The doctor was forced to admit the truth of this. Ruth out of the picture, he wouldn't have concerned himself so eagerly in regard to Spurlock's departure.
"I'm sorry, Mr. O'Higgins, but I decline to give you the least information."
The detective ruefully inspected the scarlet band on his perfecto. "And I'll bet a doughnut that boy in his soul is crazy to have it over with. Well-born, well-educated; those are the lads that pay in full."
"You're a philosopher, too. I'll tell you something. One of the reasons why I decline to talk is this: that boy's punishment will be enough."
"That's not my game. They order me to get my man, and I get him. There ends my duty. What they do with him afterward is off my ticket, no concern of James Boyle; they can lock him up or let him go. Say, how about this Ah Cum: is he honest?"
"As the day is long."
"Didn't know but what I'd been out-bid. I offered him a hundred to watch Spurlock. Fifty in advance. This morning I met him at the dock, and he wouldn't take the other fifty. A queer nut. Imagine any one on this side refusing fifty bucks! Well, I'll be toddling along. Don't feel fussed upon my account. I get your side all right. H'm!"
Over the desk, on the wall, was a map of the South Pacific archipelagoes, embossed by a number of little circles drawn in red ink. O'Higgins eyed it thoughtfully.
"That's your hunting ground," said the doctor.
"It's a whale of a place. Ten thousand islands, and each one good for a night's rest. Why, that boy could hide for thirty years—without the girl. She's my meal-ticket. What are those little red circles?" O'Higgins asked, rising and inspecting the map. A film of dust lay upon it; the ink marks were ancient. For a moment O'Higgins had hoped that the ink applications would be recent. "Been to those places?"
"No. Years ago I marked out an intinerary for myself; but the trip never materialized. Too busy."
"That's the way it goes. Well, I'll take myself off. But if I were you, I shouldn't warn Spurlock. Let him have his honeymoon. So long."
For a long time after O'Higgins had gone the doctor rocked in his swivel chair, his glance directed at the map. In all his life he had never realized a dream; but the thought had never before hurt him. The Dawn Pearl. It did not seem quite fair. He had plugged along, if not happy, at least with sound philosophy. And then this girl had to sweep into and out of his life! He recalled McClintock's comment about Spurlock being the kind that fell soft. Even this man-hunting machine was willing to grant the boy his honeymoon.
Meantime, O'Higgins wended his way to the Victoria, mulling over this and that phase, all matters little and big that bore upon the chase. Mac's. In one of the little red circles the doctor had traced that abbreviation. That could signify nothing except that the doctor had a friend down there somewhere, on an island in one of those archipelagoes. But the sheer immensity of the tract! James Boyle was certainly up against it, hard. One chance in a thousand, and that would be the girl. She wouldn't be able to pass by anywhere without folks turning their heads.
Of course he hadn't played the game wisely. But what the deuce! He was human; he was a machine only when on the hunt. He had found Spurlock. In his condition the boy apparently had been as safe as in the lock-up. Why shouldn't James Boyle pinch out a little fun while waiting? How was he to anticipate the girl and the sea-tramp called The Tigress? Something that wasn't in the play at all but had walked out of the scenery like the historical black cat?
"I'll have to punish a lot of tobacco to get the kinks out of this.
Sure Mike!"
At the hotel he wrote a long letter to his chief, explaining every detail of the fizzle. Later he dispatched a cable announcing the escape and the sending of the letter. When he returned to Hong-Kong, there was a reply to his cable:
"Hang on. Find that boy."
Some order. South America was big; but ten thousand islands, scattered all over the biggest ocean on the map! Nearly all of them clear of the ship lanes and beaten tracks! The best thing he could do would be to call up the Quai d'Orsay and turn over the job to Lecocq. Only a book detective could dope this out.
What he needed most in this hour was a bottle of American rye-whisky and a friendly American bar-keep to talk to. He regretted now that in his idle hours he hadn't hunted up one against the rainy day. The barmaids had too strongly appealed to his sense of novelty. So he marched into the street, primarily bent upon making the favourable discovery. If there was a Yankee bar-keep in Hong-Kong, James Boyle would soon locate him. No blowzy barmaids for him to-day: an American bar-keep to whom he could tell his troubles and receive the proper meed of sympathy.
The sunshine was brilliant, the air mild. The hotel on the Peak had the aspect of a fairy castle. The streets were full of colour. O'Higgins wandered into this street and that, studying the signs and resenting the Britisher's wariness in using too much tin and paint. This niggardliness compelled him to cross and recross streets.
Suddenly he came to a stop, his mouth agape.
"Solid ivory!" he said aloud; "solid from dome to neck! That's James Boyle in the family group. And if I hadn't been thirsty, that poor boob would have made a sure getaway and left James Boyle high and dry among the moth-balls! Oh, the old dome works once every so often. Fancy, as they say hereabouts!"
What had aroused this open-air monologue was a small tin sign in a window. Marine Insurance. Here was a hole as wide as a church-door. What could be simpler than, with a set of inquiries relative to a South Sea tramp registered as The Tigress, to make a tour of all the marine insurance companies in Hong-Kong? O'Higgins proceeded to put the idea into action; and by noon he had in his possession a good working history of the owner of The Tigress and the exact latitude and longitude of his island.
He cabled to New York: "Probable destination known."
"Make it positive," was the brisk reply.
O'Higgins made it positive; but it required five weeks of broken voyages: with dilapidated hotels, poor food, poor tobacco, and evil-smelling tramps. It took a deal of thought to cast a comprehensive cable, for it had to include where Spurlock was, what he was doing, and the fact that O'Higgins's letter of credit would not now carry him and Spurlock to San Francisco. The reply he received this time put him into a state of continuous bewilderment.
"Good work. Come home alone."
CHAPTER XX
To Spurlock it seemed as if a great iron door had swung in behind him, shutting out the old world. He was safe, out of the beaten track, at last really comparable to the needle in the haystack. The terrific mental tension of the past few months—that had held his bodily nourishment in a kind of strangulation—became as a dream; and now his vitals responded rapidly to food and air. On the second day out he was helped to a steamer-chair on deck; on the third day, his arm across Ruth's shoulder, he walked from his chair to the foremast and back. The will to live had returned.
For five days The Tigress chugged her way across the burnished South China, grumpily, as if she resented this meddling with her destiny. She had been built for canvas and oil-lamps, and this new thingumajig that kept her nose snoring at eight knots when normally she was able to boil along at ten, and these unblinking things they called lamps (that neither smoked nor smelled), irked and threatened to ruin her temper.
On the sixth day, however, they made the strong southwest trade, and broke out the canvas, stout if dirty; and The Tigress answered as a bird released. Taking the wind was her business in life. She creaked, groaned, and rattled; but that was only her way of yawning when she awoke.
