At last, one morning, in a clear spot of a glassy horizon charged with
heraldic masses of black vapours, the island grew out from the sea,
showing here and there its naked members of basaltic rock through the
rents of heavy foliage. Later, in the great spilling of all the riches
of sunset, Malata stood out green and rosy before turning into a violet
shadow in the autumnal light of the expiring day. Then came the night.
In the faint airs the schooner crept on past a sturdy squat headland, and
it was pitch dark when her headsails ran down, she turned short on her
heel, and her anchor bit into the sandy bottom on the edge of the outer
reef; for it was too dangerous then to attempt entering the little bay
full of shoals. After the last solemn flutter of the mainsail the
murmuring voices of the Moorsom party lingered, very frail, in the black
stillness.
They were sitting aft, on chairs, and nobody made a move. Early in the
day, when it had become evident that the wind was failing, Renouard,
basing his advice on the shortcomings of his bachelor establishment, had
urged on the ladies the advisability of not going ashore in the middle of
the night. Now he approached them in a constrained manner (it was
astonishing the constraint that had reigned between him and his guests
all through the passage) and renewed his arguments. No one ashore would
dream of his bringing any visitors with him. Nobody would even think of
coming off. There was only one old canoe on the plantation. And landing
in the schooner’s boats would be awkward in the dark. There was the risk
of getting aground on some shallow patches. It would be best to spend
the rest of the night on board.
There was really no opposition. The professor smoking a pipe, and very
comfortable in an ulster buttoned over his tropical clothes, was the
first to speak from his long chair.
“Most excellent advice.”
Next to him Miss Moorsom assented by a long silence. Then in a voice as
of one coming out of a dream—
“And so this is Malata,” she said. “I have often wondered . . .”
A shiver passed through Renouard. She had wondered! What about? Malata
was himself. He and Malata were one. And she had wondered! She had . . .
The professor’s sister leaned over towards Renouard. Through all these
days at sea the man’s—the found man’s—existence had not been alluded to
on board the schooner. That reticence was part of the general constraint
lying upon them all. She, herself, certainly had not been exactly elated
by this finding—poor Arthur, without money, without prospects. But she
felt moved by the sentiment and romance of the situation.
“Isn’t it wonderful,” she whispered out of her white wrap, “to think of
poor Arthur sleeping there, so near to our dear lovely Felicia, and not
knowing the immense joy in store for him to-morrow.”
There was such artificiality in the wax-flower lady that nothing in this
speech touched Renouard. It was but the simple anxiety of his heart that
he was voicing when he muttered gloomily—
“No one in the world knows what to-morrow may hold in store.”
The mature lady had a recoil as though he had said something impolite.
What a harsh thing to say—instead of finding something nice and
appropriate. On board, where she never saw him in evening clothes,
Renouard’s resemblance to a duke’s son was not so apparent to her.
Nothing but his—ah—bohemianism remained. She rose with a sort of
ostentation.
“It’s late—and since we are going to sleep on board to-night . . .” she
said. “But it does seem so cruel.”
The professor started up eagerly, knocking the ashes out of his pipe.
“Infinitely more sensible, my dear Emma.”
Renouard waited behind Miss Moorsom’s chair.
She got up slowly, moved one step forward, and paused looking at the
shore. The blackness of the island blotted out the stars with its vague
mass like a low thundercloud brooding over the waters and ready to burst
into flame and crashes.
“And so—this is Malata,” she repeated dreamily, moving towards the cabin
door. The clear cloak hanging from her shoulders, the ivory face—for the
night had put out nothing of her but the gleams of her hair—made her
resemble a shining dream-woman uttering words of wistful inquiry. She
disappeared without a sign, leaving Renouard penetrated to the very
marrow by the sounds that came from her body like a mysterious resonance
of an exquisite instrument.
He stood stock still. What was this accidental touch which had evoked
the strange accent of her voice? He dared not answer that question. But
he had to answer the question of what was to be done now. Had the moment
of confession come? The thought was enough to make one’s blood run cold.
