  Or  chased 
ignominiously  to  the  boat— for  you  would  not  have 


THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES   193 

expected  me  to  shoot  down  unoffending  people  for 

the  sake  of  a  mangy  mule And  yet,"  he  added 

in  a  low  voice,  "  I  almost  wish  myself  I  had 
done  it." 

Before  dark  those  two  young  men  had  worked 
themselves  up  into  a  highly  complex  psychological 
state  of  scornful  scepticism  and  alanned  credulity. 
It  tonnented  them  exceedingly;  and  the  thought 
that  it  would  have  to  last  for  six  days  at  least,  and 
possibly  be  prolonged  further  for  an  indefinite 
time,  was  not  to  be  borne.  The  ship  was  therefore 
put  on  the  inshore  tack  at  dark.  All  through  the 
gusty  daik  night  she  went  towards  the  land  to 
look  for  hfcr  man,  at  times  lying  over  in  the  heavy 
puffe,  at  others  rolling  idle  in  the  swell,  nearly 
stationary,  as  if  she  too  had  a  mind  of  her  own  to 
swing  perplexed  between  cool  reason  and  warm 
impulse. 

Then  just  at  daybreak  a  boat  put  off  from  her 
and  went  on  tossed  by  the  seas  towards  the  shallow 
cove  where,  with  considerable  difficulty,  an  officer 
in  a  thick  coat  and  a  round  hat  managed  to  land 
on  a  strip  of  shingle. 

"  It  was  my  wish,"  writes  Mr.  Byrne,  "  a  wish 
of  which  my  captain  approved,  to  land  secretly  if 
possible.  I  did  not  want  to  be  seen  either  by  my 
aggrieved  friend  in  the  yellow  hat,  whose  motives 
were  not  clear,  or  by  the  one-eyed  wine-seller,  who 


194  THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES 

may  or  may  not  have  been  affiliated  to  the  devil, 
or  indeed  by  any  other  dweller  in  that  primitive 
village.  But  unfortunately  the  cove  was  the  only 
possible  landing  place  for  miles;  and  from  the 
steepness  of  the  ravine  I  couldn't  make  a  circuit 
to  av3id  the  houses." 

"  Fortimately,"  he  goes  on,  "  all  the  people 
were  yet  in  their  beds.  It  was  barely  dayUght 
when  I  fotmd  m3rself  walking  on  the  thick  layer  of 
sodden  leaves  filling  the  only  street.  No  soul  was 
stirring  abroad,  no  dog  barked.  The  silence  was 
profound,  and  I  had  concluded  with  some  wonder 
that  apparently  no  dogs  were  kept  in  the  hamlet, 
when  I  heard  a  low  snarl,  and  from  a  noisome 
alley  between  two  hovels  emerged  a  vile  ciu:  with 
its  tail  between  its  legs.  He  slunk  ofi  silently 
showing  me  his  teeth  as  he  ran  before  me,  and  he 
disappeared  so  suddenly  that  he  might  have  been 
the  imclean  incarnation  of  the  Evil  One.  There 
was,  too,  something  so  reird  in  the  manner  of  its 
coming  and  vanishing,  that  my  spirits,  already  by 
no  means  very  high,  became  further  depressed 
by  the  revolting  sight  of  this  creature  as  if  by  an 
unlucky  presage." 

He  got  away  from  the  coast  unobserved,  as  far 
as  he  knew,  then  struggled  manfully  to  the  west 
against  wind  and  rain,  on  a  barren  dark  upland, 
under  a  sky  of  ashes.    Far  away  the  harsh  and 


THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES   195 

denuded  ndges  seemed  to  wait  for  him  meTadngly 
T^e^emng  found  him  fairly  near  to  them,  but, 
in  sailor  language,  uncertain  of  his  position 
hungr-.  wet,  and  tired  out  by  a  day  oE^eldv 

^"ZT  ""''■:  ^"""^  *^^  ^^<=^  he  ha  J 
seen  veiy  fe^  p^^pj^   ^^  ^^^ 

^tam  the  sHghtest  intelligence  of  Tom  Corbi,^: 
^e  "Onl  on!  I  must  push  on,"  he  had  b^n 
saymg  to  himself  through  the  hours  of  soliUrJ 
effort  spurred  more  by  incertitude  than  by  an^ 
definite  fear  or  definite  hope  ^ 

Mo  tt  ""  %'"*'"  '"'*«^'  "«  descended 
nto    he  ra,ane,  forded  a  narrow  stream  by  the 

heother  side  was  met  by  the  night  which  fell  li^e 
a  bandage  over  his  eyes.    The  wind  sweeping  in 

he  ^kness  the  broadside  of  the  sierra  Ued 
his  ears  by  a  continuous  roaring  noise  as  of  a 

d^fS  Tt   !^''  °^   outcropping  stone,  it  was 
difficult  to  distinguish  from  the  dreary  waste  o 

Dusnes.    But,  as  he  says   "  he  <!fMr«/i  k- 


196   THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES 

again  from  mere  weariness  of  mind  rather  than  of 
body — as  if  not  Lis  strength  but  his  resolution  were 
being  overtaxed  by  the  strain  of  endeavour  half 
suspected  to  be  vain,  and  by  the  unrest  of  his 
feelings. 

In  one  of  these  pauses  borne  in  the  wind  faintly 
as  if  from  very  far  away  he  heard  a  sound  of 
knocking,  just  knocking  on  wood.  He  noticed 
that  the  wind  had  lulled  suddenly. 

His  heart  started  beating  tumultuously  because 
in  himself  he  carried  the  impression  of  the  desert 
soUtudes  he  had  been  traversing  for  the  last  six 
hours — the  oppressive  sense  of  an  uninhabited 
world.  When  he  raised  his  head  a  gleam  of  Ught, 
illusory  as  it  often  happens  in  dense  darkness, 
swam  before  his  eyes.  V/hile  he  peered,  the  sound 
of  feeble  knocking  was  repeated — and  suddenly 
he  felt  rather  than  saw  the  existence  of  a  massive 
obstacle  in  his  path.  What  was  it?  The  spur  of 
a  hill?  Or  was  it  a  house  I  Yes.  It  was  a  house 
right  close,  as  though  it  had  risen  from  the  ground 
or  had  come  gUding  to  meet  him,  dumb  and 
paUid,  from  some  dark  recess  of  the  night.  It 
towered  loftily.  He  had  come  up  under  its  lee; 
another  three  steps  and  he  could  have  touched  the 
wall  with  his  hand.  It  was  no  doubt  a  posada  and 
some  other  traveller  was  trying  for  admittance. 
He  heard  again  the  soimd  of  cautious  knocking. 


THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES   197 

Next  moment  a  broad  band  of  light  feU  into  the 
night  through  the  opened  door.  Byrne  stepped 
eagerly  into  it,  whereupon  the  person  outside  leaped 
with  a  stifled  cry  away  into  the  night.  An  excla- 
mation of  surprise  was  heard  too,  from  within. 
Bynie,  flinging  himself  against  the  half  closed  door, 
foiced  his  way  in  against  some  considerable 
resistance. 

A  miserable  candle,  a  mere  rushlight,  burned  at 
the  end  of  a  long  deal  table.    And  in  its  hght 
Byrne  saw,  staggering  yet,  the  girl  he  had  driven 
from  the  door.    She  had  a  short  black  skirt,  an 
orange    shawl,    a    dark   complexion— and    the 
escaped  single  hairs  from  the  mass,  sombre  and 
thick  like  a  forest  and  held  up  by  a  comb,  made  a 
black  mist  about  her  low  forehead.    A  shrill 
lamentable  howl  of:  "  Misericordia!  "  came  in  two 
voices  from  the  further  end  of  the  long  room, 
where  the  fire-light  of  an  open  hearth  played 
between  heavy  shadows.    The  girl  recovering  her- 
self drew  a  hissing  breath  through  her  set  teeth. 
It  is  unnecessary  to  report  the  long  process  of 
questions  and  answers  by  which  he  soothed  the 
fears  of  two  old  women  who  sat  on  each  side  of  the 
fire,  on  which  stood  a  large  earthenware  pot.   Byrne 
thought  at  once  of  two  witches  watching  the  brew- 
ing of  some  deadly  potion.  But  all  the  same,  when 
one  of  them  raising  forward  painfully  her  broken 


ii  1 


196   THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES 

form  lifted  the  cover  of  the  pot,  the  escajiing  steam 
had  an  appetising  smell.  The  other  did  not  budge, 
but  sat  hunched  up,  her  head  trembling  all  the  time. 

They  were  horrible.  There  was  something 
grotesque  '->.  their  decrepitude.  Their  toothless 
mouths,  their  hooked  noses,  the  meagreness  of  the 
active  one,  and  the  hanging  yellow  cheeks  of  the 
other  (the  stiU  one,  whose  head  trembled)  would 
have  been  laughable  if  the  sight  of  their  dreadful 
physical  degradation  had  not  been  appalling  to 
one's  eyes,  had  not  gripped  one's  heart  with 
poignant  amazement  at  the  unspeakable  misery 
of  age,  at  the  awful  persistency  of  life  becoming 
at  last  an  object  of  disgust  and  dread. 

To  get  over  it  Byrne  began  to  talk,  saying  that 
he  was  an  Englishman,  and  that  he  was  in  search 
of  a  countryman  who  ought  to  have  passed  this 
way.  Directly  he  had  spoken  the  recollection  of 
his  parting  with  Tom  came  up  in  his  mind  with 
amazing  vividness:  the  silent  villagers,  the  angry 
gnome,  the  one-eyed  wine-seller,  Bernardino. 
Why!  These  two  unspeakable  frights  must  be  that 
man's  aunts — affiliated  to  the  devil. 

Whatever  they  had  been  once  it  was  impossible 
to  imagine  what  use  such  feeble  creatures  could  be 
to  the  devil,  now,  in  the  world  of  the  living.  Which 
was  Ludlla  and  which  was  Erminia?  They  were 
now  things  without  a  name.    A  moment  of  sus- 


THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES   199 

pended  animation  followed  Byrne's  words.  The 
sorceress  with  the  spoon  ceased  stirring  the  mess 
in  the  iron  pot,  ■-  .  very  trembling  of  the  other's 
head  stopped  for  the  space  of  breath.  In  this 
infinitesimal  fraction  of  a  second  Byrne  had  the 
sense  of  being  really  on  his  quest,  of  having 
reached  the  turn  of  the  path,  ahnost  within  hail 
uf  Tom. 

"  They  have  seen  him,"  he  thought  with  con- 
viction. Here  was  at  last  somebody  who  had  seen 
him.  He  made  sure  they  would  deny  all  knowledge 
of  the  Ingles;  but  on  the  contrary  they  were  eager 
to  tell  him  that  he  had  eaten  and  slept  the  night 
in  the  house.  They  both  started  talking  together, 
describing  his  appearance  and  behaviour.  An 
excitement  quite  fierce  in  its  feebleness  possessed 
them.  The  doubled-up  sorceress  floiuished  aloft 
her  wooden  spoon,  the  puffy  monster  got  ofi  her 
stool  and  screeched,  stepping  from  one  foot  to 
the  other,  while  the  trembling  of  her  head  was 
accelerated  to  positive  vibration.    Byrne  was  quite 

disconcerted  by  their  excited  behaviour Yes  I 

The  big,  fierce  Ingles  went  away  in  the  morning, 
after  eating  a  piece  of  bread  and  drinking  some 
wine.  And  if  the  caballero  wished  to  follow  the 
same  path  nothing  could  be  easier — ^in  the  morning. 

"  You  will  give  me  somebody  to  show  me  the 
way?  "said Byrne. 


300   THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES 

"Si,  Kfior.  A  proper  youth.  The  man  the 
caballero  saw  going  out." 

"But  he  was  knocking  at  the  door."  protested 
Byrne.  "  He  only  bolted  when  he  saw  me.  He 
was  coming  in." 

"No!  No!  "  the  two  horrid  witches  screamed 
out  tf  ether.    "  Going  out.    Going  out  I" 

Aftc.  all  it  may  have  been  true.  The  sound  of 
knocking  had  been  faint,  elusive,  reflected  Byrne. 
Perhaps  only  the  effect  of  his  fancy.  He 
asked — 

"Who  is  that  man?" 

"  Her  novio."  They  screamed  pointing  to  the 
girl.  "  He  is  gone  home  to  a  village  far  away  from 
here.  But  he  will  return  in  the  morning.  Her 
novio  t  And  she  is  an  orphan— the  child  of  poor 
Christian  people.  She  lives  with  us  for  the  love 
of  God,  for  the  love  of  God." 

The  orphan  crouching  on  the  comer  of  the  hearth 
had  been  looking  at  Byrne.  He  thought  that  she 
was  more  like  a  child  of  Satan  kept  there  by  these 
two  weird  harridans  for  the  love  of  the  Devil. 
Her  eyes  were  a  Httle  obUque,  her  mouth  rather 
thick,  but  admirably  formed;  her  dark  face  had  a 
wild  beauty,  voluptuous  and  untamed.  As  to  the 
character  of  her  steadfast  gaze  attached  upon  him 
with  a  sensuously  savage  attention,  "to  know 
what  it  was  like."  says  Mr.  Byrne,  "  you  have  only 


THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES  aoi 

to  observe  a  hungry  cat  watching  a  bird  in  a  cage 
or  a  mouM  inside  a  trap." 

It  was  she  who  served  him  the  food,  of  ifhich  lie 
was  glad;   though  with  those  big  slanting  black 
eyes  examining  him  at  close  range,  as  if  he  had 
something  curious  written  on  his  face,  she  gave 
Wm  an  uncomfortable  sensation.    But  anything 
was  better  than  being  approached  by  these  blear- 
eyed    nightmarish    witches.    His    apprehensions 
somehow  had  been  soothed;  perhaps  by  the  sensa- 
tion of  wamth  after  severe  exposure  and  the  ease 
of  r    ling  after  the  exertion  of  fighting  the  gale 
inch  by  inch  all  the  way.    He  had  no  doubt  of 
Tom's  safety.    He  was  now  sleeping  in  the  moun- 
tain camp  having  been  met  by  Gonzales'  men. 

Byrne  rose,  filled  a  tin  goblet  with  wine  out  of 
a  skin  hanging  on  the  wall,  and  sat  down  again. 
The  witch  with  the  mummy  face  began  to  talk  to 
him,  ramblingly  of  old  tuTies;   she  boasted  of  the 
mn's  fame  in  those  better  days.    Great  people 
m  their  own  coaches  stopped  there.    An  arch- 
bishop slept  once  in  the  casa.  a  long,  long  time  ago 
The  witch  with  the  puffy  face  seemed  to  be 
listening  from  her  stool,  motionless,  except  for  the 
trembling  of  her  head.    The  girl   (Byrne  was 
certam  she  wis  a  casual  gipsy  admitted  there  for 
some  reason  or  other)  sat  on  the  hearth  stone  in  the 
glow  of  the  embers.    She  hummed  a  tune  to  her- 


.h 


I 


203  THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES 


I 


self,  rattling  a  pair  of  castanets  slightly  now  and 
then.  At  the  mention  of  the  archbishop  she 
chuckled  impiously  and  turned  her  head  to  look 
at  Byrne,  so  that  the  red  glow  of  the  fire  flashed 
in  her  black  eyes  and  on  her  white  teeth  under  the 
dark  cowl  of  the  enormous  overmantel.  And  he 
smiled  at  her. 

He  rested  now  in  the  ease  of  security.  His 
advent  not  having  been  expected  there  could  be 
no  plot  against  him  in  existence.  Drowsiness  stole 
upon  his  senses.  He  enjoyed  it,  but  keeping  a 
hold,  so  he  thought  at  least,  on  his  wits;  but  he 
must  have  been  gone  further  than  he  thought 
because  he  was  startled  beyond  measure  by  a 
fiendish  uproar.  He  had  never  heard  anjrthing 
so  pitilessly  strident  in  his  Ufe.  The  witches  had 
started  a  fierce  quarrel  about  something  or  other. 
Whatever  its  origin  they  were  now  only  abusing 
each  other  violently,  without  arguments;  theii- 
senile  screams  expressed  nothing  but  wicked 
anger  and  ferocious  dismay.  The  gipsy  girl's 
black  eyes  flew  from  one  to  the  other.  Never 
before  had  Byrne  felt  himself  so  removed  from 
fellowship  with  human  beings.  Before  he  had 
really  time  to  understand  the  subject  of  the 
quarrel,  the  girl  jumped  up  rattling  her  castanets 
loudly.  A  silence  fell.  She  came  up  to  the  table 
and  bending  over,  her  eyes  in  his — 


THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES   303 

"  Senor,"  she  said  with  decision,  "  You  shaU 
sleep  in  the  archbishop's  room." 

Neither  of  the  witches  objected.  The  dried-up 
one  bent  double  was  propped  on  a  stick.  The 
puffy  faced  one  had  now  a  crutch. 

Byrne  got  up,  walked  to  the  door,  and  turning 
the  key  in  the  enormous  lock  put  it  coolly  in  his 
pocket.    This  was  clearly  the  only  entrance,  and 
he  did  not  mean  to  be  taken  unawares  by  whatever 
danger  there  might  have  been  lurking  outside. 
When  he  turned  from  the  door  he  saw  the  two 
witches  "  afiUiated  to  the  Devil  "  and  the  Satanic 
girl  looking  at  him  in  silence.    He  wondered  if 
Tom  Corbin  took  the  same  precaution  last  night. 
And  thinking  of  him  he  had  again  that  queer 
impression    of    his    nearness.    The    world    was 
perfectly  dumb.    And  in  this  stiUness  he  heard 
the  blood  beating  in  h:s  ears  with  a  confused 
rushing  noise,  in  which  there  seemed  to  be  a  voice 
uttering  the  words:    "  Mr.  Byrne,  look  out,  sir." 
Tom's  voice.    He  shuddered;  for  the  delusions  of 
the  senses  of  hearing  are  the  most  vivid  of  all,  and 
from  then-  nature  have  a  compelling  character. 

