Joyce Goes to Jesselton
During the week following the discovery of the butterfly Professor
Standen found it necessary to go down to Jesselton twice--and on the
second occasion he took Joyce.
Armourer had pressed him to do this, because he felt certain she
desired a change, if only for a few hours.
Mrs. Battiscombe’s illness, prolonged as it had been, had taken a
decided turn for the better, and in the case of an unexpected relapse
Dr. Macnally was now within easy call.
The magistrate saw them off.
“Have a good time,” he said to Joyce, “and don’t let your father drag
you around with him.”
“I shan’t,” declared the girl. “I shall call on Mrs. Anderson and stop
at her house until he chooses to fetch me. I know what father is when
he gets with medical men.”
Standen patted her arm affectionately.
“You shall do just as you like, my dear, and if you care to stop
behind until I’ve finished my task you’re quite at liberty to do so.”
He strode to the far end of the coach to blow an obstruction from his
cigarette-holder.
“Why don’t you?” asked Armourer.
“Why don’t I what?”
“Stop in Jesselton until the affair is cleared up.”
She wrinkled her forehead.
“I don’t think I want to. You see, I’ve only acquaintances in town.”
“And we’ve become more than acquaintances.”
She looked away.
“Rather! I’m almost beginning to look upon Jelandang as a second home.
Besides, I shouldn’t care to leave Mrs. Battiscombe until she was
quite recovered. In spite of all the unpleasant things people say
about her, I like her immensely.”
“And so you’re coming back because of Mrs. Battiscombe?”
“Not altogether. I like the house and the dogs, and our evening game
of cards is becoming quite an institution. Why don’t you want me to
come back?”
She looked up suddenly and he felt himself crimsoning to the roots of
his hair.
“I do,” he said earnestly. “It’ll be rotten up there without you. I
only suggested you might stay away for a bit because I was afraid you
would have a breakdown. You’ve been dancing attendance on Mrs.
Battiscombe for days and your system can’t possibly have had time to
accustom itself to our climate.”
The train jolted forward and Armourer swung himself off.
“Good-bye,” he shouted, keeping pace for some yards with it. “I’d like
to come with you, only I daren’t show my face in Jesselton until I’ve
achieved something definite.”
Joyce leaned out of the window.
“Good-bye. Mind you look after yourself--and Mrs. Battiscombe!”
He stared after the jolting line of white coaches until they were lost
to view amid jungle-clad banks.
He tucked his malacca under one arm and turned to regain the path.
“Now what on earth did she mean by that?” he demanded of his
inner--and presumably wiser--self.
He was becoming desperately infatuated with Joyce Standen and her
thrust had found its way home with an accuracy that was astonishing.
Nobody realised more than he did what an uncomfortable guest Mrs.
Battiscombe was to a man in his position, and the fact that Joyce had
reminded him of this, _hurt_. For more than a week he had been trying
to live down that other incident on the verandah at Rembakut, when
Vera Battiscombe had somehow bewitched him into kissing her--and Jim
had surprised them _in flagrante delicto_. Unless Vera had told her in
an outburst of confidence, Joyce could not possibly know anything
about that. Lord! how contrary this wicked world was! He had tried to
keep Vera and Joyce apart and, following upon the heels of this
desire, Fate had landed them in a proximity that was too close to be
pleasant. When Joyce had been in danger at his bungalow an unkind
fortune had decreed that it should be Trevor, not he, who should be
there to protect her. And now, with the professor spending hours at a
time in his remote laboratory, when by every reasonable law they
should have scores of opportunities to be alone altogether, here was
this same Mrs. Battiscombe constantly butting in with petulant demands
for nourishment, water, or being read to.
He thanked his stars, as he strode through the undergrowth, that
Battiscombe was coming over to sleep. To spend a night with only the
bewitching Vera under his roof would be tantamount to provoking a
scandal that would electrify the island!
He was beginning to wish he had never brought her there at all. When
she fainted on Moberly’s bungalow he should have dispatched her
instantly to her husband’s house and left it for Jimmy to
cross-question her as to her knowledge of the Crimson Butterfly. As it
was, he had gained nothing by having her there; for Standen had stated
that she was not to be worried and that any questions concerning
Moberly’s death must be left until a complete recovery was definitely
assured.
As for the redoubtable Abu-Samar, he had vanished as completely as if
the earth had swallowed him up.
A coroner’s jury, hastily scraped together, had disposed of both cases
under the vague heading of _Death by Misadventure_ and had followed
this swiftly decided verdict by drinking Vance’s cellar nearly dry.