The sun-canvas was stowed; and Spurlock's chair was set forward the foremast, where the bulging jib cast a sliding blue shadow over him. Rather a hazardous spot for a convalescent, and McClintock had been doubtful at first; but Spurlock declared that he was a good sailor, which was true. He loved the sea, and could give a good account of himself in any weather. And this was an adventure of which he had dreamed from boyhood: aboard a windjammer on the South Seas.
There were mysterious sounds, all of them musical. There were swift actions, too: a Kanaka crawled out upon the bowsprit to make taut a slack stay, while two others with pulley-blocks swarmed aloft. Occasionally the canvas snapped as the wind veered slightly. The sea was no longer rolling brass; it was bluer than anything he had ever seen. Every so often a wall of water, thin and jade-coloured, would rise up over the port bow, hesitate, and fall smacking amidships. Once the ship faltered, and the tip of this jade wall broke into a million gems and splashed him liberally. Ruth, standing by, heard his true laughter for the first time.
This laughter released something that had been striving for expression—her own natural buoyancy. She became as The Tigress, a free thing. She dropped beside the chair, sat cross-legged, and laughed at the futile jade-coloured wall. There was no past, no future, only this exhilarating present. Yesterday!—who cared? To-morrow!—who knew?
"Porpoise," she said, touching his hand.
"Fox-terriers of the sea; friends with every ship that comes along.
Funny codgers, aren't they?" he said.
"When you are stronger we'll go up to the cutwater and watch them from there."
"I have . . . from many ships."
A shadow, which was not cast by the jib, fell upon them both. His voice had changed, the joy had gone out of it; and she understood that something from the past had rolled up to spoil this hour. But she did not know what he knew, that it would always be rolling up, enlivened by suggestion, no matter how trifling.
What had actually beaten him was not to have known if someone had picked up his trail. The acid of this incertitude had disintegrated his nerve; and in Canton had come the smash. But that was all over. Nobody could possibly find him now. The doctor would never betray him. He might spend the rest of his days at McClintock's in perfect security.
McClintock, coming from below, saw them and went forward. "Well, how goes it?" he asked.
"Thank you, sir," said Spurlock, holding out his hand.
McClintock, without comment, accepted the hand. He rather liked the "sir"; it signified both gratefulness and the chastened spirit.
"And I want to thank you, too," supplemented Ruth.
"Tut, tut! Don't exaggerate. I needed a man the worst kind of way—a man I could keep for at least six months. What do you think of the old tub?"
"She's wonderful!" cried Ruth. "I love her already. I had no idea she could go so fast."
"Know anything about ships?"
"This kind. I have seen many of them. Once a sick sailor drew three pictures for me and set down every stay and brace and sail—square-rigger, schooner, and sloop. But this is the first time I ever sailed on any one of the three. And I find I can't tell one stay from another!"
McClintock laughed. "You can't go to sea with a book of rules. The Tigress is second-hand, built for coast-trade. There used to be an after deckhouse and a shallow well for the wheel; but I changed that. Wanted a clean sweep for elbow-room. Of course I ought to have some lights over the saloon; but by leaving all the cabin doors open in the daytime, there's plenty of daylight. She's not for pleasure, but for work. Some day I'm going to paint her; but that will be when I've retired."
Ruth laughed. "The doctor said something about that."
"I'll tell you really why I keep her in peeled paint. Natives are queer. I have established a fine trade. She is known everywhere within the radius of five hundred miles. But if I painted her as I'd like to, the natives would instantly distrust me; and I'd have to build up confidence all over again. I did not know you spoke Kanaka," he broke off.
"So the wheelman told you? I've always spoken it, though I can neither read nor write it."
"I never heard of anybody who could," declared McClintock. "I have had Kanakas who could read and write in Dutch, and English, though. The Kanaka—which means man—is a Sandwich Islander, with a Malayan base. He's the only native I trust in these parts. My boys are all Sandwich Island born. I wouldn't trust a Malay, not if he were reared in the Vatican."
Spurlock, who was absorbing this talk thirstily, laughed.
"What's that?" demanded McClintock.
"The idea of a Malay, born Mahometan, being reared in the Vatican, hit me as funny."
"It would be funny—just as a trustworthy Malay would be funny. I have a hundred of them—mixed blood—on my island, and they are always rooking me. But none ever puts his foot on this boat. To-morrow we'll raise our first island. And from then on we'll see them, port and starboard, to the end of the voyage. I've opened the case of books. They're on the forward lounge in the saloon. Take your pick, Mrs. Spurlock."
The shock of hearing this title pronounced was equally distributed between Ruth and her husband; but it aroused two absolutely different emotions. There came to Spurlock the recurrence of the grim resolution of what he had set out to do: that comradeship was all he might ever give this exquisite creature; for she was exquisite, and in a way she dominated this picture of sea and sky and sail. Ruth's emotion was a primitive joy: she was essential in this man's life, and she would always be happy because he would always be needing her.
"You will be wanting your broth, Hoddy," she said. "I'll fetch it."
She made the companion without touching stay or rail, which necessitated a fine sense of balance, for there was a growing vigour to the wind and a corresponding lift to the roll of the sea. The old-fashioned dress, with its series of ruffles and printed flowers, ballooned treacherously, revealing her well-turned leg in silk stockings, as it snapped against her body as a mould.
Silk. In Singapore that had been her only dissipation: a dozen pairs of silk stockings. She did not question or analyze the craving; she took the plunge joyously. It was the first expression of the mother's blood. Woman's love of silk is not set by fashion; it is bred in the bone; and somewhere, somehow, a woman will have her bit of silk.
McClintock watched her interestedly until her golden head vanished below; then, with tolerant pity, he looked down at Spurlock, who had closed his eyes. She would always be waiting upon this boy, he mused. Proper enough now, when he could not help himself, but the habit would be formed; and when he was strong again it would become the normal role, hers to give and his to receive. He wondered if the young fool had any idea of what he had drawn in this tragic lottery called marriage. Probably hadn't. As for that, what man ever had?
"That's a remarkable young woman," he offered, merely to note what effect it would have.
Spurlock looked up. "She's glorious!" He knew that he must hoodwink this keen-eyed Scot, even as he must hoodwink everybody: publicly, the devoted husband; privately, the celibate. He was continually dramatizing the future, anticipating the singular role he had elected to play. He saw it in book-covers, on the stage. "Did you ever see the like of her?"
"No," answered McClintock, gravely. "I wonder how she picked up
Kanaka? On her island they don't talk Kanaka lingo."