It  seemed  impossible  that  Tom  should  not  be 
there.  Again  a  slight  chill  as  of  stealthy  draught 
penetrated  through  his  very  clothes  and  passed 
over  aU  his  body.  He  shook  off  the  impression 
with  an  effort. 


204  THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES 


I 


It  was  the  girl  who  preceded  him  upstairs  carry- 
ing an  iron  lamp  from  the  naked  flame  of  which 
ascended  a  thin  thread  of  smoke.  Her  soiled 
white  stockings  were  full  of  holes. 

With  the  same  quiet  resolution  with  which  he 
had  locked  the  door  below,  B3rme  threw  open  one 
after  another  the  doors  in  the  corridor.  All  the 
rooms  were  empty  except  for  som?  nondescript 
lumber  in  one  or  two.  And  the  girl  seeing  what 
he  would  be  at  stopped  every  time,  raising  the 
smoky  light  in  each  doorway  patiently.  Meantime 
she  observed  him  with  sustained  attention.  The 
last  door  of  all  she  threw  open  herself. 

"  You  sleep  here,  sefior,"  she  murmured  in  a 
voice  light  like  a  child's  breath,  offering  him  the 
lamp. 

"Buenos  noches,  senorita,"  he  said  politely, 
taking  it  from  her. 

She  didn't  return  the  wish  audibly,  though  her 
lips  did  move  a  Uttle,  while  her  gaze  black  Uke  a 
starless  night  never  for  a  moment  wavered  before 
him.  He  stepped  in,  and  as  he  turned  to  close 
the  door  she  was  stiU  there  motionless  and  dis- 
turbing, with  her  voluptuous  mouth  and  slanting 
eyes,  with  the  expression  of  exp>ectant  sensual 
ferocity  of  a  baffled  cat.  He  hesitated  for  a 
moment,  and  in  the  dumb  house  he  heard  again 
the  blood   pulsating    ponderously  in   his   ears. 


THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES  205 
while  once  more  the  illusion  of  Tom's  voice  speak- 
ing earnestly  somewhere  near  by  was  specially 
terrifying,  because  this  time  he  could  not  make 
out  the  words. 

He  slammed  the  door  in  the  girl's  face  at  last, 
leaving  her  in  the  dark;  and  he  opened  it  again 
ahnost  on  the  instant.  Nobody.  She  had  vanished 
without  the  slightest  sound.  He  closed  the  door 
quickly  and  boiced  it  with  two  heavy  bolts. 

A  profound  mistrust  possessed  him  suddenly. 
Why  did  the  witches  quarrel  about  letting  him  sleep 
here?  And  what  meant  that  stare  of  the  girl  as 
if  she  wanted  to  impress  his  features  for  ever  in 
her  mind?  His  own  nervousness  alarmed  him. 
He  seemed  to  himself  to  be  removed  very  far  from 
mankind. 

He  examined  his  room.  It  was  not  very  high,  just 
high  enough  to  take  the  bed  which  stood  under  an 
enormous  baldaquin-like  canopy  from  which  fell 
heavy  curtains  at  foot  and  head;  a  bed  certainly 
worthy  of  an  archbishop.  There  was  a  heavy 
table  carved  aU  round  the  edges,  some  arm-chairs 
of  enormous  weight  Uke  the  spoils  of  a  grandee's 
palace;  a  tall  shaUow  wardrobe  placed  against 
the  wall  and  with  double  doors.  He  tried  them. 
Locked.  A  suspicion  came  into  his  mind,  and  he 
snatched  the  lamp  to  make  a  closer  examination. 
No,  it  was  not  a  disguised  entrance.    That  heavy. 


306  THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES 

tall  piece  of  furniture  stood  clear  of  the  wall  by 
quite  an  inch.  He  glanced  at  the  bolts  of  his  room 
door.  No  I  No  one  could  get  at  him  treacherously 
while  he  slept.  But  would  he  be  able  to  sleep?  he 
asked  himself  anxiously.  If  only  he  had  Tom 
there— the  trusty  seaman  who  had  fought  at  his 
right  hand  in  a  cutting  out  affair  or  two,  and  had 
always  preached  to  him  *ke  necessity  to  take  care 
of  himself.  "  For  it's  no  great  trick."  he  used  to 
say, "  to  get  yourself  killed  in  a  hot  fight.  Any  fool 
can  do  that.  The  proper  pastime  is  to  fight  the 
Frenchies  and  then  live  to  fight  another  day." 

Byrne  found  it  a  hard  maUer  not  to  fall  into 
listening  to  the  silence.  Somehow  he  had  the  con- 
viction that  nothing  would  break  it  unless  he  heard 
again  the  haunting  sound  of  Tom's  voice.  He  had 
heard  it  twice  before.  Odd  I  And  yet  no  wonder, 
he  argued  with  himself  reasonably,  since  he  had 
been  thinking  of  the  man  for  over  thirty  hours 
continuously  and,  what's  more,  inronclusively. 
For  his  anxiety  for  Tom  had  never  taken  a  definite 
shape.  "  Disappear,"  was  the  only  word  con- 
nected with  the  idea  of  Tom's  danger.  It  was 
very  vague  and  awfil.  "Disappear!"  What 
did  that  mean? 

Byrne  shuddered,  and  then  saiJ  to  himself  that 
he  must  be  a  little  feverish.  But  Tom  had  not 
disappeared.    Byrne  had  just  heard  of  him.    And 


THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  vv^ITCHES  207 
again  t^  young  man  felt  the  blood  beating  in  his 
ears.  He  sat  still  expecting  every  moment  to 
hear  through  the  pulsating  strokes  the  sound  of 
Tom  s  voice.  He  waited  straining  his  ears,  but 
noUnng  came.  Suddenly  the  thought  occurred 
to  hm,:  He  has  not  disappeared,  but  he  cannot 
make  himself  heard." 

Hejumpedupfromtheann-chair.  Howabsurdl 
Lavmg  his  pistol  and  his  hanger  on  the  table  he 
took  off  lus  boots  and,  feeling  suddenly  too  tired 
to  stand,  flung  himself  on  the  bed  which  he  found 
soft  and  comfortable  beyond  his  hopes 

He  had  felt  very  wakeful,  but  hemust  have  dozed 
off  after  aU,  because  the  next  thing  he  knew  he  was 
sittmg  up  in  bed  and  trying  to  recoUect  what  it 
was  that  Tom's  voire  had  said.  Oh!  He  remem- 
bered ,t  now.  Ithads^id:  "Mr.  Byrne!  Look 
«  ^y '  A  warning  this.  But  against  what  ? 
He  landed  with  one  leap  in  the  middle  of  the 
floor,  gasped  once,  then  looked  all  round  the  room 
The  wmdow  was  shuttered  and  barred  with  an 

Tk  ^^^^^  his  eyes  slowly  aUromid 

the  bait-  walls,  and  even  lo<  :ed  up  at  the  ceiUng 

which  was  rather  high.  Afterwards  he  went  to  the 
door  to  examine  the  fastenings.  They  consisted 
of  ^o  enormous  iron  bolts  sliding  into  holes  made 
m  the  waU;  and  as  the  corridor  outside  was  too 
narrow  to  admit  of  any  battering  arrangement  " 


«'«'«'   'WWSf- 


■«.Wi^-^l««-»      I'-'j:?: 


308   THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES 

even  to  permit  an  axe  to  be  swung,  nothing  could 
burst  the  door  open — unless  gunpowder.  But 
while  he  was  still  making  sure  that  the  lower  bolt 
was  pushed  well  home,  he  received  the  impression 
of  somebody's  presence  in  the  room.  It  was  so 
strong  that  he  spun  round  quicker  than  Ughtning. 
There  was  no  one.  Who  could  there  be?  And 
yet . . . 

It  was  then  that  he  lost  the  decorum  and  re- 
straint a  man  keeps  up  for  his  own  sake.  He  got 
down  on  his  hands  and  knees,  with  the  lamp  on  the 
floor,  to  look  under  the  bed,  like  a  silly  girl.  He 
saw  a  lot  of  dust  and  nothing  else.  He  got  up, 
his  cheeks  burning,  and  wall:ed  about  discontented 
with  his  own  behaviour  and  unreasonably  angry 
with  Tom  for  not  leaving  him  alone.  The  words: 
"  Mr.  Byrne!  Look  out,  sir,"  kept  on  repeating 
themselves  in  his  head  in  a  tone  of  warning. 

"  Hadn't  I  better  just  throw  myself  on  the  bed 
and  try  to  go  to  sleep,"  he  asked  himself.  But 
his  eyes  fell  on  the  tall  wardrobe,  and  he  went 
towards  it  feeling  irritated  with  himself  and  yet 
unable  to  desist.  How  he  could  explain  to-morrow 
the  burglarious  misdeed  to  the  two  odious  witches 
he  had  no  idea.  Nevertheless  he  inserted  the  point 
of  his  hanger  between  the  two  halves  of  the  door 
and  tried  to  prize  them  open.  They  resisted.  He 
swore,  sticking  now  hotly  to  his  purpose.    His 


THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES  209 

you     wa.  addressed  to  the  absen'  Tcm.    Just 
then  the  doors  gave  way  and  flew  open 
He  was  there.  ' 

was  thet^  drawn  up  shadowy  and  stiff,  in  a  prudent 
s  lence.  which  his  wide-open  eyes  by  therfix^ 

glea^  seemed  to  command  Byrne  to  respect.  B^ 
Byrne  was  too  startled  to  make  a  sound.  Amazed 
he  stepped  back  a  little-and  on  the  ins^t  the 
-aman  flung  himself  forward  headlong  as  f  to 
clasp  his  officer  round  the  neck.  Instinctively 
Byrnepuouthisfaltering  arms;  he  felt  the  horrible 

as  their  heads  knocked  together  and  their  fac  s 
came  mto  contact.  They  reeled.  Byrne  hugZ 
Tom  close  to  his  breast  in  order  not  tolet  hi,^^,' 
-.th  a  crash.    He  had  just  strength  eno^h  to 

nead  swam,  his  legs  gave  way,  and  he  sank  on  his 
kn«s,  leamng  over  the  body  with  his  hands  resting 
on  the  breast  of  that  man  once  full  of  generous  We 
and  now  as  msensible  as  a  stone. 

"Deadf  my  poor  Tom,  dead,"  he  reneatA^ 
m«>taUy.  The  light  of  the  lamp  st^d^^H  ^ 
he  edge  of  the  table  fell  from  above  straight  ^ 

nad  a  mobile  and  merry  expression. 


ill 


210  THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES 


Byrne  turned  his  own  away  from  them.  Tom's 
black  silk  neckerchief  was  not  knotted  on  his 
breast.  It  was  gone.  The  murderers  had  also 
taken  ofi  his  shoes  and  stockings.  And  noticing 
this  spoliation,  the  exposed  throat,  the  bare  up- 
turned feet,  Byrne  felt  his  eyes  nm  full  of  tears. 
In  other  respects  the  seaman  was  fully  dressed; 
neither  was  his  clothing  disarranged  as  it  must 
have  been  in  a  violent  struggle.  Only  his  checked 
shirt  had  been  pulled  a  little  out  the  waistband  in 
one  place,  just  enough  to  ascertain  whether  he 
had  a  money  belt  fastened  round  his  body.  Byrne 
began  to  sob  into  his  handkerchief. 

It  was  a  nervous  outburst  which  passed  off 
quickly.  Remaining  on  his  knees  he  contemplated 
sadly  the  athletic  body  of  as  fine  a  seaman  as  ever 
had  drawn  a  cutlass,  laid  a  gun,  or  passed  the 
weather  earring  in  a  gale,  lying  stiff  and  cold,  his 
cheery,  fearless  spirit  departed — perhaps  turning 
to  him,  his  boy  chum,  to  his  ship  out  there  rolling 
on  the  grey  seas  of!  an  iron-bound  coast,  at  the 
very  moment  of  its  flight. 

He  perceived  that  the  six  brass  buttons  of  Tom's 
jacket  had  been  cut  ofi.  He  shuddered  at  the 
notion  of  the  two  miserable  and  repulsive  witches 
busying  themselves  ghoulishly  alxut  the  defence- 
less body  of  his  friend.  Cut  off.  Perhaps  with 
the  same  knife  which . . .  The  head  of  one  trembled ; 


THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES  an 

the  other  was  bent  double,  and  their  eyes  were  red 
and  bleared,  their  infamous  claws  unsteady. 
It  must  have  been  in  this  very  room  too,  for  Tom 
could  not  have  been  killed  in  the  open  and  brought 
in  here  afterwards.  Of  that  Byrne  was  certain. 
Yet  those  devilish  crones  could  not  have  killed  him 
themselves  even  by  taking  him  unawares— and 
Tom  would  be  always  on  his  guard  of  course.  Tom 
was  a  very  wide  awake  wary  man  when  engaged 
on  any  service.  .  .  .  And  in  fact  how  did  they 
murder  him?    Who  did?    In  what  way? 

Byrne  jumped  up,  snatched  the  lamp  off  the 
table,  and  stooped  swiftly  over  the  body.  The 
light  revealed  on  the  clothing  no  stain,  no  trace, 
no  spot  of  blood  anywhere.  Byrne's  hands  began 
to  shake  so  that  ne  had  to  set  the  lamp  on  the  floor 
and  turn  away  his  head  in  order  to  recover  from 
this  agitation. 

Then  he  began  to  explore  that  cold,  stiU,  and 
rigid  body  for  a  stab,  a  gunshot  wound,  for  the 
trace  of  some  killing  blow.  He  felt  all  over  the 
skull  anxiously.  It  was  whole.  He  slipped  his 
hand  under  the  neck.  It  was  unbroken.  With 
terrified  eyes  he  peered  close  under  the  chin  and 
saw  no  marks  of  strangulation  on  the  throat. 
There  were  no  signs  anywhere.  He  was  just  dead. 
Impulsively  Byrne  got  away  from  the  body  as 
If  the  mystery  of  an  incomprehensible  death  had 


3ia   THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES 

changed  his  pity  into  suspicion  and  dread.  The 
lamp  on  the  floor  near  the  set,  still  face  of  the  sea- 
man showed  it  staring  at  the  ceiling  as  if  despair- 
ingly. In  the  circle  of  light  Byrne  saw  by  the 
undisturbed  patches  of  thick  dust  on  the  floor 
that  there  had  been  no  struggle  in  that  room. 
"  He  has  died  outside."  he  thought.  Yes,  outside 
in  that  narrow  corridor,  where  there  was  hardly 
room  to  turn,  the  mysterious  death  had  come  to 
his  poor  dear  Tom.  The  impulse  of  snatching  up 
his  pistols  and  rushing  out  of  the  room  abandoned 
Byrne  suddenly.  For  Tom,  too,  had  been  armed— 
with  just  such  powerless  weapons  as  he  himself 
possessed— pistols,  a  cutlass  I  And  Tom  had  died 
a  nameless  death,  by  incomprehensible  means. 

A  new  thought  came  to  Byrne.  That  stranger 
knocking  at  the  door  and  fleeing  so  swiftly  at  his 
appearance  had  come  there  to  remove  the  body. 
Aha!  That  was  the  guide  the  withered  witch  had 
promised  would  show  the  English  ofiicer  the 
shortest  way  of  rejoining  his  man.  A  promise, 
he  saw  it  now,  of  dreadful  import.  He  who  had 
knocked  would  ha"e  two  bodies  to  deal  with. 
Man  and  officer  would  go  forth  from  the  house 
together.  For  Byrne  was  certain  now  that  he 
would  have  to  die  before  the  morning— and  in  the 
same  mysterious  manner,  leaving  behind  h-m  an 
unmarked  body. 


THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES   213 

The  sight  of  a  smashed  head,  of  a  throat  cut,  of 
a  gaping  gunshot  wound,  would  have  been  an  in- 
expressible relief.  It  would  have  soothed  all  his 
fears.  His  soul  cried  vithin  him  to  that  dead  man 
whom  he  had  never  found  wanting  in  danger. 
"  Why  don't  you  tell  me  what  I  am  to  look  for. 
Tom?  Why  don't  you?"  But  in  rigid  immo- 
bility, extended  on  his  back,  he  seemed  to  preserve 
an  austere  silence,  as  if  disdaining  in  the  finality 
of  his  awful  knowledge  to  hold  converse  with  the 
living. 

Suddenly  Byrne  flung  himself  on  his  knees  by 
the  side  of  the  body,  and  dry-eyed,  fierce,  opened 
the  shirt  wide  on  the  breast,  as  if  to  tear  the  secret 
forcibly  from  that  cold  heart  which  had  been  so 
loyal  to  him  in  hfe!  Nothing  I  Nothing!  He 
raised  the  lamp,  and  aU  the  sign  vouchsafed  to 
him  by  that  face  which  used  to  be  so  kindly  in 
expression  was  a  small  bruise  on  the  forehead— 
the  least  thing,  a  mere  mark.  The  skin  even  was 
not  broken.  He  stared  at  it  a  long  time  as  if  lost 
in  a  dreadful  dream.  Then  he  observed  that  Tom's 
hands  were  clenched  as  though  he  had  faUen  facing 
somebody  in  a  fight  with  fists.  His  knuckles,  on 
closer  view,  appeared  somewhat  abraded.  Both 
hands. 

The  discovery  of  tnese  slight  signs  was  more 
appalling  to  Byrne  than  the  absolute  absence  of 
every  mark  would  have  been.    So  Tom  had  died 


ai4  THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES 
•triking  against  scanething  which  could  be  hit 
and  yet  couJd  Idll  one  without  leaving  a  wound-' 
by  a  breath. 

