indiscretion."
"Oh," said Elsa, becoming serious.
"A man came into my office to-day. He is a rich copra-grower from
Penang. He spoke of you. You passed him on going out. If I had been
twenty years younger I'd have punched his ugly head. His name is
Mallow, and he's not a savory chap."
Elsa's cheeks burned. She never would forget the look in that man's
eyes. The look might have been in other men's eyes, but
conventionality had always veiled it; she had never seen it before.
"Go on;" but her voice was unsteady.
"Somewhere along the Irrawaddy you made the acquaintance of a young man
who calls himself Warrington, familiarly known as Parrot & Co. I'll be
generous. Not one woman in a thousand would have declined to accept
the attentions of such a man. He is cultivated, undeniably
good-looking, a strong man, mentally and physically."
Elsa's expression was now enigmatical.
"There's not much veneer to him. He fooled me unintentionally. He was
quite evidently born a gentleman, of a race of gentlemen. His is not
an isolated case. One misstep, and the road to the devil."
The consul-general's wife sent a startled glance at Elsa, who spun her
sunshade to lighten the tension of her nerves.
"He confessed frankly to me this morning that he is a fugitive from
justice. He wishes to return to America. He recounted the
circumstances of your meeting. To me the story appeared truthful
enough. He said that you sought the introduction because of his
amazing likeness to the man you are going home to marry."
"That is true," replied Elsa. "Uncle Jim, I have traveled pretty much
over this world, and I never met a gentleman if Warrington is not one."
There was unconscious belligerency in her tone.
"Ah, there's the difficulty which women will never be made to
understand. Every man can, at one time or another, put himself upon
his good behavior. Underneath he may be a fine rascal."
"Not this one," smiling. "He warned me against himself a dozen times,
but that served to make me stubborn. The fault of my conduct," acidly,
"was not in making this pariah's acquaintance. It lies in the fact
that I had nothing to do with the other passengers, from choice. That
is where I was indiscreet. But why should I put myself out to gain the
good wishes of people for whom I have no liking; people I shall
probably never see again when I leave this port?"
"You forget that some of them will be your fellow passengers all the
way to San Francisco. My child, you know as well as I do that there
are some laws which the Archangel Michael would have to obey, did he
wish to inhabit this earth for a while."
"Poor Michael! And if you do not obey these laws, people talk."
"Exactly. There are two sets of man-made laws. One governs the
conduct of men and the other the conduct of women."
"And a man may break any one of these laws, twist it, rearrange it to
suit his immediate needs. On the other hand, the woman is always
manacled."
"Precisely."
"I consider it horribly unfair."
"So it is. But if you wish to live in peace, you must submit."
"Peace at that price I have no wish for. This man Mallow lives within
the pale of law; the other man is outside of it. Yet, of the two,
which would you be quickest to trust?"
The consul-general laughed. "Now you are appealing not to my knowledge
of the world but to my instinct."
"Thanks."
"Is there any reason why you should defend Mr. Warrington, as he calls
himself?"
The consul-general's wife desperately tried to catch her husband's eye.
But either he did not see the glance or he purposely ignored it.
"In defending Mr. Warrington I am defending myself."
"A good point."
"My dear friend," Elsa went on, letting warmth come into her voice once
more, "my sympathy went out to that man. He looked so lonely. Did you
notice his eyes? Can a man look at you the way he does and be bad?"
"I have seen Mallow dozens of times. I know him to be a scoundrel of
sorts; but I doubt if bald sunlight could make him blink. Liars have
first to overcome the flickering and wavering of the eyes."
"He said that."
"Who, Warrington?" puzzled.
"He said almost the same thing. Would he say that if he were a liar?"
"I haven't accused him of being that. Indeed, he struck me as a
truthful young man. But he confessed to me that ten years ago he
robbed his employer of eight thousand dollars. By the way, what is the
name of the firm your father founded?"
"The Andes Construction Company. Do you think we could find him
something to do there?" eagerly. "He builds bridges."
"I shouldn't advise that. But we have gone astray. You ought not to
see him again."
"I have made up my mind not to."
"Then pardon me for all this pother. I know what is in your heart,
Elsa. You want to help the poor devil back to what he was; but he'll
have to do that by himself."
"It is a hateful world!" Elsa appealed to the wife.
