and clothes and no feeling, no inside, no brain to make fancies for
himself? No!” he went on violently. “Never in his life will he go again
into that room of yours--never any more!”
A silence fell. He was gloomy with the torment of his jealousy, and did
not even look at her. She sat up and slowly, gradually, bent lower and
lower over him, as if ready to fall into his arms. He looked up at last,
and checked this droop unwittingly.
“Say! You, who are up to fighting a man with your bare hands, could
you--eh?--could you manage to stick one with a thing like that knife of
mine?”
She opened her eyes very wide and gave him a wild smile.
“How can I tell?” she whispered enchantingly. “Will you let me have a
look at it?”
Without taking his eyes from her face, he pulled the knife out of its
sheath--a short, broad, cruel double-edged blade with a bone handle--and
only then looked down at it.
“A good friend,” he said simply. “Take it in your hand and feel the
balance,” he suggested.
At the moment when she bent forward to receive it from him, there was
a flash of fire in her mysterious eyes--a red gleam in the white mist
which wrapped the promptings and longings of her soul. She had done it!
The very sting of death was in her hands, the venom of the viper in her
paradise, extracted, safe in her possession--and the viper's head all
but lying under her heel. Ricardo, stretched on the mats of the floor,
crept closer and closer to the chair in which she sat.
All her thoughts were busy planning how to keep possession of that
weapon which had seemed to have drawn into itself every danger and
menace on the death-ridden earth. She said with a low laugh, the
exultation in which he failed to recognize:
“I didn't think that you would ever trust me with that thing!”
“Why not?”
“For fear I should suddenly strike you with it.”
“What for? For this morning's work? Oh, no! There's no spite in you for
that. You forgave me. You saved me. You got the better of me, too. And
anyhow, what good would it be?”
“No, no good,” she admitted.
In her heart she felt that she would not know how to do it; that if it
came to a struggle, she would have to drop the dagger and fight with her
hands.
“Listen. When we are going about the world together, you shall always
call me husband. Do you hear?”
“Yes,” she said bracing herself for the contest, in whatever shape it
was coming.
The knife was lying in her lap. She let it slip into the fold of her
dress, and laid her forearms with clasped fingers over her knees, which
she pressed desperately together. The dreaded thing was out of sight at
last. She felt a dampness break out all over her.
“I am not going to hide you, like that good-for-nothing, finicky, sneery
gentleman. You shall be my pride and my chum. Isn't that better than
rotting on an island for the pleasure of a gentleman, till he gives you
the chuck?”
“I'll be anything you like,” she said.
In his intoxication he crept closer with every word she uttered, with
every movement she made.
“Give your foot,” he begged in a timid murmur, and in the full
consciousness of his power.
Anything! Anything to keep murder quiet and disarmed till strength had
returned to her limbs and she could make up her mind what to do. Her
fortitude had been shaken by the very facility of success that had come
to her. She advanced her foot forward a little from under the hem of her
skirt; and he threw himself on it greedily. She was not even aware of
him. She had thought of the forest, to which she had been told to run.
Yes, the forest--that was the place for her to carry off the terrible
spoil, the sting of vanquished death. Ricardo, clasping her ankle,
pressed his lips time after time to the instep, muttering gasping words
that were like sobs, making little noises that resembled the sounds of
grief and distress. Unheard by them both, the thunder growled distantly
with angry modulations of it's tremendous voice, while the world outside
shuddered incessantly around the dead stillness of the room where the
framed profile of Heyst's father looked severely into space.
Suddenly Ricardo felt himself spurned by the foot he had been
cherishing--spurned with a push of such violence into the very hollow of
his throat that it swung him back instantly into an upright position on
his knees. He read his danger in the stony eyes of the girl; and in
the very act of leaping to his feet he heard sharply, detached on the
comminatory voice of the storm the brief report of a shot which half
stunned him, in the manner of a blow. He turned his burning head, and
saw Heyst towering in the doorway. The thought that the beggar had
started to prance darted through his mind. For a fraction of a second
his distracted eyes sought for his weapon all over the floor. He
couldn't see it.
“Stick him, you!” he called hoarsely to the girl, and dashed headlong
for the door of the compound.