Terror,  hot  terror,  began  to  play  about  Byrne's 
h«rt  hke  a  tongue  of  flame  that  touches  and  with- 
draws  before  it  turns  a  thing  to  ashes.  He  backed 
away  from  the  body  as  far  as  he  could,  then  came 
forward  stealthily  casting  fearful  glances  to  steal 
another  look  at  the  bruised  forehead.  There 
would  perhaps  be  such  a  faint  bruise  on  his  own 
forehead— before  the  morning. 

"I  can't  bear  it,"  he  whispered  to  himself.  Tom 
was  for  him  now  an  object  of  horror,  a  sight  at 
once  tempting  and  revolting  to  his  fear  He 
couldn't  bear  to  look  at  him. 

At  last,  desperation  getting  the  better  of  his 
increasing  horror,  he  stepped  forward  from  the 
waU  against  which  he  had  been  leaning,  seized 
the  corpse  under  the  annpits,  and  began  to  lug 
|tov«tothebed.    The  bare  heels  of  the  seaman 
traUed  on  the  floor  noiselessly.    He  was  heavy 
with  the  dead  weight  of  inanimate  objects.    With 
a  last  effort  Byrne  landed  him  face  downwards 
on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  rolled  him  over,  snatched 
irom  under  this  stiff  passive  thing  a  sheet  with 
which  he  covered  it  over.    Then  he  spread  the 
curtains  at  head  and  foot  so  that  joining  together 
as  he  shook  their  folds  they  hid  the  bed  altogether 
zrom  bis  sig'i  i . 


THE  IN-    OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES  215 

He  itumbled  towards  a  chair,  and  fell  on  it. 
The  perspiration  poured  from  his  face  for  a  moment, 
and  then  his  veins  seemed  to  carry  for  a  while  a 
thin  stream  of  half-frozen  blood.  Complete  terror 
liad  possession  of  him  now,  a  nameless  terror  which 
had  turned  his  heart  to  ashes. 

He  sat  upright  in  the  straight-backed  chair,  the 
lamp  burning  at  his  feet,  his  pistols  and  his  hanger 
at  his  left  elbow  on  the  end  of  the  table,  his  eyes 
turning  incessantly  in  their  sockets  round  the  walls, 
over  the  ceiling,  over  the  floor,  in  the  expectation 
of  a  mysterious  and  appalling  vision.    The  thing 
which  could  deal  death  in  a  breath  was  outside  that 
bolted  door.    But  Byrne  believed  neither  in  walls 
nor  bolts  now.    Unreasoning  terror  turning  every- 
thing to  account,  his  old  time  boyish  admiration 
of  the  athletic  Tom,  the  undaunted  Tom  (he  had 
seemed  to  him  invincible),  helped  to  paralyse  his 
faculties,  added  to  his  despair. 

He  was  no  longer  Edgar  Byrne.  He  was  a 
tortured  soul  sufiering  more  anguish  than  any 
sinner's  body  had  ever  suffered  from  rack  or  boot. 
The  depth  of  bis  torment  may  be  measured  when  I 
say  that  this  young  man,  as  brave  at  least  as  the 
average  of  his  kind,  contemplated  seizing  a  pistol 
and  firing  into  his  own  head.  But  a  deadly,  chilly, 
langour  was  spreading  over  his  limbs.  It  was  as 
if  his  flesh  had  been  wet  plaster  stiffening  stowly 
about  his  ribs.    Presently,  he  thought,  the  two 


2i6  THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES 

witches  will  be  coming  in,  with  crutch  and  stick- 
horrible,  grotesque,  monstrous— affiliated  to  the 
devil— to  put  a  mark  on  his  forehead,  the  tiny 
little  bruise  of  death.  And  he  wouldn't  be  able 
to  do  anything.  Tom  had  struck  out  at  some- 
thing, but  he  was  not  like  Tom.  His  limbs  were 
dead  akeady.  He  sat  still,  dying  the  death  over 
and  over  again;  and  the  only  part  of  him  which 
moved  were  his  eyes,  turning  round  and  round  in 
their  sockets,  running  over  the  walls,  the  floor,  the 
ceiling,  again  and  again  till  suddenly  they  became 
motionless  and  stony — starting  out  of  his  head 
fixed  in  the  direction  of  the  bed. 

He  had  seen  the  heavy  curtains  stir  and  shake 
as  if  the  dead  body  they  concealed  had  turned  over 
and  sat  up.  Byrne,  who  thought  the  world  could 
hold  no  more  terrors  in  store,  felt  his  hair  stir  at  the 
roots.  He  gripped  the  arms  of  the  chair,  his  jaw 
fell,  and  the  sweat  broke  out  on  his  brow  while 
his  dry  tongue  clove  suddenly  to  the  roof  of  his 
mouth.  Again  the  curtains  stirred,  but  did  not 
open.  "Don't,  Tom!"  Byrne  made  effort  to 
shout,  but  all  he  heard  was  a  slight  moan  such  as 
an  uneasy  sleeper  may  make.  He  felt  that  his 
brain  was  going,  for,  now,  it  seemed  to  him  that 
the  ceiling  over  the  bed  had  moved,  had  slanted, 
and  came  level  again — and  once  more  the  closed 
curtains  swayed  gently  as  if  about  to  part. 
Byrne  closed  his  eyes  not  to  see  the  awful  appari- 


»t  *m^if¥  -?■.■•"■ 


THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES   217 

tion  of  the  seaman's  corpse  corning  ouf  animated 
by  an  evU  spirit.    In  the  pic' )nnd  silence  of  the 
room  he  endured  a  moment  of  frightful  agony,  then 
opened  his  eyes  again.    And  he  saw  at  once  that 
the  curtains  remained  closed  still,  but  that  the 
ceiling  over  the  bed  had  risen  quite  a  foot.    With 
the  last  gleam  of  reason  left  to  him  he  under- 
stood that  it  was  the  enormous  baldaquin  over  the 
bed  which  was  coming  down,  while  the  curtains 
attached  to  it  swayed  softly,  sinking   gradually 
to  the  floor.    His  drooping  jaw  snapped  to— and 
half  rising  in  his  chair  he  watched  mutely  the 
noiseless  descent  of  the  monstrous  canopy.     It 
came  down  in  short  smooth  rushes  till  lowered 
half  way  or  more,  when  it  took  a  run  and  settled 
swiftly  its  turtle-back  shape  with  the  deep  border 
piece  fitting  exactly  the  edge  of  the  bedstead.    A 
sUght  crack  or  two  of  wood  were  heard,  and  the 
overpowering  stiUness  of  the  room  resumed  its  sway. 
Byrne  stood  up,  gasped  for  breath,  and  let  out 
a  cry  of  rage  and  dismay,  the  first  sound  which  he 
is  perfectly  certain  did  make  its  way  past  his  lips 
on  this  night  of  terrors.    This  then  was  the  death 
he  had  escaped!     This  was  the  devilish  artifice 
of  murder  poor  Tom's  soul  had  perhaps  tried  from 
beyond  the  border  to  warn  him  of.    For  this  was 
how  he  had  died.    Bynie  was  certain  he  had 
aeard  the  voice  of  the  seaman.  fainUy  distinct  in 
his  familiar  phrase.  "  Mr.  Byrne!  Look  out.  sir!  " 


2i8   THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES 

and  again  uttering  words  he  could  not  make 
out.    But  then  the  distance  separating  the  living 
from  the  dead  is  so  great!    Poor  Tom  had  tried. 
Byrne  ran  to  the  bed  and  attempted  to  lift  up,  to 
push  ofi  the  horrible  lid  smothering  the  body.    It 
resisted  his  efiforts,  heavy  as  lead,  immovable  like 
a  tombstone.    The  rage  of  vengeance  made  him 
desist;  his  head  buzzed  with  chaotic  thoughts  of 
extermination,  he  turned  round  the  room  as  if  he 
could  find  neither  his  weapons  nor  the  way  out; 
and  all  the  time  he  stammered  awful  menaces.  . .  . 
A  violent  battering  at  the  door  of  the  inn  re- 
called him  to  his  soberer  senses.    He  flew  to  the 
window,  pulled  the  shutters  open,  and  looked  out. 
In  the  faint  dawn  he  saw  below  him  a  mob  of  men. 
Ha!  He  would  go  and  face  at  once  this  murderous 
lot  collected  no  doubt  for  his  undoing.    After  his 
struggle  with  nameless  terrors  he  yearned  for  an 
open  fray  with  armed  enemies.    But  he  must  have 
remained  yet  bereft  of  his  reason,  because  forgetting 
his  weapons  he  rushed  downstairs  with  a  wild  cry, 
unbarred  the  door  while  blows  were  raining  on  it 
outside,  and  flinging  it  open  flew  with  his  bare 
hands  at  the  throat  of  the  first  man  he  saw  before 
him.    They  rolled  over  together.    Byrne's  hazy 
intention  was  to  break  through,  to  fly  up  the 
mountain  path,  and  come  back  presently  with 
Gonzales'  men  to  exact  an  exemplary  vengeance. 
He  fought  furiously  till  a  tree,  a  house,  a  mountain. 


THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES   219 

seemed  to  crash  down  upon  his  head— and  he 
knew  no  more. 


Here  Mr.  Byrne  describes  in  detail  the  skilful 
manner  in  which  he  found  his  broken  head  ban- 
daged, informs  us  that  he  had  lost  a  great  deal  of 
blood,  and  ascribes  the  preservation  of  his  sanity 
to  that  circumstance.  He  sets  down  Gonzales' 
profuse  apologies  in  full  too.  For  it  was  Gonzales 
who,  tired  of  waiting  for  news  from  the  English, 
had  come  down  to  the  inn  with  half  his  band, 
on  his  way  to  the  sea.  "  His  excellency,"  he 
explained,  "rushed  out  with  fierce  impetuosity, 
and,  moreover,  was  not  known  to  us  for  a  friend, 
and  so  we  .  .  .  etc.,  etc.  When  asked  what  had 
become  of  the  witches,  he  only  pointed  his  finger 
silently  to  the  ground,  then  voiced  cahnly  a  moral 
reflection:  "  The  passion  for  gold  is  pitiless  in  the 
very  old,  senor,"  he  said.  "  No  doubt  in  former 
days  they  have  put  many  a  soUtary  traveUer  to 
sleep  in  the  archbishop's  bed." 

"  There  was  also  a  gipsy  girl  there,"  said  Byrne 
feebly  from  the  improvised  litter  on  which  he  was 
being  carried  to  the  coast  by  a  squad  of  guerilleros. 

"  It  was  she  who  winched  up  that  infernal 
machine,  and  it  was  she  too  who  lowered  it  that 
night,"  was  the  answer. 

"  But  why?  Why?  "  exclaimed  Byrne.  "  Why 
should  she  wish  for  my  death  ?  " 


.&   •f*!  i 


230   THE  INN  OF  THE  TWO  WITCHES 

"  No  doubt  for  the  sake  of  your  exceUency's 
coat  buttons,"  said  poKtely  the  saturnine  Gonzales. 
"  We  found  those  of  the  dead  mariuer  concealed 
on  her  person.  But  your  excellency  may  rest 
assured  that  everything  that  is  fitting  has  been 
done  0.1  this  occasion." 

Byrne  asked  no  more  questions.  There  was  still 
another  death  which  was  considered  by  Gonzales 
as  ••  fitting  to  the  occasion."  The  one-eyed  Bernar- 
dino stuck  against  the  waU  of  his  wine-shop 
received  the  charge  of  six  escopettas  into  his  breast. 
As  the  shots  rang  out  the  rough  bier  with  Tom's 
body  on  it  went  past  carried  by  a  bandit-like 
gang  of  Spanish  patriots  down  the  ravine  to  the 
shore,  where  two  boats  from  the  ship  were  waiting 
for  what  was  left  on  earth  of  her  best  seaman. 

Mr.  Byrne,  very  pale  and  weak,  stepped  into  the 
boat  which  carried  the  body  of  his  humble  friend. 
For  it  was  decided  that  Tom  Corbin  should  rest 
far  out  in  the  bay  of  Biscay.  The  officer  took  the 
tiller  and,  turning  his  head  for  the  la.st  look  at 
the  shore,  saw  on  the  grey  hillside  something 
moving,  which  he  made  out  to  be  a  little  man  in  a 
yellow  hat  mounted  on  a  mule— that  mule  without 
which  the  fate  of  Tom  Corbin  would  have  remained 
mjraterious  for  ever. 


Junt,  1913. 


BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS 


-  »-i-S»   'W 


BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS 


While  we  were  hanging  about  near  the  water's 
edge,  as  sailors  idling  ashore  will  do  (it  was  in  the 
open  space  before  the  Harbour  Office  of  a  great 
Eastern  port),  a  man  came  towards  us  from  the 
"  front  "  of  business  houses,  aiming  obUquely  at 
the  landing  steps.  He  attracted  my  attention 
because  in  the  movement  of  figures  in  white  drill 
suits  on  the  pavement  from  which  he  stepped,  hU 
costume,  the  usual  tunic  and  trousers,  being  made 
of  Ught  grey  flannel,  made  him  noticeable. 

I  had  time  to  observe  him.  He  was  stout,  but 
he  was  not  grotesque.  His  face  was  round  and 
smooth,  his  complexion  very  fair.  On  his  nearer 
approach  I  saw  a  Uttle  moustache  made  aU  the 
faurer  by  a  good  many  white  hairs.  And  he  had, 
for  a  stout  man,  quite  a  good  chin.  In  passing  us' 
he  exchanged  nods  with  the  friend  I  was  with 
and  smiled. 

My  friend  was  Hollis,  the  fellow  who  had  so 
many  adventures  and  had  known  so  many  queer 
people  m  that  part  of  the  (more  or  less)  gorgeous 
a33 


224        BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS 


'i 
f  I 

i 


East  in  the  days  of  his  youth.  He  said:  "That's  a 
good  man.  I  don't  mean  good  in  the  sense  of 
smart  or  skilful  in  his  trade.  I  mean  a  really 
good  man." 

I  turned  round  at  once  to  look  at  the  pheno- 
menon. The  "  really  good  man  "  had  a  very  broad 
back.  I  saw  him  signal  a  sampan  to  come  along- 
side, get  into  it,  and  go  off  in  the  direction  of  a 
cluster  of  local  steamers  anchored  close  inshore. 

I  said:   "  He's  a  seaman,  isn't  he?  " 

"  Yes.  Commands  that  biggish  dark-green 
steamer :  '  Sissie  —  Glasgow.'  He  has  never 
commanded  anything  else  but  the  '  Sissie  — 
Glasgow,'  only  it  wasn't  always  the  same  Sissie. 
The  first  he  had  was  about  half  the  length  of  this 
one,  and  we  used  to  tell  poor  Davidson  that  she  was 
a  size  too  small  for  him.  Even  at  that  time  David- 
son had  bulk.  We  warned  him  he  would  get 
callosities  on  his  shoulders  and  elbows  because  of 
the  tight  fit  of  his  command.  And  Davidson  could 
well  afiord  the  smiles  he  gave  us  for  our  chafi.  He 
made  lots  of  money  in  her.  She  belonged  to  a 
portly  Chinaman  resembling  a  mandarin  in  a 
picture-book,  with  goggles  and  thin  drooping 
moustaches,  and  as  dignified  as  only  a  Celestial 
knows  how  to  be. 

"The  best  of  Chinamen  as  employers  is  that 
they  have  such  gentlemanly  instincts.    Once  they 


BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS       235 

become  convinced  that  you  are  a  straight  man. 
they  give  you  their  unbounded  confidence.  You 
simply  can't  do  wrong,  then.  And  they  are  pretty 
quick  judges  of  character.  .00.  Davidson's  China- 
man was  the  first  to  find  out  his  worth,  on  some 
theoretical  principle.  One  day  in  his  counting- 
house,  before  several  white  men  he  was  heard  to 
declare:  '  Captain  Davidson  is  a  good  man.'  And 
that  settled  it.  After  that  you  couldn't  teU  if  it 
was  Davidson  who  belonged  to  the  Chinaman  or 
the  Chinaman  who  belonged  to  Davidson.  It  was 
he  who,  shortly  before  he  died,  ordered  in  Glasgow 
the  new  Sissie  for  Davidson  to  command." 

We  walked  into  the  shade  of  the  Harbour  Office 
and  leaned  our  elbows  on  the  parapet  of  the  quay. 

"  She  was  really  meant  to  comfort  poor  David- 
son." continued  Hollis.  "  Can  you  fancy  anything 
more  naively  touching  than  this  old  mandarin 
spending  several  thousand  pounds  to  console  his 
white  man?  Well,  there  she  is.  The  old  man- 
darin's sons  have  inherited  her.  and  Davidson  with 
her;  and  he  commands  her;  and  what  with  his 
salary  and  trading  privileges  he  makes  a  lot  of 
money;  and  everything  is  as  before;  and  David- 
son even  smiles— you  have  seen  it?  Well,  the 
smile's  the  only  thing  which  isn't  as  before."' 

"  Tell  me.  Hollis."  I  asked.  "  what  do  you  mean 
by  good  in  this  connection?  " 


aa6        BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS 

"  Well,  there  are  men  who  are  bom  good  just  as 
others  are  bom  witty.  What  I  mean  is  his  nature. 
No  simpler,  more  scrapulously  delicate  soul  had 
ever  lived  in  such  a — a — comfortable  envelope. 
How  we  used  to  laugh  at  Davidson's  fine  scruples  I 
In  short,  he's  thoroughly  humane,  and  I  don't 
imagine  there  can  be  much  of  any  other  sort  of 
goodness  that  counts  on  this  earth.  And  as  he's 
that  with  a  shade  of  particular  refinement,  I  may 
well  call  him  a  '  really  good  man.'  " 

I  knew  from  old  thar  Hollis  was  a  firm  believer 
in  the  final  value  of  shades.  And  I  said :  "  I  see  " 
—because  I  really  did  see  Holli^'s  Davidson  in  the 
sympathetic  stout  man  who  had  passed  us  a  little 
while  before.  But  I  remembered  that  at  the  very 
moment  he  smiled  his  placid  face  appeared  veiled 
in  melancholy — a  sort  of  spiritual  shadow.  I 
went  on. 

