Slowly a complete darkness enveloped Geoffrey Renouard. His resolution
had failed him. Instead of following Felicia into the house, he had
stopped under the three palms, and leaning against a smooth trunk had
abandoned himself to a sense of an immense deception and the feeling of
extreme fatigue. This walk up the hill and down again was like the
supreme effort of an explorer trying to penetrate the interior of an
unknown country, the secret of which is too well defended by its cruel
and barren nature. Decoyed by a mirage, he had gone too far—so far that
there was no going back. His strength was at an end. For the first time
in his life he had to give up, and with a sort of despairing
self-possession he tried to understand the cause of the defeat. He did
not ascribe it to that absurd dead man.
The hesitating shadow of Luiz approached him unnoticed till it spoke
timidly. Renouard started.
“Eh? What? Dinner waiting? You must say I beg to be excused. I can’t
come. But I shall see them to-morrow morning, at the landing place.
Take your orders from the professor as to the sailing of the schooner.
Go now.”
Luiz, dumbfounded, retreated into the darkness. Renouard did not move,
but hours afterwards, like the bitter fruit of his immobility, the words:
“I had nothing to offer to her vanity,” came from his lips in the silence
of the island. And it was then only that he stirred, only to wear the
night out in restless tramping up and down the various paths of the
plantation. Luiz, whose sleep was made light by the consciousness of
some impending change, heard footsteps passing by his hut, the firm tread
of the master; and turning on his mats emitted a faint Tse! Tse! Tse! of
deep concern.
Lights had been burning in the bungalow almost all through the night; and
with the first sign of day began the bustle of departure. House boys
walked processionally carrying suit-cases and dressing-bags down to the
schooner’s boat, which came to the landing place at the bottom of the
garden. Just as the rising sun threw its golden nimbus around the purple
shape of the headland, the Planter of Malata was perceived pacing
bare-headed the curve of the little bay. He exchanged a few words with
the sailing-master of the schooner, then remained by the boat, standing
very upright, his eyes on the ground, waiting.
He had not long to wait. Into the cool, overshadowed garden the
professor descended first, and came jauntily down the path in a lively
cracking of small shells. With his closed parasol hooked on his forearm,
and a book in his hand, he resembled a banal tourist more than was
permissible to a man of his unique distinction. He waved the disengaged
arm from a distance, but at close quarters, arrested before Renouard’s
immobility, he made no offer to shake hands. He seemed to appraise the
aspect of the man with a sharp glance, and made up his mind.
“We are going back by Suez,” he began almost boisterously. “I have been
looking up the sailing lists. If the zephirs of your Pacific are only
moderately propitious I think we are sure to catch the mail boat due in
Marseilles on the 18th of March. This will suit me excellently. . . .”
He lowered his tone. “My dear young friend, I’m deeply grateful to you.”
Renouard’s set lips moved.
“Why are you grateful to me?”
“Ah! Why? In the first place you might have made us miss the next boat,
mightn’t you? . . . I don’t thank you for your hospitality. You can’t be
angry with me for saying that I am truly thankful to escape from it. But
I am grateful to you for what you have done, and—for being what you are.”
It was difficult to define the flavour of that speech, but Renouard
received it with an austerely equivocal smile. The professor stepping
into the boat opened his parasol and sat down in the stern-sheets waiting
for the ladies. No sound of human voice broke the fresh silence of the
morning while they walked the broad path, Miss Moorsom a little in
advance of her aunt.
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! It is you who can offer me no reparation for the
offence against my feelings—and my person; for what reparation can be
adequate for your odious and ridiculous plot so scornful in its
implication, so humiliating to my pride. No! I don’t want to remember
you.”
Unexpectedly, with a tightening grip, he pulled her nearer to him, and
looking into her eyes with fearless despair—
“You’ll have to. I shall haunt you,” he said firmly.
Her hand was wrenched out of his grasp before he had time to release it.
Felicia Moorsom stepped into the boat, sat down by the side of her
father, and breathed tenderly on her crushed fingers.
The professor gave her a sidelong look—nothing more. But the professor’s
sister, yet on shore, had put up her long-handle double eye-glass to look
at the scene. She dropped it with a faint rattle.
“I’ve never in my life heard anything so crude said to a lady,” she
murmured, passing before Renouard with a perfectly erect head. When, a
moment afterwards, softening suddenly, she turned to throw a good-bye to
that young man, she saw only his back in the distance moving towards the
bungalow. She watched him go in—amazed—before she too left the soil of
Malata.
Nobody disturbed Renouard in that room where he had shut himself in to
breathe the evanescent perfume of her who for him was no more, till late
in the afternoon when the half-caste was heard on the other side of the
door.
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
Malata, returning them to their respective homes. An order on the
Dunster firm would be given to him in payment.
And again the silence of the bungalow remained unbroken till, next
morning, the half-caste came to report that everything was done. The
plantation boys were embarking now.
Through a crack in the door a hand thrust at him a piece of paper, and
the door slammed to so sharply that Luiz stepped back. Then approaching
cringingly the keyhole, in a propitiatory tone he asked:
“Do I go too, master?”
“Yes. You too. Everybody.”
“Master stop here alone?”
Silence. And the half-caste’s eyes grew wide with wonder. But he also,
like those “ignorant savages,” the plantation boys, was only too glad to
leave an island haunted by the ghost of a white man. He backed away
noiselessly from the mysterious silence in the closed room, and only in
the very doorway of the bungalow allowed himself to give vent to his
feelings by a deprecatory and pained—
“Tse! Tse! Tse!”