Her island! How well he knew it, thought Spurlock, for all he lacked the name and whereabouts! Suddenly a new thought arose and buffeted him. How little he knew about Ruth—the background from which she had sprung! He knew that her father was a missioner, that her mother was dead, that she had been born on this island, and that, at the time of his collapse, she had been on the way to an aunt in the States. But what did he know beyond these facts? Nothing, clearly. Oh, yes; of Ruth herself he knew much; but the more he mulled over what he knew, the deeper grew his chagrin. The real Ruth was as completely hidden as though she stood behind the walls of Agra Fort. But after all, what did it matter whether she had secrets or not? To him she was not a woman but a symbol; and one did not investigate the antecedents of symbols.
"She tells me there was a Kanaka cook; been in the family as long as she can remember."
"I see. I deal with the Malay mostly; but twice a year I visit islands occupied by the true blacks, recently cured of their ancient taste for long-pig."
"What's that?"
"Think it over," said McClintock, grimly.
"Good Lord!—cannibals?"
"Aye. Someday I'll take you down there and have them rig up the coconut dance for you. The Malays have one, too, but it's a rank imitation, tom-toms and all. But what I want to get at is this. If your wife can coach you a bit in native lingo, it will help all round. I have two Malay clerks in the store; but I'm obliged to have a white man to watch over them, or they'd clean me out. Single pearls—Lord knows where they come from!—are always turning up, some of them of fine lustre; but I never set eyes on them. My boys buy them with beads or bolts of calico of mine. They steal over to Copeley's at night and dispose of the pearl for cash. That's how I finally got wind of it. Primarily your job will be to balance the stores against the influx of coconut and keep an eye on these boys. There'll be busy days and idle. Everything goes—the copra for oil, the fibre of the husk for rope, and the shell for carbon. If you fall upon a good pearl, buy it in barter and pay me out of your salary."
"Pearls!"
"Sounds romantic, eh? Well, forty years ago the pearl game hereabouts was romantic; but there's only one real pearl region left—the Persian Gulf. In these waters the shell has about given out. Still, they bob up occasionally. I need a white man, if only to talk to; and it will be a god send to talk to someone of your intelligence. The doctor said you wrote."
"Trying to."
"Well, you'll have lots of time down there."
Here Ruth returned with the broth; and McClintock strode aft, convinced that he was going to have something far more interesting than books to read.
Spurlock stared at Ruth across the rim of his bowl. He was vaguely uneasy; he knew not what about. Here was the same Ruth who had left him a few minutes since: the same outwardly; and yet…!
On the ninth day Spurlock was up and about; that is, he was strong enough to walk alone, from the companion to his chair, to lean upon the rail when the chair grew irksome, to join Ruth and his employer at lunch and dinner: strong enough to argue about books, music, paintings. He was, in fact, quite eager to go on living.
Ruth drank in these intellectual controversies, storing away facts. What she admired in her man was his resolute defense of his opinions. McClintock could not browbeat him, storm as he might. But whenever the storm grew dangerous, either McClintock or Spurlock broke into saving laughter.
McClintock would bang his fist upon the table. "I wouldn't give a betel-nut for a man who wouldn't stick to his guns, if he believed himself in the right. We'll have some fun down there at my place, Spurlock; but we'll probably bore your wife to death."
"Oh, no!" Ruth protested. "I have so much to learn."
"Aye," said McClintock, in a tone so peculiar that it sent
Spurlock's glance to his plate.
"All my life I've dreamed of something like this," he said, divertingly, with a gesture which included the yacht. "These islands that come out of nowhere, like transparent amethyst, that deepen to sapphire, and then become thickly green! And always the white coral sand rimming them—emeralds set in pearls!"
"'A thing of beauty is a joy forever!'" quoted McClintock. "But I like Bobby Burns best. He's neighbourly; he has a jingle for every ache and joy I've had."
So Ruth heard about the poets; she became tolerably familiar with the exploits of that engaging ruffian Cellini; she heard of the pathetic deafness of Beethoven; she was thrilled, saddened, exhilarated; and on the evening of the twelfth day she made bold to enter the talk.
"There is something in The Tale of Two Cities that is wonderful," she said.
"That's a fine tale," said Spurlock. "The end is the most beautiful in English literature. 'It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to, than I have ever known.' That has always haunted me."
"I liked that, too," she replied; "but it wasn't that I had in mind. Here it is." She opened the book which she had brought to the table. "'A wonderful fact to reflect upon, that every human creature is constituted to be that profound secret and mystery to every other. A solemn consideration, when I enter a great city at night, that every one of those darkly clustered houses encloses its own secret; that every room in every one of them encloses its own secret; that every beating heart in the hundreds of thousands of breasts there, is, in some of its imaginings, a secret to the heart nearest it!' … It kind of terrifies me," said Ruth, looking up, first at the face of her husband, then at McClintock's. "No matter how much I tell of myself, I shall always keep something back. No matter how much you tell me, you will always keep something back."
Neither man spoke. McClintock stared into the bowl of his pipe and Spurlock into his coffee cup. But McClintock's mind was perceptive, whereas Spurlock's was only dully confused. The Scot understood that, gently and indirectly, Ruth was asking her husband a question, opening a door if he cared to enter.
So the young fool had not told her! McClintock had suspected as much. Everything in this world changed—except human folly. This girl was strong and vital: how would she take it when she learned that she had cast her lot with a fugitive from justice? For McClintock was certain that Spurlock was a hunted man. Well, well; all he himself could do would be to watch this singular drama unroll.
The night before they made McClintock's Ruth and Spurlock leaned over the rail, their shoulders touching. It might have been the moon, or the phosphorescence of the broken water, or it might have been his abysmal loneliness; but suddenly he caught her face in his hands and kissed her on the mouth.
"Oh!" she gasped. "I did not know … that it was … like that!" She stepped back; but as his hands fell she caught and held them tightly. "Please, Hoddy, always tell me when do I things wrong. I never want you to be ashamed of me. I will do anything and everything I can to become your equal."
"You will never become that, Ruth. But if God is kind to me, someday I may climb up to where you are. I'd like to be alone now. Would you mind?"
She wanted another kiss, but she did not know how to go about it; so she satisfied the hunger by pressing his hands to her thundering heart. She let them fall and sped to the companion, where she stood for a moment, the moonlight giving her a celestial touch. Then she went below.
Spurlock bent his head to the rail. The twists in his brain had suddenly straightened out; he was normal, wholly himself; and he knew now exactly what he had done.
CHAPTER XXI
McClintock's island was twelve miles long and eight miles wide, with the shape of an oyster. The coconut plantation covered the west side. From the white beach the palms ran in serried rows quarter of a mile inland, then began a jungle of bamboo, gum-tree, sandalwood, plantain, huge fern, and choking grasses. The south-east end of the island was hillocky, with volcanic subsoil. There was plenty of sweet water.
The settlement was on the middle west coast. The stores, the drying bins, McClintock's bungalows and the native huts sprawled around an exquisite landlocked lagoon. One could enter and leave by proa, but nothing with a keel could cross the coral gate. The island had evidently grown round this lagoon, approached it gradually from the volcanic upheaval—an island of coral and lava.