"  Who  on  earth  has  paid  him  off  for  being  so 
fine  by  spoiling  his  smile  ?  " 

"  That's  quite  a  story,  and  I  will  tell  it  to  you  if 
you  like.  Confound  it!  It's  quite  a  surprising 
one,  too.  Surprising  in  every  way,  but  mostly  in 
the  way  it  knocked  over  poor  Davidson — and 
apparently  only  because  he  is  such  a  good  sort. 
He  was  telling  me  all  about  it  only  a  few  days  ago. 
He  said  that  when  he  saw  these  four  fellows  with 
their  heads  in  a  bunch  over  the  table,  he  at  once 


BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS        237 

didn't  like  it.    He  didn't  Uke  it  at  aU.    You 
mustn't  suppose  that  Davidson  is  a  soft  fool. 

These  men 

"  But  I  had  better  begin  at  the  beginning.    We 
must  go  back  to  the  first  time  the  old  doUars  had 
been  called  in  by  our  Government  in  exchange  for  a 
new  issue.    Just  about  the  time  when  I  left  these 
parts  to  go  home  for  a  long  stay.    Every  trader  in 
the  Ulands  was  thinking  of  getting  his  old  dollars 
sent  up  here  in  time,  and  the  demand  for  empty 
French  wine  cases— you  know  the  dozen  of  ver- 
mouth or  claret  size— was  something  unprece- 
dented.    The  custom  was  to  pack  the  dollars  in 
little  bags  of  a  hundred  each.    I  don't  know  how 
many  bags  each  case  would  hold.    A  good  lot. 
Pretty  tidy  sums  must  have  been  moving  afloat 
just  then.     But  let  us  get  away  from  here.    Won't 

do  to  stay  in  the  sun.    Where  could  we ?    I 

know!  let  us  go  to  those  tiffin-rooms  over  there." 
We  moved  over  accordingly.  Our  appearance 
m  the  long  empty  room  at  that  early  hour  caused 
visible  consternation  amongst  the  China  boys. 
But  Mollis  led  the  way  to  one  of  the  tables  between 
the  windows  screened  by  rattan  blinds.  A  bril- 
liant half-light  t:«mbled  on  the  ceiling,  on  the 
whitewashed  waUs,  bathed  the  multitude  of  vacant 
chairs  and  tables  in  a  peculiar,  stealthy  glow. 
"  All  right.    We  will  get  something  to  eat  when 


"4 


328        BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS 

ii's  ready,"  he  said,  waving  the  anxious  Chinaman 
waiter  aside.  He  took  his  temples  touched  with 
grey  between  his  hands,  leaning  over  the  table  to 
bring  his  face,  his  dark,  keen  eyes,  closer  to  mine. 
"  Davidson  then  was  commanding  the  steamer 
Siss»«— the  little  one  which  we  used  to  chaff  him 
about.  He  ran  her  alone,  with  only  the  Malay 
serang  for  a  deck  officer.  The  nearest  approach 
to  another  white  man  on  board  of  her  was  the 
engineer,  a  Portuguese  half-caste,  as  thin  as  a  lath 
and  quite  a  youngster  at  that.  For  all  practical 
purposes  Davidson  was  managing  that  command 
of  his  single-handed ;  and  of  course  this  was  known 
in  the  port.  I  am  telling  you  of  it  because  the  fact 
had  its  influence  on  the  developments  you  shall 
hear  of  presently. 

"  His  steamer,  being  so  small,  could  go  up  tiny 
creeks  and  into  shallow  bays  and  through  reefs  and 
over  sand-banks,  collecting  produce,  where  no 
other  vessel  but  a  native  craft  would  think  of 
venturing.  It  is  a  paying  game,  often.  Davidson 
was  known  to  visit  in  her  places  that  no  one  else 
could  find  and  that  hardly  anybody  had  ever 
heard  of. 

"The  old  dollars  being  caUed  in,  Davidson's 
Chinaman  thought  that  the  Sissie  would  be  just 
the  thing  to  collect  them  from  small  traders  in 
the  less  frequented  parts  of  the  Archipelago.    It's  a 


r-  w- 


BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS        aa9 

good  business.    Such  cases  of  doUars  are  dumped 

aft  in  the  ship's  lazarette.  and  you  get  good  freight 

for  very  httle  trouble  and  space. 
"Davidson,  too,  thought  it  was  a  good  idea- 

and  together  they  made  up  a  list  of  his  calU  on  his 
next  tnp  Then  Davidson  (he  had  naturally  the 
chart  of  his  voyages  in  his  head)  remarked  that  on 
his  way  back  he  might  look  in  at  a  certain  settle- 
ment up  a  mere  creek,  where  a  poor  sort  of  white 
man  hved  in  a  native  village.  Davidson  pointed 
out  to  h.s  Chinaman  that  the  feUow  was  certain  to 
nave  some  rattans  to  ship. 

"  'Probably  enough  to  fill  her  forward,'  said 
Davidson.  '  And  that'll  be  better  than  bringing 
her  back  with  empty  holds.  A  day  more  or  iZ 
doesn't  matter.' 

"  y*-''  und  talk,  and  the  Chinaman  owner 

coul        .  :  ,  ,.    But  if  it  hadn't  been  sound 

r  "  ,'^'  "'  •'*  ^'"'*  ^^^  *^^-  Davidson  did 
whai  he  hked.  He  was  a  man  that  could  do  no 
wrong.  However,  this  suggestion  of  his  was  not 
merely  a  business  matter.  There  was  in  it  a  touch 
of  Davidsonian  kindness.  For  you  must  know 
that  the  man  could  not  have  continued  to  live 
quietly  up  that  creek  if  it  had  not  been  for  David- 
«.n  s  wiUmgness  to  call  there  from  time  to  time. 
And  Davidson's  Chinaman  knew  tUs  perfectly 
weu.  too.    So  he  only  smUed  his  dignified,  bland 


■#>' 


a  •.  fet" 


330        BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS 

smile,  and  said:  'All  right,  Captain.  You  do 
what  you  like.' 

"  I  will  explain  presently  how  this  connection 
between  Davidson  and  that  fellow  came  about. 
Now  I  want  to  tell  you  about  the  part  of  this 
affair  which  happened  here  —  the  preliminaries 
of  it. 

"  You  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  these  tiffin- 
rooms  where  we  are  sitting  now  have  been  in 
existence  for  many  years.  Well,  next  day  about 
twelve  o'clock,  Davidson  dropped  in  here  to  get 
something  to  eat. 

"  And  here  comes  the  only  moment  in  this  story 
where  accident — mere  accident — plays  a  part.  If 
Davidson  had  gone  home  that  day  for  tiffin,  there 
would  be  now,  after  twelve  years  or  more,  nothing 
changed  in  his  kindly,  placid  smile. 

"  But  he  came  in  here ;  and  perhaps  it  was  sitting 
at  this  very  table  that  he  remarked  to  a  friend  of 
mine  that  his  next  trip  was  to  be  a  dollar-collecting 
trip.  He  added,  laughing,  that  his  wife  was 
making  rather  a  fuss  about  it.  She  had  begged 
him  to  stay  ashore  and  get  somebody  else  to  take 
his  place  for  a  voyage.  She  thought  there  was 
some  danger  on  account  of  the  dollars.  He  told 
her,  he  said,  that  there  were  no  Java-sea  pirates 
nowadajrs  except  in  boys'  books.  He  had  laughed 
at  her  fears,  but  he  was  very  sorry,  too;  for  when 


Hi 


BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS  231 
she  took  any  notion  in  her  head  it  was  impossible 
to  argue  her  out  of  it.  She  would  be  wonying 
herself  all  the  time  he  was  away.  Well,  he  couldn't 
help  it.  There  was  no  one  ashore-  fit  to  take  his 
place  for  the  trip. 

"  This  friend  of  mine  and  I  went  home  together 
in  the  same  mail-boat,  and  he  mentioned  that 
conversation  one  evening  in  the  Red  Sea  while  we 
were  talking  over  the  things  and  people  we  had 
just  left,  with  more  or  less  regret. 

"  I  can't  say  that  Davidson  occupied  a  very 
prominent  place.  Moral  exceUence  seldom  does. 
He  was  quietly  appreciated  by  those  who  knew  him 
weU;  but  his  more  obvious  distinction  consisted  in 
this,  that  he  was  married.  Ours,  as  you  remember, 
was  a  bachelor  crowd;  in  spirit  anyhow,  if  not 
absolutely  in  fact.  There  might  have  been  a  few 
wives  in  existence,  but  if  so  they  were  invisible 
distant,  never  aUuded  to.  For  what  would  have 
been  the  good?  Davidson  alone  was  visibly 
married. 

"  Being  married  suited  him  exactly.  It  fitted 
him  so  weU  that  the  wildest  of  us  did  not  resent  the 
fact  when  it  was  disclosed.  Directly  he  had  felt 
his  feet  out  here,  Davidson  sent  for  his  wife.  She 
came  out  (from  West  Australia)  in  the  Somerset. 
under  the  care  of  Captain  Ritchie— you  know 
Monkey-face  Ritchie-who  couldn't  praise  enough 


a3!»        BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS 


' 


her  sweetness,  her  gentleness,  and  her  chann. 
She  seemed  to  be  the  heaven-bora  mate  for  David- 
son. She  found  on  arrival  a  very  pretty  bungalow 
on  the  hill,  ready  for  her  and  the  little  girl  they  had. 
Very  soon  he  got  for  her  a  two-wheeled  trap  and  a 
Burmah  pony,  and  she  used  to  drive  down  of  an 
evening  to  pick  up  Davidson,  on  the  quay.  When 
Davidson,  beaming,  got  into  the  trap,  it  would 
become  very  full  all  at  once. 

"We  used  to  admire  Mrs.  Davidson  from  a 
distance.  It  was  a  girlish  head  out  of  a  keepsake. 
From  a  distance.  We  had  not  many  opportunities 
for  a  closer  view,  because  she  did  not  care  to  give 
them  to  us.  We  would  have  been  glad  to  drop  in  at 
the  Davidson  bungalow,  but  we  were  made  to  feel 
somehow  that  we  were  not  very  welcome  there. 
Not  that  she  ever  said  anything  ungracious.  She 
never  had  much  to  say  for  herself.  I  was  perhaps 
the  one  who  saw  most  of  the  Davidsons  at  home. 
What  I  noticed  under  the  superfirial  aspect  of 
vapid  sweetness  was  her  convex,  obstinate  fore- 
head, and  her  small,  red,  pretty,  imgenerous  mouth. 
But  then  I  am  an  observer  with  strong  prejudices. 
Most  of  us  were  fetched  by  her  white,  swan-like 
neck,  by  that  drooping,  innocent  profile.  There 
was  a  lot  of  latent  devotion  to  Davidson's  wife 
hereabouts,  at  that  time,  I  can  tell  you.  But  my 
idea  was  that  she  repaid  it  by  a  profound  suspicion 


BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS   333 

of  the  sort  of  men  we  were;   a  mistrust  which 
extended— I   fancied— to  her  very  husband  at 
times.    And  I  thought  then  she  was  jealous  of  him 
in  a  way;  though  there  were  no  women  that  she 
could  be  jealous  about.    She  had  no  women's 
society.    It's    difficult    for   a    shipmaster's   wife 
unless  there  are  other  shipmasters'  wives  about, 
and  there  were  none  here  then.    I  know  that  the 
dock  manager's  wife  called  on  her;  but  that  was 
all.    The  fellows  here  formed  the  opinion  that 
Mrs.  Davidson  was  a  meek,  shy  litttle  thing.    She 
looked  it,  I  must  say.    And  this  opinion  was  so 
universal  that  the  friend  I  have  been  telling  you  of 
remembered  his  conversation  with  Davidson  simply 
because  of  the  statement  about  Davidson's  wife. 
He  even  wondered  to  me:  '  Fancy  Mrs.  Davidson 
making  a  fuss  to  that  extent.    She  didn't  seem  to 
me  the  sort  of  woman  that  would  know  how  to 
make  a  fuss  about  anything.' 

"  I  wondered,  too— but  not  so  much.  That 
bumpy  forehead— eh?  I  had  always  suspected 
her  of  being  silly.  And  I  observed  that  Davidson 
must  have  been  vexed  by  this  display  of  wifely 
anxiety. 

"My  friend  said:  'No.  He  seemed  rather 
touched  and  distressed.  There  reaUy  was  no  one 
he  could  ask  to  relieve  him;  mainly  because  he 
intended  to  make  a  caU  in  some  God-forsakea 


a34       BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS 

creek,  to  look  up  a  fellow  of  the  name  of  Bamtz 
who  apparently  had  settled  there.' 

"  And  again  my  friend  wondered.  '  Tell  me,"  he 
cried,  'what  connection  can  there  be  between 
Davidson  and  such  a  creature  as  Bamtz? ' 

"  I  don't  remember  now  what  answer  I  made. 
A  sufficient  one  could  have  been  given  in  two 
words:     'Davidson's    goodness."      That    never 
boggled  at  unworthiness  if  there  was  the  slightest 
reason  for  cc  mpassion.    I  don't  want  you  to  think 
that  Dav'  \  on  had  no  discrimination  at  all.  Bamtz 
could    not    have    imposed    on    him.    Moreover, 
everybody  knew  what  Bamtz  was.    He  was  a 
loafer  with  a  beard.    When  I  think  of  Bamtz,  the 
first  thing  I  see  is  that  long  black  beard  and  a  lot 
of  propitiatory  wrinkles  at  the  comers  of  two  Uttle 
eyes.    There  was  no  such  beard  from  here  to  Poly- 
nesia, where  a  beard  is  a  valuable  property  in  itself. 
Bamtz's  beard  was  valuable  to  him  J.i  another  way. 
You  know  how  impressed  Orientals  aie  by  a  fine 
.    beard.   Years  and  years  ago,  I  remember,  the  grave 
Abdullah,  the  great  trader  of  Sambir.  unable  to 
repress  signs  of  astonishment  and  admiration  at 
the  first  sight  of  that  imposing  beard.     And  it's 
very  well  known  that  Bamtz  Uved  on  Abdullah  off 
and  on  for  several  years.    It  was  a  unique  beard, 
and  so  was  the  bearer  of  the  same.    A  unique 
loafer.    He  made  a  fine  art  of  it,  or  rather  a  sort  of 


li   '   .:l 


BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS        335 

craft  and  mystery.  One  can  understand  a  fellow 
living  by  cadging  and  small  swindles  in  towns,  in 
large  communities  of  people;  but  Bamtz  managed 
to  do  that  trick  in  the  wilderness,  to  loaf  on  the 
outskirts  of  the  virgin  forest. 

"  He  understood  how  to  ingratiate  himself  with 
the  natives.  He  would  arrive  in  some  settlement 
up  a  river,  make  a  present  of  a  cheap  carbine  or  a 
pair  of  shoddy  binoculars,  or  something  of  that 
sort,  to  the  Rajah,  or  the  head-man,  or  the  principal 
trader;  and  on  the  strength  of  that  gift,  ask  for  a 
house,  posing  mysteriously  as  a  very  special  trader. 
He  would  spin  them  no  end  of  yams,  live  on  the  fat 
of  the  land  for  a  while,  and  then  do  some  mean 
swindle  or  other — or  else  they  would  get  tired  of 
him  and  ask  him  to  quit.  And  he  would  go  off 
meekly  with  an  air  of  injured  innocence.  Funny 
life.  Yet,  he  never  got  hurt  somehow.  I've  heard 
of  the  Rajah  of  Dongala  giving  him  fifty  dollars' 
worth  of  trade  goods  and  paying  his  passage  in  a 
prau  only  to  get  rid  of  him.  Fact.  And  observe 
that  nothing  prevented  the  old  fellow  having 
Bamtz's  throat  cut  and  the  carcase  thrown  into 
deep  water  outside  the  reefs;  for  who  on  earth 
would  have  inquired  after  Bamtz? 

"  He  had  been  known  to  loaf  up  and  down  the 
wilderness  as  far  north  as  the  Gulf  of  Tonkin. 
Neither  did  he  disdain  a  spell  of  civilisation  from 


'Ill 


336    BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS 

time  to  time.  And  it  was  while  loafing  and  cadging 
in  Saigon,  bearded  and  dignified  (he  gave  himself 
out  there  as  a  bookkeeper),  that  he  came  across 
Laughing  Anne. 

"  The  less  said  of  her  early  history  the  better,  but 
something  must  be  said.  We  may  safely  suppose 
there  was  very  little  heart  left  in  her  famous  laugh 
when  Bamtz  spoke  first  to  her  in  some  low  ca.i6. 
She  was  stranded  in  Saigon  with  precious  little 
money  and  in  great  trouble  about  a  kid  she  had, 
a  boy  of  five  or  six. 

"  A  fellow  I  just  remember,  whom  they  called 
Pearler  Harry,  brought  her  out  first  into  these 
parts — from  AustraUa,  I  believe.  He  brought  her 
out  and  then  dropped  her,  and  she  remained  knock- 
ing about  here  and  there,  known  to  most  of  us  by 
sight,  at  any  rate.  Everybody  in  the  Archipelago 
had  heard  of  Laughing  Anne.  She  had  really  a 
pleasant  silvery  laugh  always  at  her  disposal,  so  to 
speak,  but  it  wasn't  enough  apparently  to  make 
her  fortune.  The  poor  creature  was  ready  to  stick 
to  any  half-decent  man  if  he  would  only  let  her, 
but  she  always  got  dropped,  as  it  might  have  been 
expected. 

"  She  had  been  left  in  Saigon  by  the  skipper  of  a 
German  ship  with  whom  she  had  been  going  up  and 
down  the  China  coast  as  far  as  Vladivostok  for 
near  upon  two  years.    The  German  said  to  her: 


BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS        337 

'This  is  aU  over,  metn  Taubchen.  I  am  going 
home  now  to  get  married  to  the  girl  I  got  engaged 
to  before  coming  out  here.'  And  Anne  said :  '  All 
right.  I'm  ready  to  go.  We  part  friends,  don't  we  ?' 
"  She  was  always  anxious  to  part  friends.  The 
German  told  her  that  of  course  they  were  parting 
friends.  He  looked  rather  glum  at  the  moment  of 
parting.    She  laughed  and  went  ashore. 