It was as if those people had a premonition of something. In the
taciturn days of the passage he had noticed their reserve even amongst
themselves. The professor smoked his pipe moodily in retired spots.
Renouard had caught Miss Moorsom’s eyes resting on himself more than
once, with a peculiar and grave expression. He fancied that she avoided
all opportunities of conversation. The maiden lady seemed to nurse a
grievance. And now what had he to do?
The lights on the deck had gone out one after the other. The schooner
slept.
About an hour after Miss Moorsom had gone below without a sign or a word
for him, Renouard got out of his hammock slung in the waist under the
midship awning—for he had given up all the accommodation below to his
guests. He got out with a sudden swift movement, flung off his sleeping
jacket, rolled his pyjamas up his thighs, and stole forward, unseen by
the one Kanaka of the anchor-watch. His white torso, naked like a
stripped athlete’s, glimmered, ghostly, in the deep shadows of the deck.
Unnoticed he got out of the ship over the knight-heads, ran along the
back rope, and seizing the dolphin-striker firmly with both hands,
lowered himself into the sea without a splash.
He swam away, noiseless like a fish, and then struck boldly for the land,
sustained, embraced, by the tepid water. The gentle, voluptuous heave of
its breast swung him up and down slightly; sometimes a wavelet murmured
in his ears; from time to time, lowering his feet, he felt for the bottom
on a shallow patch to rest and correct his direction. He landed at the
lower end of the bungalow garden, into the dead stillness of the island.
There were no lights. The plantation seemed to sleep, as profoundly as
the schooner. On the path a small shell cracked under his naked heel.
The faithful half-caste foreman going his rounds cocked his ears at the
sharp sound. He gave one enormous start of fear at the sight of the
swift white figure flying at him out of the night. He crouched in
terror, and then sprang up and clicked his tongue in amazed recognition.
“Tse! Tse! The master!”
“Be quiet, Luiz, and listen to what I say.”
Yes, it was the master, the strong master who was never known to raise
his voice, the man blindly obeyed and never questioned. He talked low
and rapidly in the quiet night, as if every minute were precious. On
learning that three guests were coming to stay Luiz clicked his tongue
rapidly. These clicks were the uniform, stenographic symbols of his
emotions, and he could give them an infinite variety of meaning. He
listened to the rest in a deep silence hardly affected by the low, “Yes,
master,” whenever Renouard paused.
“You understand?” the latter insisted. “No preparations are to be made
till we land in the morning. And you are to say that Mr. Walter has gone
off in a trading schooner on a round of the islands.”
“Yes, master.”
“No mistakes—mind!”
“No, master.”
Renouard walked back towards the sea. Luiz, following him, proposed to
call out half a dozen boys and man the canoe.
“Imbecile!”
“Tse! Tse! Tse!”
“Don’t you understand that you haven’t seen me?”
“Yes, master. But what a long swim. Suppose you drown.”
“Then you can say of me and of Mr. Walter what you like. The dead don’t
mind.”
Renouard entered the sea and heard a faint “Tse! Tse! Tse!” of concern
from the half-caste, who had already lost sight of the master’s dark head
on the overshadowed water.
Renouard set his direction by a big star that, dipping on the horizon,
seemed to look curiously into his face. On this swim back he felt the
mournful fatigue of all that length of the traversed road, which brought
him no nearer to his desire. It was as if his love had sapped the
invisible supports of his strength. There came a moment when it seemed
to him that he must have swum beyond the confines of life. He had a
sensation of eternity close at hand, demanding no effort—offering its
peace. It was easy to swim like this beyond the confines of life looking
at a star. But the thought: “They will think I dared not face them and
committed suicide,” caused a revolt of his mind which carried him on. He
returned on board, as he had left, unheard and unseen. He lay in his
hammock utterly exhausted and with a confused feeling that he had been
beyond the confines of life, somewhere near a star, and that it was very
quiet there.