There were groves of cultivated guava, orange, lemon, and pomegranate. The oranges were of the Syrian variety, small but filled with scarlet honey. This fruit was McClintock's particular pride. He had brought the shrubs down from Syria, and, strangely enough, they had prospered.
"Unless you have eaten a Syrian orange," he was always saying, "you have only a rudimentary idea of what an orange is."
The lemons had enormously thick skins and were only mildly acidulous—sweet lemons, they were called; and one found them delicious by dipping the slices in sugar.
But there was an abiding serpent in this Eden. McClintock had brought from Penang three mangosteen evergreens; and, wonders of wonders, they had thrived—as trees. But not once in these ten years had they borne blossom or fruit. The soil was identical, the climate; still, they would not bear the Olympian fruit, with its purple-lined jacket and its snow-white pulp. One might have said that these trees grieved for their native soil; and, grieving, refused to bear.
Of animal life, there was nothing left but monkeys and wild pig, the latter having been domesticated. Of course there were goats. There's an animal! He thrives in all zones, upon all manner of food. He may not be able to eat tin-cans, but he tries to. The island was snake-free.
There were all varieties of bird-life known in these latitudes, from the bird of paradise down to the tiny scarlet-beaked love-birds. There were always parrots and parrakeets screaming in the fruit groves.
The bungalows and stores were built of heavy bamboo and gum-wood; sprawly, one-storied affairs; for the typhoon was no stranger in these waters. Deep verandas ran around the bungalows, with bamboo drops which were always down in the daytime, fending off the treacherous sunshine. White men never went abroad without helmets. The air might be cool, but half an hour without head-gear was an invitation to sunstroke.
Into this new world, vivid with colour, came Spurlock, receptively. For a few days he was able to relegate his conscience to the background. There was so much to see, so much to do, that he became what he had once been normally, a lovable boy.
McClintock was amused. He began really to like Spurlock, despite the shadow of the boy's past, despite his inexplicable attitude toward this glorious girl. To be sure, he was attentive, respectful; but in his conduct there was none of that shameless camaraderie of a man who loved his woman and didn't care a hang if all the world knew it. If the boy did not love the girl, why the devil had he dragged her into this marriage?
Spurlock was a bit shaky bodily, but his brain was functioning clearly; and, it might be added, swiftly—as the brain always acts when confronted by a perplexing riddle. No matter how swiftly he pursued this riddle, he could not bring it to a halt. Why had Ruth married him? A penniless outcast, for she must have known he was that. Why had she married him, off-hand, like that? She did not love him, or he knew nothing of love signs. Had she too been flying from something and had accepted this method of escape? But what frying-pan could be equal to this fire?
All this led him back to the original circle. He saw the colossal selfishness of his act; but he could not beg off on the plea of abnormality. He had been ill; no matter about that: he recollected every thought that had led up to it and every act that had consummated the deed.
To make Ruth pay for it! He wanted to get away, into some immense echoless tract where he could give vent to this wild laughter which tore at his vitals. To make Ruth pay for the whole shot! To wash away his sin by crucifying her: that was precisely what he had set about. And God had let him do it! He was—and now he perfectly understood that he was—treading the queerest labyrinth a man had ever entered.
Why had he kissed her? What had led him into that? Neither love nor passion—utter blankness so far as reducing the act to terms. He had kissed his wife on the mouth … and had been horrified! There was real madness somewhere along this road.
He was unaware that his illness had opened the way to the inherent conscience and that the acquired had been temporarily blanketed, or that there was any ancient fanaticalism in his blood. He saw what he had done only as it related to Ruth. He would have to go on; he would be forced to enact all the obligations he had imposed upon himself.
His salvation—if there was to be any—lay in her ignorance of life. But she could not live in constant association with him without having these gaps filled. And when she learned that she had been doubly cheated, what then? His thoughts began to fall on her side of the scales, and his own misery grew lighter as he anticipated hers. He was an imaginative young man.
Never again would he repeat that kiss; but at night when they separated, he would touch her forehead with his lips, and sometimes he would hold her hand in his and pat it.
"I'll have my cot in here," said Spurlock to Ruth, "where this table is. You never can tell. I'm likely to get up any time in the night to work."
Together they were making habitable the second bungalow, which was within calling distance of McClintock's. They had scrubbed and dusted, torn down and hung up until noon.
"Whatever you like, Hoddy," she agreed, wiping the sweat from her forehead. She was vaguely happy over this arrangement which put her in the wing across the middle hall, alone. "This will be very comfortable."
"Isn't that lagoon gorgeous? I wonder if there'll be sharks?"
"Not in the lagoon. Mr. McClintock says they can't get in there, or at least they never try it."
"Lord!—think of having sharks for neighbours? Every morning I'll take a dip into the lagoon. That'll tune me up."
"But don't ever swim off the main beach without someone with you."
"I wonder where the deuce I'll be able to get some writing paper?
I'm crazy to get to work again."
"Probably Mr. McClintock will have some."
"I sha'n't want these curtains. You take them. The veranda bamboo will be enough for me."
He stuffed the printed chintz into her arms and smiled into her eyes. And the infernal thought of that kiss returned—the softness of her lips and the cool smoothness of her cheeks. He turned irresolutely to the table upon which lay the scattered leaves of his old manuscripts.
"I believe I'll tear them up. So long as they're about, I'll always be rewriting them and wasting my time."
"Let me have them."
"What for? What do you want of them?"
"Why, they are … yours. And I don't want anything of yours destroyed, Hoddy. Those were dreams."
"All right, then." He shifted the pages together, rolled and thrust them under her arm. "But don't ever let me see them again. By George, I forgot! McClintock said there was a typewriter in the office and that I could have it. I'll dig it up. I'll be feeling fine in no time. The office is a sight—not one sheet of paper on another; bills and receipts everywhere. I'll have to put some pep into the game—American pep. It will take a month to clean up. I've been hunting for this particular job for a thousand years!"
She smiled a little sadly over this fine enthusiasm; for in her wisdom she had a clear perception where it would eventually end—in the veranda chair. All this—the island and its affairs—was an old story; but her own peculiar distaste had vanished to a point imperceptible, for she was seeing the island through her husband's eyes, as in the future she would see all things.
For Ruth was in love, tenderly and beautifully in love; but she did not know how to express it beyond the fetch and carry phase. Her heart ached; and that puzzled her. Love was joy, and joyous she was when alone. But in his presence a wall of diffidence and timidity encompassed her.
The call of youth to youth, and we name it love for want of something better: a glamorous, evanescent thing "like snow upon the desert's dusty face, lighting a little hour or two, was gone." Man is a peculiar animal. No matter what the fire and force of his passion, it falters eventually, and forever after smoulders or goes out. He has nothing to fall back upon, no substitute; but a woman always has the mother love. When the disillusion comes, when the fairy story ends, if she is blessed with children, she doesn't mind. If she has no children, she goes on loving her husband; but he is no longer a man but a child.