"It is, Elsa, dear. But James is right."
"You'll get your balance," said the guardian, "when you reach home.
When's the wedding?"
"I'm not sure that I'm going to be married." Elsa twirled the sunshade
again. "I really wish I had stayed at home. I seem all topsy-turvy.
I could have screamed when I saw the man standing on the ledge above
the boat that night. No; I do not believe I shall marry. Fancy
marrying a man and knowing that his ghost was at the same time
wandering about the earth!" She rose and the sunshade described a
half-circle as she spoke. "Oh, bother with it all! Dinner at eight,
in the big dining-room."
"Yes. But the introductions will be made on the cafe-veranda. These
people out here have gone mad over cock-tails. And look your best,
Elsa. I want them to see a real American girl to-night. I'll have
some roses sent up to you."
Elsa had not the heart to tell him that all interest in his dinner had
suddenly gone from her mind; that even the confusion of the colonel no
longer appealed to her bitter malice. She knew that she was going to
be bored and miserable. Well, she had promised. She would put on her
best gown; she would talk and laugh and jest because she had done these
things many times when her heart was not in the play of it.
When she was gone, the consul-general's wife said: "Poor girl!"
Her husband looked across the room interestedly. "Why do you say that?"
"I am a woman."
"That phrase is the City of Refuge. All women fly to it when
confronted by something they do not understand."
"Oh, but I do understand. And that's the pity of it."
XIV
ACCORDING TO THE RULES
Elsa sought the hotel rickshaw-stand, selected a sturdy coolie, and
asked to be run to the botanical gardens and back. She wanted to be
alone, wanted breathing-space, wanted the breeze to cool her hot
cheeks. For she was angry at the world, angry at the gentle
consul-general, above all, angry at herself. To have laid herself open
to the charge of indiscretion! To have received a lecture, however
kindly intended, from the man she loved and respected next to her
father! To know that persons were exchanging nods and whispers behind
her back!
It was a detestable world. It was folly to be honest, to be kind, to
be individual, to have likes and dislikes, unless these might be
regulated by outsiders. Why should she care what people said? She did
not care. What made her furious was the absolute stupidity of their
deductions. She had not been indiscreet; she had been merely kindly
and human; and if they wanted to twist and misconstrue her actions, let
them do so.
She hated the word "people." It seemed to signify all the useless
inefficient persons in the world, massed together after the manner of
sheep and cattle, stupidest of beasts, always wanting something and
never knowing what; not an individual among them. And they expected
her to conform with their ways! Was it necessary for her to tell these
meddlers why she had sought the companionship of a self-admitted
malefactor? . . . Oh, that could not be! If evil were to be found in
such a man, then there was no good anywhere. What was one misstep?
Was it not written that all of us should make one or more? And surely
this man had expiated his. Ten years in this wilderness, ten long
lonely years. How many men would have stood up against the temptations
of this exile? Few, if any, among the men she knew. And they
criticized her because she was sorry for the man. Must she say to
them: "Dear people, I spoke to this man and engaged his companionship
because I was sorry for him; because he looked exactly like the man I
have promised to marry!" It was ridiculous. She laughed. The dear
people!
Once or twice she saw inwardly the will-o'-the-wisp lights of her soul.
But resolutely she smothered the sparks and bolstered up the pitiful
lie.
The coolie stopped suddenly.
"Go on," she said.
But the coolie smiled and wiped his shaven poll. Elsa gazed at the
hotel-veranda in bewilderment. Slowly she got out of the rickshaw and
paid the fare. She had not the slightest recollection of having seen
the gardens. More than this, it was a quarter to seven. She had been
gone exactly an hour.
"Perhaps, after all," she thought, "I am hopeless. They may be right;
I ought to have a guardian. I am not always accountable for what I do."
She dressed leisurely and with calculation. She was determined to
convince every one that she was a beautiful woman, above suspicion,
above reproach. The spirit within her was not, however, in direct
accord with this determination. Malice stirred into life again; and
she wanted to hurt some one, hurt deeply. It was only the tame in
spirit who, when injured, submitted without murmur or protest. And
Elsa, only dimly aware of it, was mortally hurt.
"Elsa," said Martha, "that frown will stay there some day, and never go
away."