"  But  it  was  no  laughing  matter  for  her.  She 
had  some  notion  that  this  would  be  her  last 
chance.  What  frightened  her  most  was  the 
future  of  her  child.  She  had  left  her  boy  in 
Saigon  before  gomg  off  with  the  German,  in  the 
care  of  an  elderly  French  couple.  The  husband 
was  a  doorkeeper  in  some  Government  office,  but 
his  time  was  up,  and  they  were  returning  to  France. 
She  had  to  take  the  boy  back  from  them;  and 
after  she  had  got  him  back,  she  did  not  Uke  to  part 
with  him  any  more. 

"  That  w<ts  the  situation  when  she  and  Bamtz 
got  acquainted  casually.  She  could  not  have  had 
any  illusions  about  that  fellow.  To  pick  up  with 
Bamtz  was  coming  down  pretty  low  in  the  world, 
even  from  a  material  point  of  view.  She  had 
always  been  decent,  in  her  way;  whereas  Bamtz 
was,  not  to  mince  words,  an  abject  sort  of  creature. 
On  the  other  hand,  that  bearded  loafer,  who  looked 
much  more  like  a  pirate  than  a  bookkeeper,  was  not 


;!i 


338        BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS 

a  brute.  He  was  gentle — rather— even  in  his 
cups.  And  then,  despair,  like  misfortune,  makes 
us  acquainted  with  strange  bed-fellows.  For  she 
may  well  have  despaired.  She  was  no  longer 
young — you  know. 

"  On  the  man's  side  'his  conjunction  is  more 
difficult  to  explain,  perhaps.  One  thing,  however, 
must  be  said  of  Bamtz ;  he  had  always  kept  clear  of 
native  women.  As  one  can't  suspect  him  of  moral 
delicacy,  I  surmise  that  it  must  have  been  from 
prudence.  And  he,  too,  was  no  longer  young. 
There  were  many  white  hairs  in  his  valuable  black 
beard  by  then.  He  may  have  simply  longed  for 
some  kind  of  companionship  in  his  queer,  degraded 
existence.  Whatever  their  motives,  they  vanished 
from  Saigon  together.  And  of  course  nobody 
cared  what  had  become  of  them. 

"  Six  months  later  Davidson  came  into  the 
Mirrah  Settlement.  It  was  the  very  first  time  he 
had  been  up  that  creek,  where  no  European  vessel 
had  ever  been  seen  before.  A  Javanese  passenger 
he  had  on  board  ofiered  him  fifty  dollars  to  call  in 
there— it  must  have  been  some  very  particular 
business— and  Davidson  consented  to  try.  Fifty 
dollars,  he  told  me,  were  neither  here  nor  there; 
but  he  was  curious  to  see  the  place,  and  the  little 
Sissie  could  go  an)where  where  there  was  water 
enough  to  float  a  soup-plate. 


BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS        ,39 

„  K^K^I'*'^"  ^'^'^^  ^'  J*^'^'^  P'^to^rat.  and. 
as  he  had  to  wait  a  couple  of  houn,  for  the  tide,  he 
went  ashore  himself  to  stretch  his  legs 

r.'J'JT"'^'^,'"''^'^'^'-  Somesixtyhouses. 
most  of  them  built  on  piles  over  the  river,  the  rest 
scattered  m  the  long  grass;  the  usual  pathway  at 
the  back:  the  forest  hemming  in  the  clearing  and 
smothenng  what  there  might  have  been  of  air  into 
a  dead,  hot  stagnation. 

"AU  the  population  was  on  the  river-bank 
stanng  silently,  as  Malays  wiU  do,  at  the  Sissie 
anchored  m  the  stream.  She  was  almost  as  won- 
derful to  them  as  an  angel's  visit.  Many  of  the  old 
people  had  only  heard  vaguely  of  fire-ships,  and  not 
many  of  the  yomiger  generation  had  seen  one.  On 
the  back  path  Davidson  stroUed  in  perfect  solitude. 
But  he  became  aware  of  a  bad  smell  and  concluded 
he  would  go  no  farther. 

"  While  he  stood  wiping  his  forehead,  he  heard 
from  somewhere  the  exclamation:  'My  Godr 
•It  s  Davy  I ' 

•'  Davidson's  lower  jaw,  as  he  expressed  it,  came 
unl:ookedatthec«yingofthisexcitedvoice.  Davy 
was  the  name  used  by  the  associates  of  his  young 
«^ys:  he  hadn't  heard  it  for  many  years  He 
stared  about  with  his  mouth  open  and  L  a  whit 
woman  issue  from  the  long  grass  in  which  a  smaU 
hut  stood  buried  nearly  up  to  the  roof . 


240   BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS 

"  Try  to  imagine  the  shock:  in  that  wild  place 
that  you  couldn't  find  on  a  map,  and  more  squalid 
than  the  most  poverty-stricken  Malay  settlement 
had  a  right  to  be,  this  Euroi)ean  woman  coming 
swishing  out  of  the  long  grass  in  a  fanciful  tea- 
gown  thing,  dingy  pink  satin,  with  a  long  train  and 
frayed  lace  trimmings;  her  eyes  like  black  coals 
in  a  pasty-white  face.  Davidson  thought  that 
he  was  asleep,  that  he  was  delirious.  From  the 
offensive  village  mudhole  (it  was  what  Davidson 
had  sniffed  just  before)  a  couple  of  filthy  buffaloes 
uprose  with  loud  snorts  and  lumbered  off  crashing 
through  the  bushes,  panic-struck  by  this  appari- 
tion. 

"  The  woman  came  forward,  her  arms  extended, 
and  laid  her  hands  on  Davidson's  shoulders, 
exclaiming:  'Why!  You  have  hardly  changed 
at  all.  The  same  good  Davy.'  And  she  laughed 
a  little  wildly. 

"  This  sovmd  was  to  Davidson  like  a  galvanic 

shock  to  a  corpse.    He  started  in  every  muscle. 

'  Laughing  Anne,'  he  said  in  an  awe-struck  voice. 

"  '  All  that's  left  of  her,  Davy.    All  that's  left 

of  her.' 

"  Davidson  looked  up  at  the  sky;  but  there  was 
to  be  seen  no  balloon  from  which  she  could  have 
fallen  on  that  spot.  When  he  brought  his  dis- 
tracted gaze  down,  it  rested  on  a  child  holding  on 


BECAUSE  OF  IHE  DOLURS        ,4. 

freckliM]  fa«.       J  ^  sunburnt  tegs,  a 

and  when  he  had  disappeared  i„  ?h  ^"*' 

tunied  to  Davidson  S!  ^^  ^^'''  '^^ 

ting  out  the  J:S  'SwT  '  '"k  ''*"  ^^*- 
long  fit  of  crvinr  <:k  t  .^  ^°°y'  ''""*  '"to  » 
should  r     ST'distfi!^''  *°  ''""  °°  ^^^^-"'^ 

^ean.stood"r:.:iirs^;i::j:-/^ 

upon  him.  ™  *"®  "^'^  come 

youth  h^^"  ^  '^''^^  '^^^^  «  his 

Q 


a4a  BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS 
the  path,  with  Bamt.  himself.  She  ran  back  to  the 
hut  to  fetch  him,  and  he  came  out  lounging,  with 
hi8  hands  in  his  pockets,  with  the  detached,  casual 
manner  under  which  he  concealed  his  propensity  to 
cringe  Ya-a-as-as.  He  thought  he  would  settle 
here  permanently-with  her.  This  with  a  nod 
at  Laughing  Anne,  who  stood  by.  a  haggard, 
tragically  anxious  figure,  her  black  hair  hangmg 
over  her  shoulders.  ^ 

•• '  No  more  paint  and  dyes  for  me,  Davy,  she 
struck  in. '  if  only  you  wiU  do  what  he  wants  you 
to  do.  You  know  that  I  was  always  ready  to  stand 
by  my  men— if  they  had  only  let  me.' 

"  Davidson  had  no  doubt  of  her  earnestness. 
It  was  of  Bamtz's  good  faith  that  he  was  not  at  aU 
sure  Bamtt  wanted  Davidson  to  promise  to  caU 
at  Mirrah  more  or  less  regularly.  He  thought  he 
saw  an  opening  to  do  business  with  rattans  there, 
if  only  he  could  depend  on  some  craft  to  bring  out 
trading  goods  and  take  away  his  produce. 

"  *  1  have  a  few  dollars  to  make  a  start  on.  The 
people  are  all  right.' 

"  He  had  come  there,  where  he  was  not  known, 
in  a  native  prau.  and  had  managed,  with  his  sedate 
manner  and  the  exactly  right  kind  of  yam  he  knew 
how  to  teU  to  the  natives,  to  ingratiate  himself  with 

the  chief  man. 
"  •  The  Orang  Kaya  has  given  me  that  empty 


I'miz 


BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS        ,43 

houM  there  to  live  in  as  long  as  I  will  stay,'  added 
Bamtz. 

"•Do  it    Davy/  cried  the  woman  suddenly. 

Think  of  that  poor  kid.' 
"•Seen  him?    'Cute  Uttle  customer,'  said  the 
reformed  loafer  in  such  a  tone  of  interest  as  to 
surprise  Davidson  into  a  kindly  glance. 

•"I  certainly  can  do  it, '  he  declared.  He  thought 
of  at  i  St  making  some  stipulation  as  to  Bamtz 
behaving  decently  to  the  woman,  but  his  exagger- 
ated delicacy  and  also  the  conviction  that  such  a 
feUow's  promises  were  worth  nothing  restrained 
hmi.  Anne  went  a  Uttle  distance  down  the  path 
with  him  talking  anxiously. 

"  '  It's  for  the  kid.  How  could  I  have  kept  him 
with  me  if  I  had  to  knock  about  in  towns?  Here 
he  will  never  know  that  his  mother  was  a  painted 
woman.  And  this  Bamtz  likes  him.  He's  real 
fond  of  him.  I  suppose  I  ought  to  thank  God 
tor  that. 

•;  Davidson  shuddered  at  any  human  creature 
bemg  brought  so  low  as  to  have  to  thank  God  for 
the  favours  or  affection  of  a  Bamtz. 

"  'And  do  you  think  that  you  can  make  out  to 
live  here? '  he  asked  gently. 

Can't  I?  You  know  I  have  always  stuck  to 
men  through  thick  and  thin  till  they  had  enough 
of  me.    And  now  look  at  me!    But  inside  I  am  as 


I 


244        BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS 

I  always  was.  I  have  acted  on  the  square  to  them 
all  one  after  another.  Only  they  do  get  tired  some- 
how. Oh,  Davy!  Harry  ought  not  to  have  cast 
me  off.    It  was  he  that  led  me  astray.' 

"  Davidson  mentioned  to  her  that  Harry  the 
Pearler  had  been  dead  now  for  some  years.  Per- 
haps she  had  heard? 

"  She  made  a  sign  that  she  had  heard;  and 
walked  by  the  side  of  Davidson  in  silence  nearly  to 
the  bank.  Then  she  told  him  that  her  meeting 
with  him  had  brought  back  the  old  times  to  her 
mind.  She  had  not  cried  for  years.  She  was  not  a 
crying  woman  either.  It  was  hearing  herself  called 
Laughing  Anne  that  had  started  her  sobbing  Uke  a 
fool.  Harry  was  the  only  man  she  had  loved. 
The  others 

"  She  shrugged  her  shoulders.  But  she  prided 
herself  on  her  loyalty  to  the  successive  partners  of 
her  dismal  adventures.  She  had  never  played 
any  tricks  in  her  Ufe.  She  was  a  pal  worth  having. 
But  men  did  get  tired.  They  did  not  understand 
women.    She  supposed  it  had  to  be. 

"  Davidson  was  attempting  a  veiled  warning  as 
to  Bamtz,  but  she  interrupted  him.  She  knew 
what  men  were.  She  knew  what  this  man  was 
like.  But  he  had  taken  wonderfully  to  the  kid. 
And  Davidson  desisted  wiUingly,  saying  to  himself 
that  surely  poor  Laughing  Anne  could  have  no 


BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS        245 

iUusions  by  this  time.    She  wrung  his  hand  hard 
at  parting. 

I«!''*k*''k'-'"u"''  ^'^'  ^^^-"'s  for  the  kid. 
Isn  t  he  a  bright  litUe  chap  ? ' 


II 

"All  this  happened  about  two  years  before  the 
day  when  Davidson,  fitting  in  this  very  room, 
talked  to  my  friend.  You  will  see  presently  how 
this  room  can  get  full.  Every  seat'll  be  occupied 
aad  as  you  notice,  the  tables  ar.  set  close,  so  that 
the  backs  of  the  chairs  are  ahnost  touching.    There 

?c?^  ^  ^"^  ^"^^  °*  "°''^  ^""^^  ^^'^  ^^^*-  °°« 
'•  I  don't  suppose  Davidson  was  talking  very 
loudly;   but  very  likely  he  had  to  raise  his  voici 
across  the  table  to  my  friend.    And  here  accident 
^ere  acadent,  put  in  its  work  by  providing  a  pai; 
of  fine  ears  close  behind  Davidson's  chair     ItvTs 
ten  to  one  against  the  owner  of  the  same  having 
enough  change  in  his  pockets  to  get  his  tiffin  here 
But  he  had.    Most  likely  had  rooked  somebody  of 
a  few  doUaxs  at  cards  overnight.    Hewasabr^ht 
creature  of  the  name  of  Fector,  a  spare,  shJrt 

jumpy  feUow  with  a  red  face  and  mudd^eyes     He 
described  himself  as  a  journalist  as  certain  kind  of 


246       BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS 

women  give  themselves  out  as  actresses  in  the  dock 
of  a  poUce-court. 

"  He  used  to  introduce  himself  to  strangers  as  a 
man  with  a  mission  to  track  out  abuses  and  fight 
them  whenever  found.  He  would  also  hint  that 
he  was  a  martyr.  And  it's  a  fact  that  he  had  been 
kicked,  horsewhipped,  imprisoned,  and  hounded 
with  ignominy  out  of  pretty  well  every  place 
between  Ceylon  and  Shanghai,  for  a  professional 
blackmailer. 

"  I  suppose,,  in  that  trade,  you've  got  to  have 
active  wits  and  sharp  ears.  It's  not  likely  that  he 
overheard  every  word  Davidson  said  about  his 
dollar  collecting  trip,  but  he  heard  enough  to  set  his 
wits  at  work. 

"  He  let  Davidson  go  out,  and  then  hastened 
away  down  to  the  native  slums  to  a  sort  of  lodging- 
house  kept  in  partnership  by  the  usual  sort  of 
Portuguese  and  a  very  disreputabk  Chinaman. 
Macao  Hotel,  it  was  called,  but  it  was  mostly  a 
gambling  den  that  one  used  to  warn  fellows  against. 
Perhaps  you  remember? 

"  There,  the  evening  before,  Fector  had  met  a 
precious  couple,  a  partnership  even  more  queer 
than  the  Portuguese  and  the  Chinaman.  One  of 
the  two  was  Niclaus — you  know.  Why!  the 
fellow  with  a  Tartar  moustache  and  a  yellow  com- 
plexion, hke  a  MongoUan,  only  that  his  eyes  were 


BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS  247 
set  straight  and  his  face  was  not  so  flat.  One 
couldn't  teU  what  breed  he  was.  A  nondescript 
beggar.  From  a  certain  angle  you  would  think 
a  very  bilious  white  man.  And  I  daresay  he  was. 
He  owned  a  Malay  prau  and  called  himself  The 
Nakhoda,  as  one  would  say:  The  Captain.  Aha  I 
Now  you  remember.  He  couldn't,  apparently, 
speak  any  other  European  language  than  English, 
but  he  flew  the  Dutch  flag  on  his  prau. 

"  The  other  was  the  Frenchman  without  hands. 
Yes.  The  very  same  we  used  to  know  in  '79  in] 
Sydney,  keeping  a  Uttle  tobacco  shop  at  the  lower 
end  of  George  Street.  You  remember  the  huge 
carcase  hunched  up  behind  the  counter,  the  big 
white  face  and  the  long  bkck  hair  brushed  back 
off  a  high  forehead  like  a  bard's.  He  was  always 
trying  to  roU  cigarettes  on  his  knee  with  his  stumps, 
telling  endless  yams  of  Polynesia  and  whining  and 
cursing  in  turn  about  '  mon  nudheur:  His  hands 
had  been  blown  away  by  a  dynamite  cartridge 
whUe  fishing  in  some  lagoon.  This  accident,  I 
believe,  had  made  him  more  wicked  than  before, 
which  is  saying  a  good  deal. 

"He  was  always  talking  about  'resuming  his 
activities '  some  day,  whatever  they  were,  -f  he 
could  only  get  an  intelligent  companion.  It  was 
evidoit  that  the  Uttle  shop  was  no  field  for  his 
activities,  and  the  sickly  woman  with  her  face  tied 


^^^ 


248 


BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS 


up,  who  used  to  look  in  sometimes  through  the  back 
door,  was  no  companion  for  him. 

"  And,  true  enough,  he  vanished  from  Sydney 
before  long,  after  some  trouble  with  the  Excise 
fellows  about  his  stock.  Goods  stolen  out  of  a 
warehouse  or  something  similar.  He  left  the  woman 
behind,  but  he  must  have  secured  some  sort  of 
companion — he  could  not  have  shifted  for  himself; 
but  whom  he  went  away  with,  anJ  wher?,  and  what 
other  companions  he  might  have  picked  up  after- 
wards, it  is  impossible  to  make  the  remotest  guess 
about. 