A dog appeared unexpectedly upon the threshold. He was yellow and coarse of hair; flea-bitten, too; and even as he smiled at Ruth and wagged his stumpy tail, he was forced to turn savagely upon one of these disturbers who had no sense of the fitness of things.
"Well, well; look who's here!" cried Spurlock.
He started toward the dog with the idea of ejecting him, but Ruth intervened.
"No, please! It is good luck for a dog to enter your house. Let me keep him."
"What? Good Lord, he's alive with fleas! They'll be all over the place."
"Please!"
She dropped the curtains and the manuscripts, knelt and held out her arms. The dog approached timidly, his tail going furiously. He suspected a trap. The few whites he had ever known generally offered to pet him when they really wanted to kick him. But when Ruth's hand fell gently upon his bony head, he knew that no one in this house would ever offer him a kick. So he decided to stay.
"You want him?"
"Please!" said Ruth.
"All right. What'll we call him—Rollo?"—ironically.
"I never had a pet. I never had even a real doll," she added, as she snuggled the flea-bitten head to her heart. "See how glad he is!"
His irony and displeasure subsided. She had never had a pet, never had a real doll. Here was a little corner of the past—a tragic corner. He knew that tragedy was as blind as justice, that it struck the child and the grown-up impartially. He must never refuse her anything which was within his power to grant—anything (he modified) which did not lead to his motives.
"You poor child!—you can have all the dogs on the island, if you want them! Come along to the kitchen, and we'll give Rollo a tubbing."
And thus their domesticity at McClintock's began—with the tubbing of a stray yellow dog. It was an uproarious affair, for Rollo now knew that he had been grieviously betrayed: they were trying to kill him in a new way. Nobody will ever know what the fleas thought.
The two young fools laughed until they cried. They were drenched with water and suds. Their laughter, together with the agonized yowling of the dog, drew a circle of wondering natives; and at length McClintock himself came over to see what the racket was about. When he saw, his roars could be heard across the lagoon.
"You two will have this island by the ears," he said, wiping his eyes. "Those boys out there think this is some new religious rite and that you are skinning the dog alive to eat him!"
The shock of this information loosened Spurlock's grip on the dog, who bolted out of the kitchen and out of the house, maintaining his mile-a-minute gait until he reached the jungle muck, where he proceeded to neutralize the poison with which he had been lathered by rolling in the muck.
But they found him on the veranda when they returned from McClintock's that evening. He had forgiven everybody. From then on he was Ruth's dog.
Nothing else so quickly establishes the condition of comradeship as the sharing of a laughable incident. Certain reserves went down on both sides. Spurlock discussed the affairs of the island and Ruth gave him in exchange her adventures with the native girl who was to be their servant.
This getting up at dawn—real dawn—and working until seven was a distinct novelty. From then until four in the afternoon there was nothing to do—the whole island went to sleep. Even the chattering monkeys, parrots, and parrakeets departed the fruit groves for the smelly dark of the jungle. If, around noon, a coconut proa landed, the boys made no effort to unload. They hunted up shady nooks and went to sleep; but promptly at four they would be at the office, ready for barter.
Spurlock had found the typewriter, oiled and cleaned it, and began to practise on it in the night. He would never be able to compose upon it, but it would serve to produce the finished work. Above the work-table was a drop-light—kerosene. The odour of kerosene permeated the bungalow; but Ruth mitigated the nuisance to some extent by burning native punk in brass jars.
He was keen to get to work, but the inspiration would not come. He started a dozen stories, but they all ended in the waste-basket. Then, one night, he glanced up to behold Ruth and Rollo in the doorway. She crooked her finger.
"What is it?"
"The night," she answered. "Come and see the lagoon in the moonlight."
He drew down the lamp and blew it out, and followed her into the night, more lovely than he had ever imagined night to be. There was only one sound—the fall of the sea upon the main beach, and even that said: "Hush! Hush! Hus-s-sh!" Not a leaf stirred, not a shadow moved. The great gray boles of the palms reminded him of some fabulous Grecian temple.
"Let us sit here," she said, indicating the white sand bordering the lagoon; "and in a minute or two you will see something quite wonderful . . . . There!"
Out of the dark unruffled sapphire of the lagoon came vertical flashes of burning silver, singly and in groups.
"What in the world is it?" he asked.
"Flying fish. Something is feeding upon them. I thought you might like to see. You might be able to use the picture some day."
"I don't know." He bent his head to his knees. "Something's wrong.
I can't invent; the thing won't come."
"Shall I tell you a real story?"
"Something you have seen?"
"Yes."
"Tell it. Perhaps what I need is something to bite in."
So she told him the adventure of the two beachcombers in the typhoon, and how they became regenerated by their magnificent courage.
"That's tremendous!" he cried. "Lord, if I can only remember to write it exactly as you told it!" He jumped to his feet. "I'll tackle it to-night!"
"But it's after ten!"
"What's that got to do with it? … The roofs of the native huts scattering in the wind! … the absolute agony of the twisting palms!…. and those two beggars laughing as they breasted death! Girl, you've gone and done it!"
He leaned down and caught her by the hand, and then raced with her to the bungalow.
Five hours later she tiptoed down the hall and paused at the threshold of what they now called his study. There were no doors in the bungalow; instead, there were curtains of strung bead and bamboo, always tinkling mysteriously. His pipe hung dead in his teeth, but the smoke was dense about him. His hand flew across the paper. As soon as he finished a sheet, he tossed it aside and began another. Occasionally he would lean back and stare at the window which gave upon the sea. But she could tell by the dullness of his eyes that he saw only some inner vision.
Unobserved, she knelt and kissed the threshold: for she knew what kisses were now. The curtain tinkled as her head brushed it, but he neither saw nor heard.
CHAPTER XXII
Every morning at dawn it was Spurlock's custom to take a plunge in the lagoon. Ruth took hers in the sea, but was careful never to go beyond her depth because of the sharks. She always managed to get back to the bungalow before he did.
As she came in this morning she saw that the lamp was still burning in the study; so she stopped at the door. Spurlock lay with his head on his arms, asleep. The lamp was spreading soot over everything and the reek of kerosene was stronger than usual. She ran to the lamp and extinguished it. Spurlock slept on. It was still too dark for reading, but she could see well enough to note the number of the last page—fifty-six.
Ruth wore a printed cotton kimono. She tied the obi clumsily about her waist, then gently laid her hand on the bowed head. He did not move. Mischief bubbled up in her. She set her fingers in the hair and tugged, drawing him to a sitting posture and stooping so that her eyes would be on the level with his when he awoke.