Elsa rubbed it out with her finger. "Martha, do you recall that tiger
in the cage at Jaipur? How they teased him until he lost his temper
and came smashing against the bars? Well, I sympathize with that
brute. He would have been peaceful enough had they let him be. Has
Mr. Warrington called to-day?"
"No."
"Well, if he calls to-morrow, say that I am indisposed."
Martha evinced her satisfaction visibly. The frown returned between
Elsa's eyes and remained there until she went down-stairs to join the
consul-general and his wife. She found some very agreeable men and
women, and some of her natural gaiety returned. At a far table on the
veranda she saw Craig and Mallow in earnest conversation.
She nodded pleasantly to the colonel as the head boy came to announce
that dinner was served. Anglo-Indian society had so many twists and
ramifications that the situation was not exactly new to the old
soldier. True, none had confronted him identical to this. But he had
not disciplined men all these years without acquiring abundant
self-control. The little veins in his nose turned purple, as Elsa
prophesied they would, but there was no other indication of how
distasteful the moment was to him. He would surely warn the
consul-general, who doubtless was innocent enough.
They sat down. The colonel blinked. "Fine passage we had coming down."
"Was it?" returned Elsa innocently.
The colonel reached for an olive and bit into it savagely. He was no
fool. She had him at the end of a blind-alley, and there he must wait
until she was ready to let him go. She could harry him or pretend to
ignore him, as suited her fancy. He was caught. Women, all women,
possessed at least one attribute of the cat. It was digging in the
claw, hanging by it, and boredly looking about the world to see what
was going on. At that moment the colonel recognized the sting of the
claw.
Elsa turned to her right and engaged the French consul discursively:
the vandalism in the gardens at Versailles, the glut of vehicles in the
Bois at Paris, the disappearing of the old landmarks, the old Hotel de
Sevigne, now the most interesting _musée_ in France. Indeed, Elsa
gradually became the center of interest; she drew them intentionally.
She brought a touch of home to the Frenchman, to the German, to the
Italian, to the Spaniard; and the British official, in whose hands the
civil business of the Straits Settlements rested, was charmed to learn
that Elsa had spent various week-ends at the home of his sister in
Surrey.
And when she admitted that she was the daughter of General Chetwood,
the man to whom the Indian government had cause to be grateful, upon
more than one occasion, for the solidity of his structures, the colonel
realized definitely the seriousness of his crucifixion. He sat stiffer
and stiffer in his chair, and the veins in his nose grew deeper and
deeper in hue. He saw clearly that he would never understand American
women. He had committed an outrageous blunder. He, instead of
dominating, had been dominated by three faultfinding old women; and,
without being aware of the fact, had looked at things from their point
of view. A most inconceivable blunder. He would not allow that he was
being swayed less by the admission of his unpardonable rudeness on
board than by the immediate knowledge that Elsa was known to the
British official's sister, a titled lady who stood exceedingly high at
court.
"Miss Chetwood," he said, lowering his voice for her ears only.
Elsa turned, but with the expression that signified that her attention
was engaged elsewhere.
"Yes?"
"I am an old man. I am sixty-two; and most of these sixty-two I have
lived roughly; but I am not too old to realize that I have made a fool
of myself."
Interest began to fill Elsa's eyes.
"It has been said," he went on, keeping the key, "that I am a man of
courage, but I find that I need a good deal of that just now. I have
been rude to you, and without warrant, and I offer you my humble
apologies." He fumbled with his cravat as if it had suddenly
tightened. "Will you accept?"
"Instantly." Elsa understood the quality of courage that had stirred
the colonel.
"Thanks."
But ruthlessly: "I should, however, like your point of view in regard
to what you consider my conduct."
"Is it necessary?"
"I believe it would be better for my understanding if you made a full
confession." She did not mean to be relentless, but her curiosity was
too strong not to press her advantage.
"Well, then, over here as elsewhere in the world there are standards by
which we judge persons who come under our notice."
"Agreed. Individuality is not generally understandable."
"By the mediocre, you might have added. That's the difficulty with
individuality; it refuses to be harnessed by mediocrity, and mediocrity
holds the whip-hand, always. I represent the mediocre."
"Oh, never!" said Elsa animatedly. "Mediocrity is always without
courage."
"You are wrong. It has the courage of its convictions."