The Commissioner had put into circulation a typewritten order advising
all settlers to take special precautions to protect themselves against
_a new and poisonous type of butterfly_ and requesting an immediate
report in the event of a further specimen being seen. A reward of $250
was, moreover, offered for information which might lead to the
apprehension of Mr. Abu-Samar--a reward which, in view of Samar’s
former escapades (and with dollars rating at 2s. 4d.), was pronounced
by the indignant Battiscombe as grossly inadequate.
In an interview with Professor Standen the Commissioner had declared
that, while he was instructed by the Governor to sanction and assist
his researches for such a time as he should deem reasonable, he was by
no means satisfied that the absconding pseudo-doctor was in any way
responsible for the recent tragedies. He looked to the professor to
supply information, if possible, as to the habits and breeding-places
of the new insect, the nature of the poison it exuded and the type of
antidote to be employed--and suggested that a month or, at the most,
six weeks would be ample time in which to furnish the required data.
The task of hunting down Abu-Samar he relegated to his local
magistrates and a sort of flying squadron of native infantry under a
fresh-comer from England named Lindsay. It should, perhaps, be
recorded here that Lindsay’s handful of brown-skinned soldiers
certainly _flew_ but, beyond that, achieved nothing--a fact which,
considering their leader’s limited experience of Borneo, was scarcely
to be wondered at.
Armourer was greeted on his arrival at the bungalow by a short missive
from Battiscombe.
“Dear Michael,” it ran, “I had intended to be with you this evening,
but Fate--and the Commissioner--willed it otherwise. I am embarking
forthwith upon the ninety-and-ninth wild-goose chase into the
interior. Some optimistic village headman, with an eye to the main
chance, believes he has located our friend Abu. Of course he hasn’t,
but that’s neither here nor there! The interesting fact remains that
I’ve to go--and I’ve a devil of a liver!
“Explain things to Vera.
“Heaven knows when I shall be back, but at some point or other I shall
get covered in leeches; I feel it in my bones!--Yours ever, Jimmy.”
Armourer read it through twice, crumpled it up between his fingers,
smoothed it out again and perused it for a third time.
“Damn!” he ejaculated savagely, and wedged the letter between two
volumes on the shelf.
Five minutes later he scribbled a line to Vance and handed it to an
orderly. Whatever happened he was not going to be left alone with that
woman. Since his experience at Rembakut he had a pious horror of
Vera--even when convalescent!
He paced the verandah for some time with Mick and Mac, who, unable
immediately to accustom themselves to a considerably reduced
household, followed him abjectly wherever he went.
It was two hours before a reply came back.
Vance was sorry he couldn’t get away, but he was sending Trevor, who
would ride over some time after dinner. They were shorthanded and very
busy and there was a good deal of sickness in the coolie-lines.
Armourer stared at the ceiling.
After dinner! That might mean ten o’clock--and it was now barely five.
Five long hours with Vera Battiscombe; the prospect made him shudder.
She would profit by her privileged position as an invalid to wear as
few clothes as possible--and she would commence proceedings by calling
him Michael. She would persist in talking--and he wouldn’t be able to
summon up sufficient rudeness to stop her. She would dwell upon all
those things he most wanted to forget and finish by taunting him with
a supposed affection for Joyce, which he knew he would not be able
effectively to deny.
What a pleasant evening it was going to be!
The only sensible move would be to go out until dinner; but he
remembered to his disgust that she was still regarded as on the
sick-list and could not be left to the tender mercies of a new
cook-boy.
In sheer exasperation he cursed heartily, though inwardly, Abu-Samar,
the Commissioner, James Battiscombe--for having such a wife--and
himself for having ever given her houseroom. He almost cursed the
professor into the bargain, for having gone to Jesselton; but this
would have included Joyce.
Vera did not appear at tea, an occurrence which, far from raising his
hopes, merely aroused suspicions. Like a skilled general meditating a
surprise attack, she was planning to commence her assault at the hour
when she counted she would find him at his weakest!
He was having his first whisky of the evening and meditating a hot
bath, when her door opened.
The sun had dropped--a flaming ball--into the western sea, and in
those few fleeting moments of half-light the universe seemed hushed.
Beyond the pall that was swiftly creeping over everything big stars
were already showing. There came a timid murmuring of insect voices,
working up like a distant orchestra in some frenzied Russian
composition, until the atmosphere seemed full of it.
A great hour this--second only to the dawn, and Armourer saw in it
Vera’s zero-hour.
She appeared to sail towards him out from the gloom, pale, beautiful,
ravishing.… He could see that her cheeks were as white as marble and
her lips as crimson as the fatal Butterfly.…
He stood there trembling, aghast at the immensity of her beauty,
powerless.… She dropped suddenly at his feet and the touch of the
crêpey substance of her pale blue kimono on his wrist set his teeth
on edge.
“Michael,” she murmured tremulously, “why have you kept me here?…
What have you done with my beautiful Butterfly?”