"  Why  exactly  he  came  this  way  I  can't  tell. 
Towards  the  end  of  my  time  here  we  began  to  hear 
talk  of  a  maimed  Frenchman  who  had  been  seen 
here  and  there.  But  no  one  knew  then  that  he 
had  foregathered  with  Niclaus  and  lived  in  his 
prau.  I  daresay  he  put  Niclaus  up  to  a  thing  or 
two.  Anyhow,  it  was  a  partnership.  Niclaus  was 
somewhat  afraid  of  the  Frenchman  on  account  of 
his  tempers,  which  were  awful.  He  looked  then  Uke 
a  devil;  but  a  man  without  hands,  unable  to  load 
or  handle  a  weapon,  can  at  best  go  for  one  only 
with  his  teeth.  From  that  danger  Niclaus  felt 
certain  he  could  always  defend  himself. 

"  The  couple  were  alone  together  loafing  in  the 
common-room  of  that  infamous  hotel  when  Fector 
turned  up.    After  some  beating  about  the  bush. 


BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS        249 
for  he  was  doubtful  how  far  he  could  trust  these 
two.  he  repeated  what  he  had  overheard  in  the 
■     tiffin-rooms. 

••  His  tale  did  not  have  much  success  till  he  came 
to  mention  the  creek  and  Bamtz's  name.  Niclaus 
saJmg  about  like  a  native  in  a  prau,  was,  in  his 
own  words, '  familiar  with  the  locality.  The  huge 
Frenchman,  walking  up  and  down  the  room  with 
h.s  stumps  in  the  pockets  of  his  jacket,  stopped 
short m surprise.     'Comment?    Bamtz!    BanUz'' 

He  had  run  across  him  several  times  in  his  Ufe 
He  exclaimed:  '  Bamtz,  Mais  je  ne  cannais  que 
cal  And  he  appHed  such  a  contemptuously  in- 
decent epithet  to  Bamtz  that  when,  later,  he  alluded 
to  hun  as  •  une  chiffe  '  (a  mere  rag)  it  sounded  quite 
comphmentary.  •  We  can  do  with  him  what  we 
Hite,    he  asserted  confidently.    'Oh    yes     Cer 

tamly  we  must  hasten  to  pay  a  visit  to  that ' 

(another  awful  descriptive  epithet  quite  unfit  for 
repetition).  •  Devil  take  me  if  we  don't  puU  ofi 
a  coup  that  will  set  us  all  up  for  a  long  time  ' 

'•  He  saw  all  that  lot  of  doUars  melted  into  bars 
and  disposed  of  somewhere  on  the  China  coast 
Of  the  escape  after  the  coup  he  never  doubted 
There  was  Niclaus's  prau  to  manaje  that  in 

In  his  enthusiasm  he  puUed  his  stumps  out 
of  his  pockets  and  waved  them  about.    Then, 


catching  sight  of  them,  as  it  were,  he 


held  them  in 


250        BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS 

front  of  his  eyes,  cursing  and  blaspheming  and 
bewailing  his  misfortune  and  his  helplessness,  till 
Niclaus  quieted  him  down. 

"  But  it  was  his  mind  that  planned  out  the  afiair 
and  it  was  his  spirit  which  carried  the  other  two  on. 
Neither  of  them  was  of  the  bold  buccaneer  type; 
and  Fector,  especially,  had  never  in  his  adventurous 
life  used  other  weapons  than  slander  and  lies. 

"  That  very  evening  they  departed  on  a  visit  to 
Bamtz  in  Niclaus's  prau,  which  had  been  lying, 
emptied  of  her  cargo  of  cocoanuts,  for  a  day  or  two 
under  the  canal  bridge.  They  must  have  crossed 
the  bows  of  the  anchored  Sissie,  and  no  doubt 
looked  at  her  with  interest  as  the  scene  of  their 
future  exploit,  the  great  haul,  le  grand  coup  I 

"  Davidson's  wife,  to  his  great  surprise,  sulked 
with  him  for  several  days  before  he  left.  I  don't 
know  whether  it  occurred  to  him  that,  for  all  her 
angelic  profile,  she  was  a  very  stupidly  obstinate 
girl.  She  didn't  like  the  tropics.  He  had  brought 
her  out  there,  where  she  had  no  friends,  and 
now,  she  said,  he  was  becoming  inconsiderate.  She 
had  a  presentiment  of  some  misfortune,  and  not- 
withstanding Davidson's  painstaking  explanations, 
she  could  not  see  why  her  presentiments  were  to 
be  disregarded.  On  the  very  last  evening  before 
Davidson  went  away  she  asked  him  in  a  suspicious 
manner: 


BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS        ,51 

•"  I  am  not  anxious,'  protested  the  good  David- 
son '  I  simply  can't  help  myself.  There's  no 
one  else  to  go  in  my  place.' 

slowly.^'  ^'"''  "°  °"'''  ^'  '^^'  *'™'"e  *^y 
•■  She  was  so  distant  with  him  that  evening  that 
Da^adson  from  a  sense  of  delicacy  made  up  his 
mmd  to  say  good-bye  to  her  at  once  and  go  and 
s^eep  on  board.  He  felt  very  miserable  and 
strangely  enough,  more  on  his  own  account  than 
on  account  of  his  wife.  She  seemed  to  him  much 
more  offended  than  grieved. 

•■  Three  weeks  later,  having  collected  a  good  many 
cases  of  old  doUars  (they  were  stowed  aft  in  the 
azarette  with  an  iron  bar  and  a  padlock  securing 
he  hatch  under  his  cabin-table),  yes,  with  a  bigger 
lo  than  he  had  expected  to  coUect,  he  found  hL- 
self  homeward  bomid  and  off  the  entrance  of  the 
creek  where  Bamtz  Uved  and  even,  in  a  sense 
flounshed.  ' 

•*  It  v^  so  late  in  the  day  that  Davidson 
actuaUy  hesitated  whether  he  should  not  pass  by 
thistmie.  He  had  no  regard  for  Bamtz,  who  was 
a  degraded  but  not  a  really  unhappy  man.  His 
pity  for  Laughing  Anne  was  no  more  than  her  case 
deserved.    But  his  goodness  was  of  a  particularly 


252        BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS 

delicate  sort.  He  realised  how  these  people  were 
dependent  on  him,  and  how  they  would  feel  their 
dependence  (if  he  failed  to  turn  up)  through  a 
long  month  of  anxious  waiting.  Prompted  by  his 
sensitive  humanity,  Davidson,  in  the  gathering 
dusk,  turned  the  Sissie's  head  towards  the  hardly 
discernible  coast,  and  navigated  her  safety  through 
a  maze  of  shallow  patches.  But  by  the  time  he 
got  to  the  mouth  of  the  creek  the  night  had  come. 

"  The  narrow  waterway  lay  like  a  black  cutting 
through  the  forest.  And  as  there  were  always 
grounded  snaggs  in  the  channel  which  it  would 
be  unpossible  to  make  out,  Davidson  very  prudently 
turned  the  Sissie  round,  and  with  only  enough  steam 
on  the  boilers  to  give  her  a  touch  ahead  if  necessary, 
let  her  drift  up  stem  first  with  the  tide,  silent  and 
invisible  in  the  impenetrable  darkness  and  in  the 
dumb  stillness. 

"  It  was  a  long  job,  and  when  at  the  end  of  two 
hours  Davidson  thought  he  must  be  up  to  the 
clearing,  the  settlement  slept  aheady,  the  whole 
land  of  forests  and  rivers  was  asleep. 

"  Davidson,  seeing  a  soUtary  light  in  the  massed 
darkness  of  the  shore,  knew  that  it  was  burning 
in  Bamtz's  house.  This  was  imexpected  at  this 
time  of  the  night,  but  convenient  as  a  guide.  By 
a  turn  of  the  screw  and  a  touch  of  the  helm  he 
sheered   the   Sissie  alongside   Bamtz's  wharf— 


BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS        853 
a  miserable  structure  of  a  dozen  piles  and  a  few 
planks,  of  which  the  ex-vagabond  was  very  proud 
A  couple  of  Kalashes  jumped  down  on  it,  took  a 
turn  with  the  ropes  thrown  to  them  round  the  posts 
and  the  Sissie  came  to  rest  without  a  single  loud 
word  or  the  slightest  noise.    And  just  in  time  too 
for  the  tide  turned  even  before  she  was  properly 
moored.  r    i~  j' 

"  Davidson  had  something  to  eat,  and  then 
commg  on  deck  for  a  last  look  round,  noticed  that 
the  light  was  still  burning  in  the  house. 

"  This  was  very  unusual,  but  since  they  were 
awake  so  late,  Davidson  thought  that  he  would 
go  up  to  say  that  he  was  in  a  hurry  to  be  off  and 
to  ask  that  what  rattans  there  were  in  store  should 
be  sent  on  board  with  the  first  sign  of  dawn. 

"  He  stepped  carefuUy  over  the  shaky  planks  not 
bemg  anxious  to  get  a  sprained  ankle,  and  picked 
his  way  across  the  waste  ground  to  the  foot  of  the 
house  ladder.  The  house  was  but  a  glorified  hut 
on  piles,  unfenced  and  lonely. 

"  Like  many  a  stout  man,  Davidso..  .  very 
lightfooted.  He  climbed  the  seven  steps  or  so 
stepped  across  the  bamboo  platform  quietly  but 
what  he  saw  through  the  doorway  stopped' him 
short. 

"Four  men  were  sitting  by  the  light  of  a  solitary 
candle.    There  was  a  bottle,  a  jug  and  glasses  on 


354        BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS 

the  table,  but  they  were  not  engaged  in  drinking. 
Two  packs  of  cards  were  lying  there  too,  but  they 
were  not  preparing  to  play.  They  were  talking 
together  in  whispers,  and  remained  quite  unaware 
of  him.  He  himself  was  too  astonished  to  make 
a  sound  for  some  time.  The  world  was  still, 
except  for  the  sibilation  of  the  whispering  heads 
bunched  together  over  the  table. 

"  And  Davidson,  as  I  have  quoted  him  to  you 
before,  didn't  Uke  it.    He  didn't  Uke  it  at  all. 

"  The  situation  ended  with  a  scream  proceeding 
from  the  dark,  interior  part  of  the  room.  '  O 
Davy  I  you've  given  me  a  turn.' 

"  Davidson  made  out  beyond  the  table  Anne's 
very  pale  face.  She  laughed  a  Uttle  hysterically, 
out  of  the  deep  shadows  between  the  gloomy  mat 
walls.    'Hal  ha!  hal ' 

"  The  four  heads  sprang  apart  at  the  first  sound, 
and  four  pairs  of  eyes  became  fixed  stonily  on 
Davidson.  The  woman  came  forward,  having  little 
more  on  her  than  a  loose  chintz  wrapper  and  straw 
sUppers  on  her  bare  feet.  Her  head  was  tied  up 
Malay  fashion  in  a  red  handkerchief,  with  a  mass 
of  loose  hair  hanging  under  it  behind.  Her  pro- 
fessional, gay,  European  feathers  had  Uterally 
dropped  off  her  in  the  course  of  these  two  years, 
but  a  long  necklace  of  amber  beads  himg  round 
her  uncovered  neck.    It  was  the  only  ornament  shej 


BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS        ,35 

tri^vlf ;  ^^^  ^^  "''^  *"  ^''  poor-enough 
tnnket.  dunng  the  flight  from  Salgon-when  th^r 
association  began. 

li«hfUrV°"^'''  P***  "•'  **^''''  '"t"  the 
tlnln  "'"*'   ^'"P'"^  «««*"'<'   of   ex- 

2e^.Tf'  "  *'^°"^'"  ''^  '^'^'  P°°'  *Wng'  had 
gone  bhnd  long  ago,  her  ,  hite  cheeks  hoUow  her 

eyes  darkly  wUd,  distracted,  as  Davidson  CgM 
She  came  on  swiftly,  grabbed  him  by  the  in' 
d^edhnnm.  '  It's  heaven  itself  thai  sends^u 
to-mgh  .  My  Tonys  so  bad-come  and  see  Z 
Come  along — do! ' 

••Davidson  submitted.  The  only  one  of  the 
men  to  move  was  Bamtz,  who  made  as  if  to  get 
up  but  dropped  back  in  his  chair  again.  Da,dd- 
son  m  passing  heard  him  mutter  confusedly  some- 
thmg  that  sounded  like  '  poor  little  beggar  ' 

cnil^''^^'^-  ^^^  ""^  ^"^^^  ^  »  miserable 
cot  knocked  up  out  of  gin-cases,  stared  at  David- 
son  w.th  wide,  drowsy  eyes.  It  was  a  bad  bout 
of  fever  clearly.  But  whUe  Davidson  was  promis- 
mg  to  go  on  board  and  fetch  some  medicines,  and 
gen«a^y  teymg  to  say  reassuring  things,  he  could 
not  help  bemg  struck  by  the  extraordinary  mam.er 
of  the  woman  standing  by  his  side.  Gazing  with 
despamng  expression  down  at  the  cot,  she  would 

T^ltz  '^  •'"^'=''  '"^^  «^-  ^*  ^ 

son  and  then  towards  the  other  room. 


3ISIK^J^  '*^ 


aje        BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS 

"  '  Yes,  my  poor  girl,'  he  whispered,  interpreting 
her  distraction  in  his  own  way,  though  he  bad 
nothing  precise  in  his  mind.  '  I'm  afraid  this  bode«> 
no  good  to  you.    How  is  it  they  are  here? ' 

"  She  seized  his  forearm  and  breathed  out 
forcibly:  '  No  good  to  me  I  Oh,  not  But  what 
about  you  I  They  are  after  the  dollars  you 
have  on  board.' 

"  Davidson  let  out  an  astonished  '  How  do  they 
know  there  are  any  dollars? ' 

"  She  clapped  her  hands  lightly,  in  distress. 
'  So  it's  true!  You  have  them  on  board?  Then 
look  out  for  yourself.' 

"  They  stood  gazing  down  at  the  boy  in  the  cot, 
aware  that  they  might  be  observed  from  the  other 
room. 

" '  We  must  get  him  to  perspire  as  soon  as 
possible,'  said  Davidson  in  his  ordinary  voice. 
'  You'll  have  to  give  him  hot  drink  of  aomt  kind. 
I  will  go  on  board  and  bring  you  a  spirit-kettle 
amongst  other  things.'  And  he  added  imder  his 
breath:  '  Do  they  actually  mean  murder? ' 

"  She  made  no  sign,  she  had  returned  to  her  deso- 
late contemplation  of  the  boy.  Davidson  thought 
she  had  not  heard  him  even,  when  with  an  un- 
changed expression  she  spoke  under  her  breath. 

" '  The  Frenchman  would,  in  a  minute.  The 
others  shirk  it— unless  you  resist.    He's  a  devil. 


BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS  257 
H«  keep,  them  going.  Without  hin,  they  would 
havedojjenothingbutuilc.  IVegotchumiy with 
JSthe^  "^  '"  '"  "''"  y""  are  with  a  n,a„ 
oTthi!  rJ""'^*''"°*-  Ba«-' is  terrified 
of  them.  «d  they  know  it.  He's  in  iv  from  f  ...7 
Oh.  Davyl  take  your  ship  away-  „urkl  ■ 

alreaJ?'**"'"^''^'^'^"-    '  ^^^-^  th.  ... 

"  •  If  the  kid  hadn't  been  i.,  this  sHac  I  would 
have  run  off  with  him-to  you-int.  .h.  .- Jl 
anywhere.  Oh.  Davyl  wiU  he  die>  '  sh.  cri^ 
aioud  suddenly.  ^^° 

"Davidson  met  three  men  in  the  doorway 
They  made  way  for  him  without  actually  daring 

whoTootd'^"-    ^^^^-^^--tl'-nlyonf 
who  looked  down  with  an  air  of  guiJt     The 

"'Isn't  it  unfortunate  about  that  child!    The 
distress  o  that  woman  there  upsets  me.  but  I  al 

Low'f"*'^""-  ^-"'^"'t-ooththesS 
^^owo,„.y  dearest  friend.  I  have  r.  hand. 
Would  you  mmd  sticking  one  of  those  -..are.^-c 
^ere  mto  the  mouth  of  a  poor,  hannl..  ^,,,; 
My^  nerves   want   soothing-upon   my   ho.:..;, 

"Davidson  complied  with  his  naturally  kind 


,  J- *''S''.  <■! 


1 31 


358        BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS 

smUe.  As  his  outward  placidity  becomes  only 
more  pronounced,  if  possible,  the  more  reason 
there  is  for  excitement;  and  as  Davidson's  eyes, 
when  his  wits  are  hard  at  work,  get  very  still  and 
as  if  sleepy,  the  huge  Frenchman  might  have  been 
justified  in  concluding  that  the  man  there  was  a 
mere  sheep— a  sheep  ready  for  slaughter.'  With  a 
•merci  bien'  he  uplifted  his  huge  carcase  to  reach 
the  Ught  of  the  candle  with  his  cigarette,  and 
Davidsor  left  the  house. 

"Going  down  to  the  ship  and  returning,  he 
had  time  to  consider  his  position.  At  first  he  was 
inclined  to  believe  that  these  men  (Niclaus— the 
white  Nakhoda— was  the  only  one  he  knew  by 
sight  before,  besides  Bamtz)  were  not  of  the  stamp 
to  proceed  to  extremities.  This  was  partly  the 
reason  why  he  never  attempted  to  take  any 
measures  on  board.  His  pacific  Kalasbes  were  not 
to  be  thought  of  as  against  white  men.  His 
wretched  engineer  would  have  had  a  fit  from  fright 
at  the  mere  idea  of  any  sort  of  combat.  Davidson 
knew  that  he  would  have  to  depend  on  himself  in 
this  affair  if  it  ever  came  off. 

"  Davidson  underestimated  naturally  the  driving 
power  of  the  Frenchman's  character  and  the  force 
of  the  actuating  motive.  To  that  man  so  hope- 
lessly crippled  these  dollars  were  an  enormous 
opportunity.    With  his  share  of  the  robbery  he 


HT^ixifr 


IF-'^3PWiil. 


BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS  259 
would  open  another  shop  in  Vladivostok  Hai- 
phong, Manila-somewhere  far  away 

"Neither  did  it  occur  to  Davidson,  who  is  a  man 
of  courage,  .f  ever  there  was  one.  that  his  psyXo 

that  to  th.s  particular  lot  of  ruffians,  who'udged 
hmi  by  h,s  appearance,  he  appeared  an  unsus 
Picious,  moffensive.  soft  creat^e,  as  Te  Zld 
agam  through  the  room,  his  hand   full  of  vS 
object,  and  parcels  destined  for  the  sick  ^y 

Bamt  !  ^r"""'"  ''"^S  ^"^  ^'^d  the  table, 
to  not  havmg  the  pluck  to  open  his  mouth. 
It  was  Niclaus  who,  as  a  collective  voice  called 
ouMo^him  thickly  to  come  out  soon  an'ir;' 

"  •  I  think  ru  have  to  stay  some  little  time  in 
here,  to  help  her  look  after  the  boy.'  B.^Ll 
answered  without  stopping. 

"  ™'  ^  ^  g°°d  thing  to  say  to  allay  a  possible 
usp.aon.    And.  as  it  was.  Davidson  felt  h^mu 
not  stay  very  long. 

"  He  sat  down  on  an  old  empty  nail-keg  near  the 
-Prov^sed  cot  and  looked  at  the  chifd  wht 
Laugh      A„„e,  moving  to  and  fro,  preparing  tj 

v^^^.J^"'  '"°*'°'^'''  "*  *^«  fl"^hed  face 
wh.s^edd.,omted  bits  of  information.  She  had 
succeeded  m  makmg  friends  with  that  French 


26o        BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS 

devil.  Davy  would  understand  that  she  knew 
how  to  make  herself  pleasant  to  a  man. 

"  And  Davidson  nodded  without  looking  at 
her. 

"  The  big  beast  had  got  to  be  quite  confidential 
with  her.  She  held  his  cards  for  him  when  they 
were  having  a  game.  Bamtz!  Oh!  Bamtz  in  his 
funk  was  only  too  glad  to  see  the  Frenchman 
humoured.  And  the  Frenchman  had  come  to  believe 
that  she  was  a  woman  who  didn't  care  what  she  did. 
That's  how  it  came  about  they  got  to  talk  before 
her  openly.  For  a  long  time  she  could  not  make 
out  what  game  they  were  up  to.  The  new  arrivals, 
not  expecting  to  find  a  woman  with  Bamtz,  had 
been  very  startled  and  annoyed  at  first,  she 
explained. 

"  She  busied  herself  in  attending  to  the  boy ; 
and  nobody  looking  into  that  room  would  have 
seen  anything  suspicious  in  those  two  people 
exchanging  murmurs  by  the  sick-bedside. 

"  '  But  now  they  think  I  am  a  better  man  than 
Bamtz  ever  was,'  she  said  with  a  faint  laugh. 

"  The  child  moaned.  She  went  down  ->n  her 
knees,  and,  bending  low,  contemplated  him  mourn- 
fully. Then  raising  her  head,  she  asked  Davidson 
whether  he  thought  the  child  would  get  better. 
Davidson  was  sure  of  it.  She  murmiu-ed  sadly: 
'  Poor  kid.    There's  nothing  in  life  for  such  as  he. 


BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS        261 

Not  a  dog's  chance.    r.:t  I  couldn't  let  him  go, 
Davy!    I  couldn't.' 

"Davidson  felt  a  profound  pity  for  the  child. 
She  laid  her  hand  on  his  knee  and  whispered  an 
earnest  warning  against  the  Frenchman.  Davy 
must  never  let  him  come  to  close  quarters.  Natur- 
ally Davidson  wanted  to  know  the  reason,  for  a 
man  without  hands  did  not  strike  him  a^  very 
formidable  under  any  circumstances. 

'•  'Mind  you  don't  let  him-that's  aU,'  she  in- 
sisted anxiously,  hesitated,  and  then  confessed  that 
:*'    P^^n^^hman  had  got  her  away  from  the  others 

pit.  (i 

do  u  if 
-'•  iper 

io    h  1 


fioon  and  had  ordered  her  to  tie  a  seven- 
'■  -eight  (out  of  the  set  of  weights  Bamtz 
■»'  ■«)  to  his  right  stump.  She  had  to 
'»•«■  She  had  been  afraid  of  his  savage 
••■  "tz  was  such  a  craven,  and  neither  of 
■-^■"  would  have  cared  what  happened 
■  '«  Frenchman,  however,  with  many 
'  V  '  •■  •.  -ts  had  warned  her  not  to  let  the  others 
xno^  What  she  had  done  for  him.  Afterwards  he 
hadbeentryingtocajoleher.  He  had  promised  he. 
that  If  she  stood  by  him  faithfully  in  this  business 
he  would  take  her  with  him  to  Hai-phong  or  some 
other  place.  A  poor  cripple  needed  somebocy  to 
take  care  of  him— always. 

"  Davidson  asked  her  again  if  they  really  meant 
'n.schKf.    It  was,  he  told  me,  th.  hardest  thing  to 


26a    BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS 

believe  he  had  run  up  against,  as  yet,  in  his  hfe. 
Anne  nodded.  The  Frenchmar.'s  heart  was  set 
on  this  robbery.  Davy  might  expect  them,  about 
midnight,  creeping  on  board  his  ship,  to  steal 
anyhow — to  murc_ . ,  perhaps.  Her  voice  sounded 
weary,  and  her  eyes  remained  fastened  on  her 
child. 

"  And  still  Davidson  could  not  accept  it  some- 
how ;  his  contempt  for  these  men  was  too  great. 

"  '  Look  here,  Davy,'  she  said.  '  I'll  go  outside 
with  them  when  they  start,  and  it  will  be  hard 
luck  if  I  don't  find  something  to  laugh  at.  They 
are  used  to  that  from  me.  Laugh  or  cry — what's 
the  odds.  You  will  be  able  to  hear  me  on  board 
on  this  quiet  night.  Dark  it  is  too.  Oh !  it's  dark, 
Davy! — it's  dark!  ' 

"  '  Don't  you  run  any  risks,"  said  Davidson. 
Presently  he  called  her  attention  to  the  boy,  who, 
less  flushed  now,  had  dropped  into  a  sound  sleep. 
'  Look.    He'll  be  all  right.' 

"  She  made  as  if  to  snatch  the  child  up  to  her 
breast,  but  restrained  herself.  Davidson  prepared 
to  go.    She  whisfiered  hurriedly : 

"'Mind,  Davy!  I've  told  them  that  you 
generally  sleep  aft  in  the  hammock  under  the 
awning  over  the  cabin.  They  have  beer  asking 
me  about  your  ways  and  about  your  ship,  too.  I 
told  them  all  I  knew.     I  had  to  keep  in  with  them. 


i 


BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS        263 

And  Bamtz  would  have  told  them  if  I  hadn't— you 
understand? ' 

"  He  made  a  friendly  sign  and  went  out.  The 
men  about  the  table  (except  Bamtz)  looked  at 
him.  This  time  it  was  Fector  who  spoke.  'Won't 
you  join  us  in  a  quiet  game,  Captain? ' 

"  Davidson  said  that  now  the  child  was  better 
he  thought  he  would  go  on  board  and  turn  in 
Fector  was  the  only  one  of  the  four  whom  he  had, 
so  to  speak,  never  seen,  for  he  had  had  a  good  look 
at  the  Frenchman  already.  He  observed  Fector's 
muddy  eyes,  his  mean,  bitter  mouth.  Davidson's 
contempt  for  those  men  rose  in  his  gorge,  while 
his  placid  smile,  his  gentle  tones  and  general  air  of 
innocence  put  heart  into  them.  They  exchanged 
meaning  glances. 

"'We  shall  be  sitting  late  over  the  cards,' 
Fector  said  in  his  harsh,  low  voice. 

Don't  make  more  noise  than  you  can  help.' 
•"Oh!   we  are  a  quiet  lot.    And  if  the  invalid 
shouldn't  be  so  weU.  she  wiU  be  sure  to  send  one 
of  us  down  to  call  you,  so  that  you  may  play  the 
doctor  again.    So  don't  shoot  at  sight.' 
"  '  He  isn't  i.  shooting  man,'  struck  in  Niclaus. 
"I  never  shoot  before  making  sure  there's  a 
reason  for  it— at  any  rate,'  said  Davidson. 

'■  Bamtz  let  out  a  sickly  snigger.    The  French- 
man alone  got  up  to  make  a  bow  to  Davidson's 


264        BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS 


I 


caxeless  nod.  His  stumps  were  stuck  immovably 
in  bis  pockets.  Davidson  understood  now  the 
reason. 

"  He  went  down  to  the  ship.  His  wits  were 
working  actively,  and  he  was  thoroughly  angry. 
He  smiled,  he  says  (it  must  have  been  the  first  grim 
smile  of  his  life),  at  the  thought  of  the  seven-pound 
weight  lashed  to  the  end  of  the  Frenchman's  stump. 
The  ruffian  had  taken  that  precaution  in  case  of  a 
quarrel  that  might  arise  over  the  division  of  the 
spoil.  A  man  with  an  unsuspected  power  to  deal 
killing  blows  could  take  his  own  part  in  a  sudden 
scrimmage  round  a  heap  of  money,  even  against 
adversaries  armed  with  revolvers,  especially  if  he 
himself  started  the  row. 

"  '  He's  ready  to  face  any  of  his  friends  with  that 
thing.  But  he  will  have  no  use  for  it.  There  will 
be  no  occasion  to  quarrel  about  these  dollars  here,' 
thought  Davidson,  getting  on  board  quietly.  He 
never  paused  to  look  if  there  was  anybody  about 
the  decks.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  most  of  his  crew 
were  on  shore,  and  the  rest  slept,  stowed  away  in 
dark  comers. 

'  He  had  his  plan,  and  he  went  to  work  me- 
thodically. , 

"  He  fetched  a  lot  of  clothing  from  below  and 
disposed  it  in  his  hammock  in  such  a  way  as  to 
distend  it  to  the  shape  of  a  human  body ;  then  he 


BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS  265 
threw  over  aU  the  light  cotton  sheet  he  used  to 
draw  over  himself  when  sleeping  on  deck.  Having 
done  this,  he  loaded  his  two  revolvers  and  clam- 
bered mto  one  of  the  boats  the  Sissie  carried  right 
aft.  swung  out  on  their  davits.    Then  he  waited. 

"  And  again  the  doubt  of  such  a  thing  happen- 
ing to  him  crept  into  his  mind.    He  was  abnost 
ashamed  of  this  ridiculous  vigil  in  a  boat     He 
became  bored.    And   then  he  became  drowsy 
The  stiUness  of  the  black  universe  wearied  him 
There  was  not  even  the  lapping  of  the  water  to 
keep  him  company,  for  the  tide  was  out  and  the 
Sissie  was  lying  on  soft  mud.    Suddenly  in  the 
breathless,  soundless,  hot  night  an  argus  pheasant 
screamed  in  the  woods  across  tha  stream.  Davidson 
started  violently.  aU  his  senses  on  the  alert  at  once 
"  The  candle  was  still  burning  in  the  h9use 
Everything  was  quiet  again,  but  Davidson'  felt 
drowsy  no  longer.    An  uneasy  premonition  of  evil 
oppressed  him. 

Surely  I  am  not  afraid, '  he  argued  with  himself. 
"  The  silence  was  like  a  seal  on  his  ears,  and  his 
nervous  inward  impatience  grev  intolerable.  He 
commanded  himself  to  keep  still.  But  all  the 
same  he  was  iust  going  to  jump  out  of  the  boat 
when  a  faint  ripple  on  the  immensity  of  silence 
a  mere  tremor  in  the  air,  tiie  ghost  of  a  silvery 
laugh,  reached  his  ears. 


266        BEr '.USE  OF  THE  DOLLARS 

"lUfsionl 

"  He  kept  very  still.  He  had  no  difficulty  now 
in  emulating  the  stillness  of  the  mouse — a  grimly 
determined  mouse.  But  he  could  not  shake  off 
that  premonition  of  evil  unrelated  to  the  mere 
danger  of  the  situi.'  n.  Nothing  happened.  It 
had  been  an  illus'  ~>'. ' 

"  A  curiosity  ame  to  him  to  learn  how  they 
would  go  to  work.  He  wondered  and  wondered, 
till  the  whole  thing  seemed  more  absurd  than  ever. 

"  He  had  left  the  hanging  lamp  in  the  cabin 
burning  as  usual.  It  was  part  of  his  plan  that 
everything  should  be  as  usual.  Suddenly  in  the  dim 
glow  of  the  skyhght  panes  a  bulky  shadow  came 
up  the  ladder  without  a  sound,  made  two  steps 
towards  the  hammock  (it  hung  right  over  the 
skyhght),  and  stood  motionless.    The  Frenchman! 

"  The  minutes  began  to  slip  away.  Davidson 
guessed  that  the  Frenchman's  part  (the  poor 
cripple)  was  to  watch  his  (Davidson's)  slmnbers 
while  the  others  were  no  doubt  in  the  cabin  busy 
forcing  off  the  lazarette  hatch. 

"  What  was  the  course  they  meant  to  pursue 
once  they  got  hold  of  the  silver  (there  were  ten 
cases,  and  each  could  be  carried  easily  by  two  men) 
nobody  can  tell  now.  But  so  far,  Davidson  was 
right.  They  were  in  the  cabin.  He  expected  to 
hear  the  sounds  of  breaking-in  every  moment. 


BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS  267 
But  the  fact  was  that  one  of  them  (perhaps  Fector, 
who  had  stolen  papers  out  of  desks  in  his  time) 
knew  how  to  pick  a  lock,  and  apparently  was 
provided  with  the  tools.  Thus  while  Davidson 
expected  every  moment  to  hear  them  begin  down 
there,  they  had  the  bar  off  already  and  two  cases 
actually  up  in  the  cabin  out  of  the  lazarette. 

"  In  the  diffi-,  d  faint  glow  of  the  skylight  the 
Frenchman  moved  no  more  than  a  statue.  David- 
son could  have  .hot  him  with  the  greatest  ease- 
but  he  was  not  homicidally  inclined.  Moreover 
he  wanted  to  make  sure  before  opening  fire  that 
the  others  had  gone  to  work.  Not  hearing  the 
sci.ads  he  expected  to  hear,  he  felt  uncertain 
whether  they  all  were  on  board  yet. 

"While  he  listened,  the  Frenchman,  whose 
unmobUity  might  have  but  cloaked  an  internal 
struggle,  moved  forward  a  pace,  then  another 
Davidson,  entranced,  watched  him  advance  one  leg 
withdraw  his  right  stump,  the  anned  one,  out  of 
his  pocket,  and  swinging  his  body  to  put  greater 
force  mto  the  blow,  bring  the  seven-pound  weight 
down  on  the  hammock  where  the  head  of  the  sleeper 
ought  to  have  been. 

"  Davidson  admitted  to  me  that  his  hair  stirred 
at  the  roots  then.  But  for  Anne,  his  unsuspecting 
head  would  have  been  there.  The  Frenchman's 
surpnse  must  have  been  simply  overwhehning 


I!  !;i 


II 


a68        BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS 

He  staggered  away  from  the  lightly  swinging 
hammock,  and  before  Davidson  could  make  a 
movement  he  had  vanished,  bounding  down  the 
ladder  to  warn  and  alarm  the  other  fellows. 

"  Davidson  sprang  instantly  out  of  the  boat, 
threw  up  the  skylight  flap,  and  had  a  glimpse  of 
the  men  down  there  crouching  round  the  hatch. 
They  looked  up  scared,  and  at  that  moment  the 
Frenchman  outside  the  door  bellowed  out '  Trahison 
—trahison  I '  They  bolted  out  of  the  cabin,  falling 
over  each  other  and  swearing  awfully.  The  shot 
Davidson  let  off  down  the  skylight  had  hit  no 
one;  but  he  ran  to  the  edge  of  the  cabin-top  and 
at  once  opened  fire  at  the  dark  shapes  rushing 
about  the  deck.  These  shots  were  returned,  and 
a  rapid  fusillade  burst  out,  reports  and  flashes, 
Davidson  dodging  behind  a  ventilator  and  pulUng 
the  trigger  till  his  revolver  clicked,  and  then  throw- 
ing it  down  to  take  the  other  in  his  right  hand. 

"  He  had  been  hearing  in  the  din  the  French- 
man's infuriated  yells  '  Tuez-le  t—tuez-k ! '  above 
the  fierce  cursing  of  the  others.  But  though  they 
fired  at  him  they  were  only  thinking  of  clearing 
out.  In  the  flashes  of  the  last  shots  Davidson 
saw  them  scrambling  over  the  rail.  That  he  had 
hit  more  than  one  he  was  certain.  Two  different 
voices  had  cried  out  in  pain.  But  apparently 
none  of  them  were  disabled. 


BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS        269 
'■  Davidson  leaned  against  the  bulwark  reload- 
ing his  revolver  without  haste.    He  had  not  the 
shghtest  apprehension  of  their  coming  back     On 
the  other  hand,  he  had  no  intention  of  pursuing 
them  on  shore  in  the  dark.    What  they  were  doing 
he  had  no  idea.     Looking  to  their  hurts  probably 
Not  very  far  from  the  bank  the  invisible  French- 
man was  blaspheming  and  cursing  his  associates 
lus  luck,  and  all  the  world.    Heceased;  thenwitha 
sudden,  vengeful  yeU. '  Ifs  that  womanl-ifs  that 

•'  Davidson  caught  his  breath  in  a  sudden  pane 
of  remorse.  He  perceived  with  dismay  that  th! 
stratagem  of  his  defence  had  given  Amie  away 
He  did  not  hesitate  a  mo-ient.  It  was  for  him  to 
save  her  now.  He  leaped  ashore.  But  even  as  he 
landed  on  the  wharf  he  heard  a  shrill  shriek  which 
pierced  his  very  soul. 