While he thus obeyed the instinct of self-preservation, his reason was
telling him that he could not possibly reach it alive. It flew open,
however, with a crash, before his launched weight, and instantly he
swung it to behind him. There, his shoulder leaning against it, his
hands clinging to the handle, dazed and alone in the night full of
shudders and muttered menaces, he tried to pull himself together. He
asked himself if he had been shot at more than once. His shoulder was
wet with the blood trickling from his head. Feeling above his ear, he
ascertained that it was only a graze, but the shock of the surprise had
unmanned him for the moment.
What the deuce was the governor about to let the beggar break loose like
this? Or--was the governor dead, perhaps?
The silence within the room awed him. Of going back there could be no
question.
“But she knows how to take care of her self,” he muttered.
She had his knife. It was she now who was deadly, while he was disarmed,
no good for the moment. He stole away from the door, staggering, the
warm trickle running down his neck, to find out what had become of the
governor and to provide himself with a firearm from the armoury in the
trunks.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Mr. Jones, after firing his shot over Heyst's shoulder, had thought it
proper to dodge away. Like the spectre he was, he noiselessly vanished
from the veranda. Heyst stumbled into the room and looked around. All
the objects in there--the books, the gleam of old silver familiar
to him from boyhood, the very portrait on the wall--seemed shadowy,
unsubstantial, the dumb accomplices of an amazing dream-plot ending in
an illusory effect of awakening and the impossibility of ever closing
his eyes again. With dread he forced himself to look at the girl. Still
in the chair, she was leaning forward far over her knees, and had
hidden her face in her hands. Heyst remembered Wang suddenly. How clear
all this was--and how extremely amusing! Very.
She sat up a little, then leaned back, and taking her hands from her
face, pressed both of them to her breast as if moved to the heart by
seeing him there looking at her with a black, horror-struck curiosity.
He would have pitied her, if the triumphant expression of her face had
not given him a shock which destroyed the balance of his feelings. She
spoke with an accent of wild joy:
“I knew you would come back in time! You are safe now. I have done it!
I would never, never have let him--” Her voice died out, while her eyes
shone at him as when the sun breaks through a mist. “Never get it back.
Oh, my beloved!”
He bowed his head gravely, and said in his polite. Heystian tone:
“No doubt you acted from instinct. Women have been provided with their
own weapon. I was a disarmed man, I have been a disarmed man all my life
as I see it now. You may glory in your resourcefulness and your profound
knowledge of yourself; but I may say that the other attitude, suggestive
of shame, had its charm. For you are full of charm!”
The exultation vanished from her face.
“You mustn't make fun of me now. I know no shame. I was thanking God
with all my sinful heart for having been able to do it--for giving you
to me in that way--oh, my beloved--all my own at last!”
He stared as if mad. Timidly she tried to excuse herself for disobeying
his directions for her safety. Every modulation of her enchanting voice
cut deep into his very breast, so that he could hardly understand the
words for the sheer pain of it. He turned his back on her; but a sudden
drop, an extraordinary faltering of her tone, made him spin round. On
her white neck her pale head dropped as in a cruel drought a withered
flower droops on its stalk. He caught his breath, looked at her closely,
and seemed to read some awful intelligence in her eyes. At the moment
when her eyelids fell as if smitten from above by an invisible power, he
snatched her up bodily out of the chair, and disregarding an unexpected
metallic clatter on the floor, carried her off into the other room. The
limpness of her body frightened him. Laying her down on the bed, he
ran out again, seized a four-branched candlestick on the table, and ran
back, tearing down with a furious jerk the curtain that swung stupidly
in his way, but after putting the candlestick on the table by the bed,
he remained absolutely idle. There did not seem anything more for him
to do. Holding his chin in his hand he looked down intently at her still
face.
“Has she been stabbed with this thing?” asked Davidson, whom suddenly he
saw standing by his side and holding up Ricardo's dagger to his sight.
Heyst uttered no word of recognition or surprise. He gave Davidson only
a dumb look of unutterable awe, then, as if possessed with a sudden
fury, started tearing open the front of the girls dress. She remained
insensible under his hands, and Heyst let out a groan which made
Davidson shudder inwardly the heavy plaint of a man who falls clubbed in
the dark.
They stood side by side, looking mournfully at the little black hole
made by Mr. Jones's bullet under the swelling breast of a dazzling and
as it were sacred whiteness. It rose and fell slightly--so slightly that
only the eyes of the lover could detect the faint stir of life. Heyst,
calm and utterly unlike himself in the face, moving about noiselessly,
prepared a wet cloth, and laid it on the insignificant wound,
round which there was hardly a trace of blood to mar the charm, the
fascination, of that mortal flesh.