"Rather is it not stubbornness, wilful refusal to recognize things as
they are?"
He countered the question with another. "Supposing we were all
individuals, in the sense you mean? Supposing each of us did exactly
as he pleased? Can you honestly imagine a more confusing place than
this world would be? The Manchurian pony is a wild little beast, an
individual if ever there was one; but man tames him and puts to use his
energies. And so it is with human individuality. We of the mediocre
tame it and harness and make it useful to the general welfare of
humanity. And when we encounter the untamable, in order to safeguard
ourselves, we must turn it back into the wilderness, an outlaw.
Indeed, I might call individuality an element, like fire and water and
air."
"But who conquer fire and water and air?" Elsa demanded, believing she
had him pocketed.
"Mediocrity, through the individual of this or that being. Humanity in
the bulk is mediocre. And odd as it seems, individuality (which is
another word for genius) believes it leads mediocrity. But it can not
be made to understand that mediocrity ordains the leadership."
"Then you contend that in the hands of the stupid lies the balance of
power?"
"Let us not say stupid, rather the unimaginative, the practical and the
plodding. The stubbornest person in the world is one with an idea."
"Do you honestly insist that you are mediocre?"
"No," thoughtfully. "I am one of those stubborn men with ideas. I
merely insist that I prefer to accept the tenets of mediocrity for my
own peace and the peace of others."
Elsa forgot those about her, forgot her intended humiliation of the man
at her side. He denied that he was an individual, but he was one, as
interesting a one as she had met in a very long time. She, too, had
made a blunder. Quick to form opinions, swift to judge, she stood
guilty with the common lot, who permit impressions instead of evidence
to sway them. Here was a man.
"We have gone far afield," she said, a tacit admission that she could
not refute his dissertations. This knowledge, however, was not irksome.
"Rather have we not come to the bars? Shall we let them down?"
"Proceed."
"In the civil and military life on this side of the world there are
many situations which we perforce must tolerate. But these, mind you,
are settled conditions. It is upon new ones which arise that we pass
judgment. I knew nothing about you, nothing whatever. So I judged you
according to the rules."
Elsa leaned upon her elbows, and she smiled a little as she noted that
the purple had gone from his nose and that it had resumed its
accustomed rubicundity.
"I go on. A woman who travels alone, who does not present letters of
introduction, who . . ."
"Who attends strictly to her own affairs. Go on."
"Who is young and beautiful."
"A sop! Thanks!"
Imperturbably he continued: "Who seeks the acquaintance of men who do
not belong, as you Americans say."
"Not men; one man," she corrected.
"A trifling difference. Well, it arouses a disagreeable word,
suspicion. For look, there have been examples. It isn't as if yours
were an isolated case. There have been examples, and these we apply to
such affairs as come under our notice."
"And it doesn't matter that you may be totally wrong?"
His prompt answer astonished her. "No, it does not matter in the
least. Simmered down, it may be explained in a word, appearances. And
I must say, to the normal mind . . ."
"The mediocre mind."
"To the normal and mediocre mind, appearances were against you.
Observe, please, that I did not know I was wrong, that you were a
remarkable young woman. My deductions were made from what I saw as an
outsider. On the Irrawaddy you made the acquaintance of a man who came
out here a fugitive from justice. After you made his acquaintance, you
sought none other, in fact, repelled any advances. This alone decided
me."
"Then you were decided?" To say that this blunt exposition was not
bitter to her taste, that it did not act like acid upon her pride,
would not be true. She was hurt, but she did not let the hurt befog
her sense of justice. From his point of view the colonel was in no
fault. "Let me tell you how very wrong you were indeed."
"Doubtless," he hastily interposed, "you enveloped the man in a cloud
of romance."
"On the contrary, I spoke to him and sought his companionship because
he was nothing more nor less than a ghost."
"Ah! Is it possible that you knew him in former times?"
"No. But he was so like the man at home; so identical in features and
build to the man I expected to go home to marry. . . ."
"My dear young lady, you are right. Mediocrity is without imagination,
stupid, and makes the world a dull place indeed. Like the man you
expect to marry! What woman in your place would have acted otherwise?
And I have made my statements as bald and brutal as an examining
magistrate! Instead of one apology I offer a thousand."