He opened his eyes, protestingly, and beheld the realization of his dream. He had been dreaming of Ruth—an old recurrency of that dream he had had in Canton, of Ruth leading him to the top of the mountain. For a moment he believed this merely a new phase of the dream. He smiled.
"The Dawn Pearl!" he said, making to recline again.
But she was relentless. "Hoddy, wake up!" She jerked his head to and fro until the hair stung.
"What?… Oh!… Well, good Lord!" He wrenched loose his head and stood up, sending the chair clattering to the floor. Rollo barked.
"Go and take your plunge while I attend to breakfast."
He started to pick up a sheet of manuscript, but she pushed him from the table toward the doorway; and he staggered out of the bungalow, suddenly stretched his arms, and broke into a trot.
Ruth returned to the table. The tropical dawn is swift. She could now see to read; so she stirred the manuscript about until she came upon the first page. "The Beachcombers."
Romance! The Seven Seas are hers. She roves the blue fields of the North, with the clean North Wind on her lips and her blonde head jewelled with frost—mocking valour and hardihood! Out of the West she comes, riding the great ships and the endless steel ways that encompass the earth, and smoke comes with her and the glare of furnace fires—commerce! From the East she brings strange words upon her tongue and strange raiment upon her shoulders and the perfume of myrrh—antiquity! But oh! when she springs from the South, her rosy feet trailing the lotus, ripe lequats wreathing her head, in one hand the bright torch of danger and in the other the golden apples of love, with her eyes full of sapphires and her mouth full of pearls!
"With her eyes full of sapphires and her mouth full of pearls." All day long the phrase interpolated her thoughts.
A week later the manuscript was polished and typewritten, ready for the test. Spurlock felt very well pleased with himself. To have written a short story in a week was rather a remarkable feat.
It was at breakfast on this day that he told Ruth he had sent to
Batavia for some dresses. They would arrive sometime in June.
"That gown is getting shabby."
Ruth spread out the ruffled skirt, sundrily torn and soiled. "I haven't worn anything else in weeks. I haven't touched the other."
"Anything like that?"
"Yes; but the colour is lavender."
"Wear that to-night, then. It fits your style. You are very lovely,
Ruth."
She wanted to dance. The joy that filled her veins with throbbing fire urged her to rise and go swinging and whirling and dipping. She sat perfectly still, however.
"I am glad you think that," she replied. "Please tell me whenever I am at fault."
"I wish you did have some faults, Ruth. You're an angel of goodness."
"No, no! I have had wicked thoughts."
He laughed and pushed back his chair. "So has the butterfly evil thoughts. We're to be given a treat to-night. McClintock will be tuning up the piano to-day. I say, I'll take the yarn over and read it to McClintock. That old chap has a remarkable range in reading. But, hang it, I know it's good!"
"Of course it is!"
In the afternoon he began work on another tale. It was his purpose to complete four or five stories before he sent any away. But to-day he did not get beyond half a dozen desultory start-offs. From McClintock's came an infernal tinkle-tinkle, tump-tump! There was no composing with such a sound hammering upon the ear. But eventually Spurlock laughed. Not so bad. Battle, murder, and sudden death—and an old chap like McClintock tuning his piano in the midst of it. He made a note of the idea and stored it away.
He read "The Beachcombers" to McClintock that night after coffee; and when he had done, the old trader nodded.
"That's a good story, lad. You've caught the colour and the life. But it sounds too real to be imagined. You've never seen a typhoon, have you?"
"No."
"Well, imagination beats me!"
"It's something Ruth saw. She told me the tale the other night, and
I've only elaborated it."
"Ah, I see." McClintock saw indeed—two things: that the boy had no conceit and that this odd girl would always be giving. "Well, it's a good story."
He offered cigars, and Ruth got up. She always left the table when they began to smoke. Spurlock had not coached her on this line of conduct. Somewhere she had read that it was the proper thing to do and that men liked to be alone with their tobacco. She hated to leave; for this hour would be the most interesting. Both Spurlock and McClintock stood by their chairs until she was gone.
"Yes, sir," said McClintock, as he sat down; "that's South Sea stuff, that yarn of yours. I like the way you shared it. I have read that authors are very selfish and self-centred."
"Oh, Ruth couldn't put it on paper, to be sure; but there was no reason to hide the source."
"Have you told her?"
"Told her? Told her what?" Spurlock sat straight in his chair.
"You know what I mean," said the trader, gravely. "In spots you are a thoroughbred; but here's a black mark on your ticket, lad. My friend the doctor suspected it, and so do I. You are not a tourist seeking adventure. You have all the earmarks of a fugitive from justice."
Spurlock grew limp in his chair. "If you thought that, why did you give me this job?"—his voice faint and thick.
"The doctor and I agreed to give you a chance—for her sake. Without realizing what she has done, she's made a dreadful mess of it. A child—as innocent as a child! Nothing about life; bemused by the fairy stories you writers call novels! I don't know what you have done; I don't care. But you must tell her."
"I can't! I can't—not now!"
"Bat!—can't you see that she's the kind who would understand and forgive? She loves you."
The walls appeared to rock; bulging shadows reached out; the candle flames became mocking eyes; and the blood drummed thunderously in Spurlock's ears. The door to the apocalypse had opened!
"Loves me? . . . Ruth?"
"Why the devil not? Why do you suppose she married you if she didn't love you? While you read I watched her face. It was in her eyes—the big thing that comes but once. But you! Why the devil did you marry her? That's the thing that confounds me."
"God help me, what a muddle!" The cigar crumbled in Spurlock's hand.
"All life is a muddle, and we are all muddlers, more or less. It is a matter of degree. Lord, I am sixty. For thirty years I have lived alone; but once upon a time I lived among men. I know life. I sit back now, letting life slip by and musing upon it; and I find my loneliness sweet. I have had my day; and there were women in it. So, when I tell you she loves you, I know. Supposing they find you and take you away?—and she unprepared? Have you thought of that? Why did you marry her?"
"God alone knows!"
"And you don't love her! What kind of a woman do you want, anyhow?"—with rising anger. He saw the tragedy on the boy's face; but he was merciless. "Are you a poltroon, after all?"
"That's it! I ought to have died that night!"
"Or is there a taint of insanity in your family history? Alone and practically penniless like yourself! You weren't even stirred by gratitude. You just married her. Lad, that fuddles me!"
"Did you bring me down here to crucify me?" cried Spurlock, in passionate rebellion.
"No, lad," said McClintock, his tone becoming kindly. "Only, what you have done is out of all human calculation. You did not marry her because you loved her; you did not marry because she might have had money; you did not marry her out of gratitude; you did not marry her because you had to. You just married her! But there she is—'with her eyes full of sapphires and her mouth full of pearls'!" McClintock quoted with gentle irony. "What have you got there in your breast—a stone? Is there blood or water in your veins?"