Her eyelids fluttered. She looked drowsily about, serene, as if fatigued
only by the exertions of her tremendous victory, capturing the very
sting of death in the service of love. But her eyes became very
wide awake when they caught sight of Ricardo's dagger, the spoil of
vanquished death, which Davidson was still holding, unconsciously.
“Give it to me,” she said. “It's mine.”
Davidson put the symbol of her victory into her feeble hands extended to
him with the innocent gesture of a child reaching eagerly for a toy.
“For you,” she gasped, turning her eyes to Heyst. “Kill nobody.”
“No,” said Heyst, taking the dagger and laying it gently on her breast,
while her hands fell powerless by her side.
The faint smile on her deep-cut lips waned, and her head sank deep into
the pillow, taking on the majestic pallor and immobility of marble.
But over the muscles, which seemed set in their transfigured beauty for
ever, passed a slight and awful tremor. With an amazing strength she
asked loudly:
“What's the matter with me?”
“You have been shot, dear Lena,” Heyst said in a steady voice, while
Davidson, at the question, turned away and leaned his forehead against
the post of the foot of the bed.
“Shot? I did think, too, that something had struck me.”
Over Samburan the thunder had ceased to growl at last, and the world of
material forms shuddered no more under the emerging stars. The spirit
of the girl which was passing away from under them clung to her triumph
convinced of the reality of her victory over death.
“No more,” she muttered. “There will be no more! Oh, my beloved,” she
cried weakly, “I've saved you! Why don't you take me into your arms and
carry me out of this lonely place?”
Heyst bent low over her, cursing his fastidious soul, which even at that
moment kept the true cry of love from his lips in its infernal mistrust
of all life. He dared not touch her and she had no longer the strength
to throw her arms about his neck.
“Who else could have done this for you?” she whispered gloriously.
“No one in the world,” he answered her in a murmur of unconcealed
despair.
She tried to raise herself, but all she could do was to lift her head
a little from the pillow. With a terrible and gentle movement, Heyst
hastened to slip his arm under her neck. She felt relieved at once of
an intolerable weight, and was content to surrender to him the infinite
weariness of her tremendous achievement. Exulting, she saw herself
extended on the bed, in a black dress, and profoundly at peace, while,
stooping over her with a kindly, playful smile, he was ready to lift
her up in his firm arms and take her into the sanctuary of his innermost
heart--for ever! The flush of rapture flooding her whole being broke out
in a smile of innocent, girlish happiness; and with that divine radiance
on her lips she breathed her last--triumphant, seeking for his glance in
the shades of death.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“Yes, Excellency,” said Davidson in his placid voice; “there are more dead in this affair--more white people, I mean--than have been killed in many of the battles in the last Achin war.”
Davidson was talking with an Excellency, because what was alluded to in
conversation as “the mystery of Samburan” had caused such a sensation in
the Archipelago that even those in the highest spheres were anxious to
hear something at first hand. Davidson had been summoned to an audience.
It was a high official on his tour.
“You knew the late Baron Heyst well?”
“The truth is that nobody out here can boast of having known him well,”
said Davidson. “He was a queer chap. I doubt if he himself knew how
queer he was. But everybody was aware that I was keeping my eye on him
in a friendly way. And that's how I got the warning which made me turn
round in my tracks. In the middle of my trip and steam back to Samburan,
where, I am grieved to say, I arrived too late.”
Without enlarging very much, Davidson explained to the attentive
Excellency how a woman, the wife of a certain hotel-keeper named
Schomberg, had overheard two card-sharping rascals making inquiries from
her husband as to the exact position of the island. She caught only a
few words referring to the neighbouring volcano, but there were enough
to arouse her suspicions--“which,” went on Davidson, “she imparted to
me, your Excellency. They were only too well founded!”
“That was very clever of her,” remarked the great man.
“She's much cleverer than people have any conception of,” said Davidson.
But he refrained from disclosing to the Excellency the real cause which
had sharpened Mrs. Schomberg's wits. The poor woman was in mortal terror
of the girl being brought back within reach of her infatuated Wilhelm.
Davidson only said that her agitation had impressed him; but he
confessed that while going back, he began to have his doubts as to there
being anything in it.