"I accept each and all of them. More, I believe that you and I could
get on capitally. I can very well imagine the soldier you used to be.
I am going to ask you what you know about Mr. Warrington."
"This, that he is not a fit companion for a young woman like yourself;
that a detractable rumor follows hard upon his heels wherever he goes.
I learned something about him in Rangoon. He is known to the riff-raff
as Parrot & Co., and I don't know what else. All of us on shipboard
learned his previous history."
"Ah!" She was quite certain of the historian. "And not from
respectable quarters, either."
"If I had been elderly and without physical attractions?" Elsa inquired
sarcastically.
"We are dealing with human nature, mediocrity, and not with
speculation. It is in the very nature of things to distrust that which
we do not understand. You say, old and without physical attractions.
Beauty is of all things most drawing. We crowd about it, we crown it,
we flatter it. The old and unattractive we pass by. If I had not seen
you here to-night, heard you talk, saw in a kind of rebellious
enchantment over your knowledge of the world and your distinguished
acquaintance, I should have gone to my grave believing that my
suspicions were correct. I dare say that I shall make the same mistake
again."
"But do not judge so hastily."
"That I promise."
"Did you learn among other things what Mr. Warrington had done?"
"Yes. A sordid affair. Ordinary peculations that were wasted over
gaming-tables."
Warrington had told her the truth. At least, the story told by others
coincided with his own. But what was it that kept doubt in her mind?
Why should she not be ready to believe what others believed, what the
man himself had confessed? What was it to her that he looked like
Arthur, that he was guilty or innocent?
"And his name?" She wondered if the colonel knew that also.
"Warrington is assumed. His real name is Paul Ellison."
"Paul Ellison." She repeated it slowly. Her voice did not seem her
own. The table, the lights, the faces, all receded and became a blur.
XV
A BIT OF A LARK
Mallow gave Craig one of his favorite cigars. The gambler turned it
over and inspected the carnelian label, realizing that this was
expected of him. Mallow smiled complacently. They might smoke as good
as that at the government-house, but he rather doubted it. Trust a
Britisher to know a good pipe-charge; but his selection of cigars was
seldom to be depended upon.
"Don't see many of these out here," was Craig's comment, and he tucked
away the cigar in a vest pocket.
"They cost me forty-three cents apiece, without duty." The vulgarian's
pleasure lies not in the article itself so much as in the price paid
for it. On the plantation Mallow smoked Burma cheroots because he
really preferred them. There, he drank rye whisky, consorted with his
employees, gambled with them and was not above cheating when he had
them drunk enough. Away from home, however, he was the man of money;
he bought vintage wines when he could, wore silks, jingled the
sovereigns whenever he thought some one might listen, bullied the
servants, all with the childish belief that he was following the
footsteps of aristocracy, hoodwinking no one, not even his kind. "I'm
worth a quarter of a million," he went on. "Luck and plugging did it.
One of these fine days I'm going to sell out and take a whack at that
gay Paris. There's the place to spend your pile. You can't get your
money's worth any place else."
Paris. Craig's thought flew back to the prosperous days when he was
plying his trade between New York and Cherbourg, on the Atlantic
liners, the annual fortnight in Paris and the Grand-Prix. He had had
his diamonds, then, and his wallet of yellow-backs; and when he had
called for vintage wines and choice Havanas it had been for genuine
love of them. In his heart he despised Mallow. He knew himself to be
a rogue, but Mallow without money would have been a bold predatory
scoundrel. Craig knew also that he himself was at soul too cowardly to
be more than despicably bad. He envied Mallow's absolute fearlessness,
his frank brutality, his strength upon which dissipation had as yet
left no mark; and Mallow was easily forty-five. Paris. He might never
see that city again. He had just enough to carry him to Hongkong and
keep him on his feet until the races. He sent a bitter glance toward
the sea where the moonlight gave an ashen hue to the forest of rigging.
The beauty of the scene did not enter his eye. His mind was recalling
the luxurious smoke-rooms.
"When you go to Paris, I'd like to go along."
"You've never let on why they sent you hiking out here," Mallow
suggested.
"One of my habits is keeping my mouth shut."
"Regarding your own affairs, yes. But you're willing enough to talk
when it comes to giving away the other chap."
"You can play that hand as well as I can." Craig scowled toward the
dining-room doors.