The dam broke, but not with violence. A vast relief filled Spurlock's heart as he decided to tell this man everything which related to Ruth. This island was the one haven he had; he might be forced to remain here for several years—until the Hand had forgotten him. He must win this man's confidence, even at the risk of being called mad. So, in broken, rather breathless phrases, he told his story; and when he had done, he laid his arms upon the table and bent his head to them.
There followed a silence which endured several minutes; or, rather a tableau. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. Occasionally the flames would bend, twist and writhe crazily as the punka-boy bestirred himself.
McClintock's astonishment merged into a state of mild hypnosis. That any human being could conceive and execute such a thing! A Roundhead, here in these prosaic times!—and mad as a hatter! Trying the rôle of St. Anthony, when God Himself had found only one man strong enough for that! McClintock shook his head violently, as if to dismiss this dream he was having. But the objects in his range of vision remained unchanged. Presently he reached out and laid his hand upon Spurlock's motionless shoulders.
"'Tis a cruel thing you've done, lad. Even if you were sick in the mind and did not understand what you were doing, it's a mighty cruel thing you have done. Probably she mistook you; probably she thought you cared. I'm neither an infidel nor an agnostic, so I'll content myself by saying that the hand of God is in this somewhere. 'He's a good fellow, and 'twill all end well'. You have set out to do something which is neither God's way nor man's. What'll you be doing?"
"What can I do?" asked Spurlock, raising his haggard face. "Can't you see? I can't hurt her, if … if she cares! I can't tell her I'm a madman as well as a thief!… What a fool! What a fool!"
A thief. McClintock's initial revulsion was natural; he was an honest man. But this revulsion was engulfed by the succeeding waves of pity and understanding. One transgression; he was sure of that. The boy was all conscience, and he suffered through this conscience to such lengths that the law would be impotent to add anything. All this muddle to placate his conscience!
"Here—quick!" McClintock thrust a cigar into Spurlock's hand. "Put it in your teeth and light it. I hear her coming."
Spurlock obeyed mechanically. The candle was shaking in his hand as
Ruth appeared in the doorway.
"I thought we were going to have some music," she said.
Her husband stared at her over the candle flame. Flesh and blood, vivid, alluring; she was no longer the symbol, therefore she had become, as in the twinkling of an eye, an utter stranger. And this utter stranger … loved him! He had no reason to doubt McClintock's statement; the Scot had solved the riddle why Ruth Enschede had married Howard Spurlock. All emotions laid hold of him, but none could he stay long enough to analyze it. For a space he rode the whirligig.
"We were talking shop," said McClintock, rising. Observing Spurlock's spell-bound attitude, he clapped the boy on the shoulder. "Come along! We'll start that concert right away."
In the living room Spurlock's glance was constantly drawn toward Ruth; but in fear that she might sense something wrong, he walked over to the piano and struck a few chords.
"You play?" asked McClintock, who was sorting the rolls.
"A little. This is a good piano."
"It ought to be; it cost enough to get it here," said the Scot, ruefully. "Ever play one of these machines?"
"Yes. I've always been more or less music-mad. But machinery will never approach the hand."
"I know a man…. But I'll tell you about him some other time. I'm crazy over music, too. I can't pump out all there is to these compositions. Try something."
Spurlock gratefully accepted the Grieg concerto, gratefully, because it was brilliant and thunderous. Papillon would have broken him down; anything tender would have sapped his will; and like as not he would have left the stool and rushed into the night. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. The action steadied him; and there was a phase of irony, too, that helped. He had been for months without music of the character he loved—and he dared not play any of it!
McClintock, after the music began, left the piano and sat in a corner just beyond the circle of light cast by the lamp. His interest was divided: while his ears drank in the sounds, his glance constantly roved from Ruth to the performer and back to Ruth. These amazing infants!
Suddenly he came upon the true solution: that the boy hadn't meant to steal whatever it was he had stolen. A victim of one of those mental typhoons that scatter irretrievably the barriers of instinct and breeding; and he had gone on the rocks all in a moment. Never any doubt of it. That handsome, finely drawn face belonged to a soul with clean ideals. All in a moment. McClintock's heart went out to Spurlock; he would always be the boy's friend, even though he had dragged this girl on to the rocks with him.
Love and lavender, he thought, perhaps wistfully. He could remember when women laid away their gowns in lavender—as this girl's mother had. He would always be her friend, too. That boy—blind as a bat! Why, he hadn't seen the Woman until to-night!
From the first chord of the Grieg concerto to the finale of the Chopin ballade, Ruth had sat tensely on the edge of her chair. She had dreaded the beginning of this hour. What would happen to her? Would her soul be shaken, twisted, hypnotized?—as it had been those other times? Music—that took out of her the sense of reality, whirled her into the clouds, that gave to her will the directless energy of a chip of wood on stormy waters. But before the Grieg concerto was done, she knew that she was free. Free! All the fine ecstasy, without the numbing terror.
Spurlock sat limply, his arms hanging. McClintock, striking a match to relight his cigar, broke the spell. Ruth sighed; Spurlock stood up and drew his hand across his forehead as if awakening from a dream.
"I didn't know the machine had such stuff in it," said McClintock. "I imagine I must have a hundred rolls—all the old fellows. It's a sorry world," he went on. "Nobody composes any more, nobody paints, nobody writes—I mean, on a par with what we've just heard."
The clock tinkled ten. Shortly Ruth and Spurlock took the way home. They walked in silence. With a finger crooked in his side-pocket, she measured her step with his, her senses still dizzy from the echo of the magic sounds. At the threshold of the study he bade her good-night; but he did not touch her forehead with his lips.
"I feel like work," he lied. What he wanted desperately was to be alone.
"But you are tired!"
"I want to go over the story again."
"Mr. McClintock liked it."
"He couldn't help it, Ruth. It's big, thanks to you."
"You…. need me a little?"
"Not a little, but a great deal."
That satisfied something of her undefined hunger. She went to her bedroom, but she did not go to bed. She drew a chair to the window and stared at the splendour of the tropical night. By and by she heard the screen door. Hollo rumbled in his throat.
"Hush!" she said.
Presently she saw Spurlock on the way to the lagoon. He walked with bent head. After quarter of an hour, she followed.
The unexpected twist—his disclosure to McClintock—had given Spurlock but temporary relief. The problem had returned, made gigantic by the possibility of Ruth's love. The thought allured him, and therein lay the danger. If it were but the question of his reason for marrying her, the solution would have been simple. But he was a thief, a fugitive from justice. On that basis alone, he had no right to give or accept love.
Had he been sick in the mind when he had done this damnable thing? It did not seem possible, for he could recall clearly all he had said and done; there were no blank spaces to give him one straw of excuse.