“I steamed into one of those silly thunderstorms that hang about the
volcano, and had some trouble in making the island,” narrated Davidson.
“I had to grope my way dead slow into Diamond Bay. I don't suppose that
anybody, even if looking out for me, could have heard me let go the
anchor.”
He admitted that he ought to have gone ashore at once; but everything
was perfectly dark and absolutely quiet. He felt ashamed of his
impulsiveness. What a fool he would have looked, waking up a man in the
middle of the night just to ask him if he was all right! And then the
girl being there, he feared that Heyst would look upon his visit as an
unwarrantable intrusion.
The first intimation he had of there being anything wrong was a big
white boat, adrift, with the dead body of a very hairy man inside,
bumping against the bows of his steamer. Then indeed he lost no time in
going ashore--alone, of course, from motives of delicacy.
“I arrived in time to see that poor girl die, as I have told your
Excellency,” pursued Davidson. “I won't tell you what a time I had with
him afterwards. He talked to me. His father seems to have been a crank,
and to have upset his head when he was young. He was a queer chap.
Practically the last words he said to me, as we came out on the veranda,
were:
“'Ah, Davidson, woe to the man whose heart has not learned while young
to hope, to love--and to put its trust in life!'
“As we stood there, just before I left him, for he said he wanted to be
alone with his dead for a time, we heard a snarly sort of voice near the
bushes by the shore calling out:
“'Is that you, governor?'
“'Yes, it's me.'
“'Jeeminy! I thought the beggar had done for you. He has started
prancing and nearly had me. I have been dodging around, looking for you
ever since.'
“'Well, here I am,' suddenly screamed the other voice, and then a shot
rang out.
“'This time he has not missed him,' Heyst said to me bitterly, and went
back into the house.
“I returned on board as he had insisted I should do. I didn't want
to intrude on his grief. Later, about five in the morning, some of my
calashes came running to me, yelling that there was a fire ashore. I
landed at once, of course. The principal bungalow was blazing. The
heat drove us back. The other two houses caught one after another like
kindling-wood. There was no going beyond the shore end of the jetty till
the afternoon.”
Davidson sighed placidly.
“I suppose you are certain that Baron Heyst is dead?”
“He is--ashes, your Excellency,” said Davidson, wheezing a little; “he
and the girl together. I suppose he couldn't stand his thoughts before
her dead body--and fire purifies everything. That Chinaman of whom I
told your Excellency helped me to investigate next day, when the
embers got cooled a little. We found enough to be sure. He's not a bad
Chinaman. He told me that he had followed Heyst and the girl through the
forest from pity, and partly out of curiosity. He watched the house till
he saw Heyst go out, after dinner, and Ricardo come back alone. While he
was dodging there, it occurred to him that he had better cast the boat
adrift, for fear those scoundrels should come round by water and bombard
the village from the sea with their revolvers and Winchesters. He judged
that they were devils enough for anything. So he walked down the wharf
quietly; and as he got into the boat, to cast her off, that hairy man
who, it seems, was dozing in her, jumped up growling, and Wang shot him
dead. Then he shoved the boat off as far as he could and went away.”
There was a pause. Presently Davidson went on, in his tranquil manner:
“Let Heaven look after what has been purified. The wind and rain will
take care of the ashes. The carcass of that follower, secretary, or
whatever the unclean ruffian called himself, I left where it lay, to
swell and rot in the sun. His principal had shot him neatly through the
head. Then, apparently, this Jones went down to the wharf to look for
the boat and for the hairy man. I suppose he tumbled into the water by
accident--or perhaps not by accident. The boat and the man were gone,
and the scoundrel saw himself alone, his game clearly up, and fairly
trapped. Who knows? The water's very clear there, and I could see him
huddled up on the bottom, between two piles, like a heap of bones in a
blue silk bag, with only the head and the feet sticking out. Wang was
very pleased when he discovered him. That made everything safe, he said,
and he went at once over the hill to fetch his Alfuro woman back to the
hut.”
Davidson took out his handkerchief to wipe the perspiration off his
forehead.
“And then, your Excellency, I went away. There was nothing to be done
there.”
“Clearly!” assented the Excellency.
Davidson, thoughtful, seemed to weigh the matter in his mind, and then
murmured with placid sadness:
“Nothing!”
October 1912--May 1914