"The  light  was  still  burning  in  the  house 
Davidson,  revolver  in  hand,  was  making  for  it 
when  another  shriek,  away  to  his  left,  made  him 
change  his  direction. 

"He  changed  his  direction-but  very  soon  he 
stopped.     It  was  then  that  he  hesitated  in  cruel 
perplexity.    He    guessed    what    had    happened 
The  woman  had  managed  to  escape  from  the  house 
>n  some  way,  and  now  was  being  chased  in  the 


Mic«ocofr  aisoiuTiON  tbt  chart 

(ANSI  and  ISO  TEST  CHART  No.  2) 


^  APPLIED  IIVHGE    In 

^^^  1653  East  Moin  Street 

ST^  Rochester,   New   York         14609       USA 

•,^S  (716)  482  -  03O0  -  Phone 

^S  ("6)  288  -  5989  -  Fox 


I 


a70        BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS 

open  by  the  infuriated  Frenchman.  He  trusted  she 
would  try  to  run  on  board  for  protection. 

"  All  was  still  around  Davidson.  Whether  she 
had  run  on  board  or  not,  this  silence  meant  that 
the  Frenchman  had  lost  her  in  the  dark. 

"  Davidson,  reheved,  but  still  very  anxious, 
turned  towards  the  river-side.  He  had  not  made 
two  steps  in  that  direction  when  another  shriek 
burst  out  behind  him,  again  close  to  the  house. 

"  He  thinks  that  the  Frenchman  had  lost 
sight  of  the  poor  woman  right  enough.  Then  came 
that  period  of  silence.  But  the  horrible  ruf&an 
had  not  given  up  his  murderous  purpose.  He 
reasoned  that  she  would  try  to  steal  back  to  her 
child,  and  went  to  he  in  wait  for  her  near  the  house. 

"  It  must  have  been  something  hke  that.  As 
she  entered  the  Ught  falling  about  the  house- 
ladder,  he  had  rushed  at  her  too  soon,  impatient 
for  vengeance.  She  had  let  out  that  second  scream 
of  mortal  fear  when  she  caught  sight  of  him,  and 
turned  to  run  for  life  again. 

"  This  tune  she  was  making  for  the  river,  but 
not  in  a  straight  line.  Her  shrieks  circled  about 
Davidson.  He  turned  on  his  heels,  foUowing  the 
horrible  trail  of  sound  in  the  darkness.  He  wanted 
to  shout  '  This  way,  Anne!  I  am  here! '  but  he 
couldn't.  At  the  horror  of  this  chase,  more  ghastly 
in  his  imagination  than  if  he  could  have  seen  it. 


iili 


BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS        271 
scream  was  cut  short  suddenly  ^""' 

^ui:'^StrHerTr°'^^'-^- 

spot  and  walked  st Sght  ^0"!  '""  *'^ 

revolver  and  peering?!  .lu'  ^PP'"8  ^^^ 
Suddenly  a  buTk"!  "''^^"rity  fearfully. 

within  a  L  y  rd    :rh^^^^^  '""^  ^--^ 

instinctiveiyhr;^7trst::ttdt"'^'.^^^^- 

body.  He  picked  himself  unanH'""''""''^ 
his  knees,  tried  to  IfH "  in  H  '""''"'"^  °" 
her  so  limp  that  he  g  ve t  "  17'  ."'  '^" 
her  face,  her  long  hair  slat^!"  /  """"  '^"^  °° 
Some  of  it  was  wet     n    T       °"  '^'  «^°""d. 

hea^cameHSe^hrtrcSr"^^' 
way  under  his  fingers     j,,^ ''"''^^^  ^one  gave 

^scove^heknewth^shewa  :::;   '^Th:^  '"-' 

battering  in  her  stu^'^T.  °"  '^^'^  "-J^-  was 
had  fastened  ;  uZZl  I  "^'^'*  '""^  ^"^^ 
expected  Dav.^'  ^  red  utTn  th^  ^°*f  ^  """ 
scared  him  away.  ^       *''"  "'^''*  *°d 


272        BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS 

"  Davidson,  kneeling  by  the  side  of  that  woman 
done  so  miserably  to  death,  was  overcome  by  re- 
morse. She  had  died  for  him.  His  manhood  was 
as  «  stunned.  For  the  first  time  he  felt  afraid. 
He  might  have  been  pounced  upon  in  the  dark  at 
any  moment  by  the  murderer  of  Laughing  Amie. 
He  confesses  to  the  impulse  of  creeping  away  from 
that  pitiful  corpse  on  his  hands  and  knees  to  the 
refuge  of  the  ship.  He  even  says  that  he  actually 
began  to  do  so.  .  .  • 

"  One  can  hardly  picture  to  oneself  Davidson 
crawling  away  on  all  fours  from  the  murdered 
woman— Davidson  unmanned  and  crushed  by  the 
idea  that  she  had  died  for  him  in  a  sense.  But 
he  could  not  have  gone  very  far.  What  stopped 
him  was  the  thought  of  the  boy,  Laughing  Anne's 
child,  that  (Davidson  remembered  her  very  words) 
would  not  have  a  dog's  chance. 

"This  life  the  woman  had  left  behind  her 
appeared  to  Davidson's  conscience  in  the  Ught  of 
a  sacred  trust.  He  assumed  an  erect  attitude 
and,  quaking  inwardly  still,  turned  about  and 
walked  towards  the  house. 

"  For  aU  his  tremors  he  was  very  determined; 
but  that  smashed  skull  had  affected  his  imagina- 
tion, and  he  felt  very  defenceless  in  the  darkness, 
in  which  he  seemed  to  hear  faintly  now  here,  now 
there,  the  prowling  footsteps  of  the  murderer  with- 


BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS        273 

out  hands.  But  he  never  faltered  in  his  purpose 
He  got  away  with  the  boy  «fely  aftTau' 
The  hou^  he  found  empty.  A  profound  Lee 
encompassed  him  aU  the  time,  except  once    ^  I 

when'  f  "fli^r  '''  ""''''  ^''  ^""^Tin  hi:';^ 
wnen  a  famt  groan  reached  his  ears.    It  seemed  to 
come  from  the  pitch-black  space  betw  "n'^^t 

Si::::^;^"^-^^-^-— idnot^tS 

J  "k  "°J'''  *'"^"^  y°"  ^  ^^t^"  how  Davidson 

2  e^d  thrust  into  his  anns;  how  next  mCng 

S  s^eofar'  ^'*V^""^g  fro™  a  distancf 
the  state  of  affairs  on  board,  rejoined  with  alacrity 
how  Davidson  went  ashore  and,   aided  bv  Ms 

i^ughmg  Anne's  body  in  a  cotton  sheet  «nH 
brought  it  on  board  for  burial  at  sea"  ten    wSe 

bud^^d'^^  "1  ir '"'  °'  "'^^^  '='°"'- 

Th;.f  i*         i  comer-post  of  the  house 

not  doubrx  ;  ''""'"^"  '^«  ^''^  ^«  -^cl 
not  doubt.   Takmg  it  in  connection  with  the  dismal 

srii^r^r'^^'^-^^'^^'^^^^^^p'ty 

-•n^er^oCrA^^-™-- 

As  to  the  others.  Davidson  never  set  eves  o„ 

a-gleoneofthem.    Whether  they  hadlo^^^:," 


274        BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS 

themselves  in  the  scared  settlement,  or  bolted  into 
the  forest,  or  were  hiding  on  board  Niclaus's  prau, 
which  could  be  seen  lying  on  the  mud  a  hundred 
yards  or  so  higher  up  the  creek,  the  fact  is  that  they 
vanished;  and  Davidson  did  not  trouble  his  head 
about  them.    He  lost  no  time  in  getting  out  of 
the  creek  directly  the  Sissie  floated.    After  steam- 
ing some  twenty  miles  clear  of  the  coast,  he  (in 
his  own  words)  '  committed  the  body  to  the  deep.' 
He  did  everything,himself .    He  weighted  her  down 
with  a  few  fire-bars,  he  read  the  service,  he  lifted 
the  plank,  he  was  the  only  mourner.    And  while 
he  was  rendering  these  last  services  to  the  dead, 
the   desolation   of   that   life   and   the   atrocious 
wretchedness  of  its  end  cried  aloud  to  his  com- 
passion, whispered  to  him  in  tones  of  self-reproach. 
"  He  ought  to  have  handled  the  warainj,  she 
had  given  him  in  another  way.    He  was  convinced 
now  that  a  simple  display  of  watchfuhiess  would 
have  been  enough  to  restrain  that  vile  and  cowardly 
crew.    But  the  fact  was  that  he  had  not  quite 
believed  that  anything  would  be  attempted. 

"  The  body  of  Laughing  Anne  having  been  •  com- 
mitted to  the  deep '  some  twenty  miles  S.S.W. 
from  Cape  Selatan,  the  task  before  Davidson  was 
to  commit  Laughing  Anne's  child  to  the  care  of 
his  wife.  And  there  poor,  good  Davidson  made  a 
fatal  move.    He  didn't  want  to  tell  her  the  whole 


BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS        273 
awful  story,  since  it  involved  the  knowledge  of  the 
dagger  from  which  he.  Davidson,  hadlscap^d 
And  this,  too.  after  he  had  been  laughing  at  her 
unreasonable  fears  only  a  short  time  before 

D.vi/  "'°"^!'*  *^*  "  ^  '"^^  ^-'  everything,- 
Davidson  explained  to  me,  'she  would  ne^^v 
a  moment's  peace  while  I  was  away  on  my  tripl ' 

the  child  of  some  people  to  whom  he,  Davidson 
was  under  the  greatest  obhgation.  and  that  he 
felt  moraUy  bound  to  look  after  him.  Some  dav 
he  would  teU  her  more,  he  said,  and  meantime^' 
trusted  m  the  goodness  and  warmth  of  her  heart 
in  her  woman's  natural  compassion 

••  He  did  not  know  that  her  heart  was  about  the 
«ze  of  a  parched  pea,  and  had  the  proportion' 
amount  of  warmth;  and  that  her  facSty^rrom 
Passion  was  mainly  directed  to  herself.  He  was 
only  startled  and  disappointed  at  the  air  of  coW 
surprise  and  the  suspicious  look  -^th  which  Z 
received  his  imperfect  tale.  But  she  did  not  1 
much  She  never  had  much  to  say.  She  was  a 
fool  of  the  silent,  hopeless  kind.  ^°«  «^as  a 

"What  story  Davidson's  crew  thought  lit  to 
-t  afloat  in  Malay  town  is  neither  here  nor  therl 
Davidson  hmiself  took  some  of  his  friends  i^o 

'rsSsr"'^^^^-----% 


876        BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS 

"  The  Harbour  Master  was  considerably  aston- 
ished. He  didn't  think,  however,  that  a  fonnal 
complaint  should  be  made  to  the  Dutch  Govern- 
ment. They  would  probably  do  nothing  in  the 
end,  after  a  lot  of  trouble  and  correspondence. 
The  robbery  had  not  come  off,  after  all.  Those 
vagabonds  could  be  trusted  to  go  to  the  devil  in 
their  own  way.  No  amount  of  fuss  would  bring 
the  poor  woman  to  Ufe  again,  and  the  actual 
murderer  had  been  done  justice  to  by  a  chance 
shot  from  Davidson.  Better  let  the  matter 
drop. 

"  This  was  good  common  sense.  But  he  was 
impressed. 

"  '  Sounds  a  terrible  affair.  Captain  Davidson.' 

"  '  Aye,  terrible  enough,'  agreed  the  remorseful 
Davidson.  But  the  most  terrible  thing  for  him, 
though  he  didn't  know  it  yet  then,  was  that  his 
wife's  silly  brain  was  slowly  coming  to  the  con- 
clusion that  Tony  was  Davidson's  child,  and  that 
he  had  invented  that  lame  story  to  introduce  him 
into  her  pure  home  in  defiance  of  decency,  of 
virtue — of  her  most  sacred  feelings. 

"  Davidson  was  aware  of  some  constraint  in  his 
domestic  relations.  But  at  the  best  of  times  she 
was  not  demonstrative;  and  perhaps  that  ve  y 
coldness  was  part  of  her  charm  in  the  placid 
Davidson's  eyes.    Women  are  loved  for  all  sorts 


BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS   277 

nursing  he 'susSn,  ''^^  "^' -*^^«  »>- »«» 

on"t?«r'  °"'  '^^'  ^""^'^y-faced  Ritchie  caUed 
on   that  sweet,   shy  Mrs.   Davidson.    She  had 

2r  ""*  r^  "«  -«.  and  he  conside^d  ht 
sdU  pr^vjleged  pe:^„_her  oldest  friend  inte 
tropics.  He  posed  for  a  great  admirer  of  hers 
He  was  always  a  great  chatterer.  He  had  got  h"d 
of  the  story  «ther  vaguely,  and  he  started  chatter' 
ing  on  that  subject,  thinking  she  knew  aU  al^u 

";:;rn;r'^^-----ahout- 

su^'^^IS^.trp'-^^-^-^'^-witha 
"Ritchie  plunged  into  circumlocution  at  once 

"  '  But  you  don't  know  for  certain? ' 
"  •  Not  How  could  I.  Mrs.  Davidson  I ' 

Joi^^thfrir^'^-'-^-^^-^ 

.o'fo!^'"  ^''^'^'°"  "^'  ^""^^  ^'  "^as  ready  to 
out  as  f  tnckhng  a  stream  of  cold  clear  water 
down  his  back.    She  talked  of  his  base^tri^e 


278        BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS 

with  a  vile  woman,  of  being  made  a  fool  of,  of  the 

insult  to  her  dignity. 

"  Davidson  begged  her  to  iisten  to  him  and  told 
her  aU  the  siory,  thinking  that  it  would  move  a 
heart  of  stone.  He  tried  to  make  her  understand 
his  remorse.  She  heard  him  to  the  end,  said 
'  Indeed  I '  and  turned  her  back  on  him. 
"  '  Don't  you  believe  me?  "  he  asked,  appalled. 
"  She  didn't  say  yes  or  no.  All  she  said  was, 
•  Send  that  bi  \t  away  at  once.' 

"  •  I  can't  throw  him  out  into  the  street,'  cried 
Davidson.    '  You  don't  mean  it.' 

" '  1  don't  care.    There  are  charitable  institu- 
tions for  such  children,  I  suppose.' 
"  •  That  I  will  never  do,'  said  Davidson. 
"  '  Very  well.    That's  enough  for  me.' 
"  Davidson's  home  after  this  was  Uke  a  sUent, 
frozen  hell  for  him.    A  stupid  woman  with  a  sense 
of  grievance  is  worse  than  an  unchained  devil. 
He  sent  the  boy  to  the  White  Fathers  in  Malacca. 
This  was  not  a  very  expensive  sort  of  education, 
but  she  could  not  forgive  him  for  not  casting  the 
offensive  chUd  away  utterly.    She  worked  up  her 
sense  of  her  wifely  wrongs  and  of  her  injured  purity 
to  such  a  pitch  that  one  day,  when  poor  Davidson 
was  pleading  with  her  to  be  reasonable  and  not  to 
make  an  impossible  existence  for  them  both,  she 


BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS        279 

turned  on  him  in  a  chiU  pascion  and  told  him  th= 
his  very  sight  was  odious  to  he 

"Davidson,  with   his  scrupulous  delicacy  of 
feeling,  was  not  the  man  to  assert  his  rightsover  a 
woman  who  could  not  bear  the  sight  of  him     He 
bowed  his  head;  and  shortly  afterwards  arranged 
for  her  to  go  back  tc  her  parents.     That  was 
exactly  what  she  wanted  in  her  outraged  dignity 
And  then  she  had  always  disliked  the  tropics  and 
had  detested  secretly  the  people  she  had  to  live 
amongst  as  Davidson's  wife.    She  took  her  pure 
sensitive,  me  in  Mttle  soul  away  to  Fremantle  or 
somewhere  in  that  direction.    And  of  course  the 
httle  girl  went  away  with  her  too.    Wha    •  .uld 
poor  Davidson  have  done  with  a  little  girl  on  h-s 
hands,  even  if  she  had  consented  to  leave  her  with 
him— which  is  unthinkable. 

"  This  is  the  story  that  has  spVied  Davidson's 
smile  for  him-which  perhaps  it  wouldn't  have 
done  so  thoroughly  had  he  been  less  of  a  good 
fellow."  * 

HoUis  ceased.  But  before  we  rose  from  the 
able  I  asked  him  if  he  knew  what  had  become  of 
Laughing  Anne's  boy. 

He  counted  carefully  the  change  handed  him 
by  the  Chinaman  waiter,  and  raised  his  head. 

"Oh!  that's  the  finishing  touch.  He  was  a 
bright,  taking  little  chap,  as  you  know,  and  the 


38o   BECAUSE  OF  THE  DOLLARS 

Fathers  took  very  special  pains  in  his  bringing  up. 
Davidson  expected  in  his  heart  to  have  some  com- 
fort out  of  him.  In  his  placid  way  he's  a  man  who 
needs  affection.  Well,  Tony  has  grown  into  a 
fine  youth — but  there  you  are  I  He  wants  to  be  a 
priest ;  his  one  dream  is  to  be  a  missionary.  The 
Fathers  assure  Davidson  that  it  is  a  serious  voca- 
tion. They  tell  him  he  has  a  special  disposition 
for  mission  work,  too.  Go  Laughing  Anne's  boy 
will  lead  a  saintly  life  in  China  somewhere;  he 
may  oven  become  a  martyr;  but  poor  Davidson 
is  'eft  out  ii  the  cold.  He  will  have  to  go  down- 
hill without  a  single  human  affection  near  him 
because  of  these  old  dollars." 


}a».  1914. 


TBI  TBUPLS   PRESS,  FRIMTZRS,  LKTCUWORTH,  ENGLAND 


up. 

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