Ruth loved him. It was perfectly logical. And he could not return this love. He must fight the thought continually, day in and day out. The Dawn Pearl! To be with her constantly, with no diversions to serve as barricades! Damn McClintock for putting this thought in his head—that Ruth loved him!
He flung himself upon the beach, face downward, his outflung hands digging into the sand: which was oddly like his problem—he could not grip it. Torment!
And so Ruth discovered him. She was about to rush to his side, when she saw his clenched hands rise and fall upon the sand repeatedly. Her heart swelled to suffocation. To go to him, to console him! But she stirred not from her hiding place. Instinctively she knew—some human recollection she had inherited—that she must not disturb him in this man-agony. She could not go to him when it was apparent that he needed her beyond all other instances! What had caused this agony did not matter—then. It was enough that she witnessed it and could not go to him.
By and by—as the paroxysm subsided and he became motionless—she stole back to the bungalow to wait. Through her door curtain she could see the light from the study lamp. If, when he returned, he blew out the light, she would go to bed; but if the light burned on for any length of time, she would go silently to the study curtain to learn if his agony was still upon him. She heard him come in; the light burned on.
She discovered him sitting upon the floor beside his open trunk. He had something across his knees. At first she could not tell what it was; but as her eyes became accustomed to the light, she recognized the old coat.
CHAPTER XXIII
Next morning Ruth did not refer to the episode on the sands of the lagoon. Here again instinct guided her. If he had nothing to tell her, she had nothing to ask. She did not want particularly to know what had caused his agony, what had driven him back to the old coat. He was in trouble and she could not help him; that was the ache in her heart.
At breakfast both of them played their parts skillfully. There was nothing in his manner to suggest the misery of the preceding night. There was nothing on her face to hint of the misery that brimmed her heart this morning. So they fenced with smiles.
He noted that she was fully dressed, that her hair was carefully done, that there was a knotted ribbon around her throat. It now occurred to him that she had always been fully dressed. He did not know—and probably never would unless she told him—that it was very easy (and comfortable for a woman) to fall into slatternly ways in this latitude. So long as she could remember, her father had never permitted her to sit at the table unless she came fully dressed. Later, she understood his reasons; and it had now become habit.
Fascination. It would be difficult to find another human being subjected to so many angles of attack as Spurlock. Ruth loved him. This did not tickle his vanity; on the contrary, it enlivened his terror, which is a phase of fascination. She loved him. That held his thought as the magnet holds the needle, inescapably. The mortal youth in him, then, was fascinated, the thinker, the poet; from all sides Ruth attacked him, innocently. The novel danger of the situation enthralled him. He saw himself retreating from barricade to barricade, Ruth always advancing, perfectly oblivious of the terror she inspired.
While he was stirring his tea, she ran and fetched the comb. She attacked his hair resolutely. He laughed to hide his uneasiness. The touch of her hands was pleasurable.
"The part was crooked," she explained.
"I don't believe McClintock would have gone into convulsions at the sight of it. Anyhow, ten minutes after I get to work I'll be rumpling it."
"That isn't the point, Hoddy. You don't notice the heat; but it is always there, pressing down. You must always shave and part your hair straight. It doesn't matter that you deal with black people. It isn't for their sakes, it's for your own. Mr. McClintock does it; and he knows why. In the morning and at night he is dressed as he would dress in the big hotels. In the afternoon he probably loafs in his pajamas. You can, too, if you wish.."
"All right, teacher; I'll shave and comb my hair." He rose for fear she might touch him again.
But such is the perversity of the human that frequently thereafter he purposely crooked the part in his hair, to give her the excuse to fetch the comb. Not that he deliberately courted danger; it was rather the searcher, seeking analysis, the why and wherefore of this or that invading emotion.
He was always tenderly courteous; he answered her ordinary questions readily and her extraordinary ones patiently; he always rose when she entered or left the room. This formality irked her: she wanted to play a little, romp. The moment she entered the room and he rose, she felt that she was immediately consigned to the circle of strangers; and it emptied her heart of its joy and filled it with diffidence. There was a wall; she was always encountering it; the one time she was able to break through this wall was when the part in his hair was crooked.
She began to exercise those lures which were bred in her bone—the bones of all women. She required no instructions from books; her wit and beauty were her own. What lends a tragic mockery to all these tender traps of hers was that she was within lawful bounds. This man was her husband in the eyes of both God and man.
But Spurlock was ever on guard, even when she fussed over his hair. His analytical bent saved him many times, though he was not sensitive to this. The fire—if there was any in him—never made headway against this insistant demand to know the significance of these manifold inward agitations.
Thus, more and more Ruth turned to the mongrel dog who bore the name of Rollo unflinchingly—the dog that adored her openly, shamelessly, who now without a whimper took his diurnal tubbing. Upon this grateful animal she lavished that affection which was subtly repelled by its lawful object.
Spurlock was by nature orderly, despite his literary activities. Before the first month was gone, McClintock admitted that the boy was a find. Accounts were now always where he could put his hand on them. The cheating of the boys in the stores ceased. If there were any pearls, none came into the light. Gradually McClintock shifted the burden to Spurlock's shoulders and retired among his books and music rolls.
Twice Spurlock went to Copeley's—twenty miles to the northwest—for ice and mail. It was a port of call, since fortnightly a British mail-boat dropped her mudhook in the bay. All sorts of battered tramps, junks and riff-raff of the seas trailed in and out. Spurlock was tremendously interested in these derelicts, and got a good deal of information regarding them, which he stored away for future use. There were electric and ice plants, and a great store in which one could buy anything from jewsharps to gas-engines. White men and natives dealt conveniently at Copeley's. It saved long voyages and long waits; and the buyers rarely grumbled because the prices were stiff. There were white men with families, a fine mission-house, and a club-house for cards and billiards.
He was made welcome as McClintock's agent; but he politely declined all the proffered courtesies. Getting back the ice was rather a serious affair. He loaded the launch with a thousand pounds—all she could carry—and started home immediately after sundown; but even then he lost from a hundred to a hundred and fifty pounds before he had the stuff cached in McClintock's bamboo-covered sawdust pit. This ice was used for refrigerator purposes and for McClintock's evening peg.
Ruth with Rollo as her guide explored the island. In the heart of the jungle the dog had his private muck baths. Into one of these he waded and rolled and rolled, despite her commands. At first she thought he was endeavouring to rid himself of the fleas, but after a time she came to understand that the muck had healing qualities and soothed the burning scratches made by his claws. In the presence of the husband of his mistress Rollo was always dignifiedly cheerful, but he never leaped or cavorted as he did when alone with Ruth.
Spurlock was fond of dogs; he was fond of this offspring of many mesalliances; but he never made any attempt to win Rollo, to share him. The dog was, in a sense, a gift of the gods. He filled the rôle of comrade which Spurlock dared not enact, at least not utterly as he would have liked. Yes—as he would have liked.