silently, and though he kept his eyes averted, Mackintosh knew that he
was looking dully out of the door. It was this other person that
possessed him that drove him out of the room, but it was himself that
took a handful of muddled papers and threw them on the revolver in order
to hide it from view. He went to the dispensary. He got a pill and
poured out some blue draught into a small bottle, and then came out into
the compound. He did not want to go back into his own bungalow, so he
called to Manuma.
"Come here."
He gave him the drugs and instructions how to take them. He did not know
what it was that made it impossible for him to look at the Kanaka. While
he was speaking to him he kept his eyes on his shoulder. Manuma took the
medicine and slunk out of the gate.
Mackintosh went into the dining-room and turned over once more the old
newspapers. But he could not read them. The house was very still. Walker
was upstairs in his room asleep, the Chinese cook was busy in the
kitchen, the two policemen were out fishing. The silence that seemed to
brood over the house was unearthly, and there hammered in Mackintosh's
head the question whether the revolver still lay where he had placed it.
He could not bring himself to look. The uncertainty was horrible, but
the certainty would be more horrible still. He sweated. At last he could
stand the silence no longer, and he made up his mind to go down the
road to the trader's, a man named Jervis, who had a store about a mile
away. He was a half-caste, but even that amount of white blood made him
possible to talk to. He wanted to get away from his bungalow, with the
desk littered with untidy papers, and underneath them something, or
nothing. He walked along the road. As he passed the fine hut of a chief
a greeting was called out to him. Then he came to the store. Behind the
counter sat the trader's daughter, a swarthy broad-featured girl in a
pink blouse and a white drill skirt. Jervis hoped he would marry her. He
had money, and he had told Mackintosh that his daughter's husband would
be well-to-do. She flushed a little when she saw Mackintosh.
"Father's just unpacking some cases that have come in this morning. I'll
tell him you're here."
He sat down and the girl went out behind the shop. In a moment her
mother waddled in, a huge old woman, a chiefess, who owned much land in
her own right; and gave him her hand. Her monstrous obesity was an
offence, but she managed to convey an impression of dignity. She was
cordial without obsequiousness; affable, but conscious of her station.
"You're quite a stranger, Mr Mackintosh. Teresa was saying only this
morning: 'Why, we never see Mr Mackintosh now.'"
He shuddered a little as he thought of himself as that old native's
son-in-law. It was notorious that she ruled her husband, notwithstanding
his white blood, with a firm hand. Hers was the authority and hers the
business head. She might be no more than Mrs Jervis to the white people,
but her father had been a chief of the blood royal, and his father and
his father's father had ruled as kings. The trader came in, small beside
his imposing wife, a dark man with a black beard going grey, in ducks,
with handsome eyes and flashing teeth. He was very British, and his
conversation was slangy, but you felt he spoke English as a foreign
tongue; with his family he used the language of his native mother. He
was a servile man, cringing and obsequious.
"Ah, Mr Mackintosh, this is a joyful surprise. Get the whisky, Teresa;
Mr Mackintosh will have a gargle with us."
He gave all the latest news of Apia, watching his guest's eyes the
while, so that he might know the welcome thing to say.
"And how is Walker? We've not seen him just lately. Mrs Jervis is going
to send him a sucking-pig one day this week."
"I saw him riding home this morning," said Teresa.
"Here's how," said Jervis, holding up his whisky.
Mackintosh drank. The two women sat and looked at him, Mrs Jervis in her
black Mother Hubbard, placid and haughty, and Teresa, anxious to smile
whenever she caught his eye, while the trader gossiped insufferably.
"They were saying in Apia it was about time Walker retired. He ain't so
young as he was. Things have changed since he first come to the islands
and he ain't changed with them."
"He'll go too far," said the old chiefess. "The natives aren't
satisfied."
"That was a good joke about the road," laughed the trader. "When I told
them about it in Apia they fair split their sides with laughing. Good
old Walker."
Mackintosh looked at him savagely. What did he mean by talking of him in
that fashion? To a half-caste trader he was Mr Walker. It was on his
tongue to utter a harsh rebuke for the impertinence. He did not know
what held him back.
"When he goes I hope you'll take his place, Mr Mackintosh," said Jervis.
"We all like you on the island. You understand the natives. They're
educated now, they must be treated differently to the old days. It wants
an educated man to be administrator now. Walker was only a trader same
as I am."
Teresa's eyes glistened.
"When the time comes if there's anything anyone can do here, you bet
your bottom dollar we'll do it. I'd get all the chiefs to go over to
Apia and make a petition."
Mackintosh felt horribly sick. It had not struck him that if anything
happened to Walker it might be he who would succeed him. It was true
that no one in his official position knew the island so well. He got up
suddenly and scarcely taking his leave walked back to the compound. And
now he went straight to his room. He took a quick look at his desk. He
rummaged among the papers.
The revolver was not there.
His heart thumped violently against his ribs. He looked for the revolver
everywhere. He hunted in the chairs and in the drawers. He looked
desperately, and all the time he knew he would not find it. Suddenly he
heard Walker's gruff, hearty voice.
"What the devil are you up to, Mac?"
He started. Walker was standing in the doorway and instinctively he
turned round to hide what lay upon his desk.
"Tidying up?" quizzed Walker. "I've told 'em to put the grey in the
trap. I'm going down to Tafoni to bathe. You'd better come along."
"All right," said Mackintosh.
So long as he was with Walker nothing could happen. The place they were
bound for was about three miles away, and there was a fresh-water pool,
separated by a thin barrier of rock from the sea, which the
administrator had blasted out for the natives to bathe in. He had done
this at spots round the island, wherever there was a spring; and the
fresh water, compared with the sticky warmth of the sea, was cool and
invigorating. They drove along the silent grassy road, splashing now and
then through fords, where the sea had forced its way in, past a couple
of native villages, the bell-shaped huts spaced out roomily and the
white chapel in the middle, and at the third village they got out of the
trap, tied up the horse, and walked down to the pool. They were
accompanied by four or five girls and a dozen children. Soon they were
all splashing about, shouting and laughing, while Walker, in a
_lava-lava_, swam to and fro like an unwieldy porpoise. He made lewd
jokes with the girls, and they amused themselves by diving under him and
wriggling away when he tried to catch them. When he was tired he lay
down on a rock, while the girls and children surrounded him; it was a
happy family; and the old man, huge, with his crescent of white hair and
his shining bald crown, looked like some old sea god. Once Mackintosh
caught a queer soft look in his eyes.
"They're dear children," he said. "They look upon me as their father."
And then without a pause he turned to one of the girls and made an
obscene remark which sent them all into fits of laughter. Mackintosh
started to dress. With his thin legs and thin arms he made a grotesque
figure, a sinister Don Quixote, and Walker began to make coarse jokes
about him. They were acknowledged with little smothered laughs.
Mackintosh struggled with his shirt. He knew he looked absurd, but he
hated being laughed at. He stood silent and glowering.
"If you want to get back in time for dinner you ought to come soon."
"You're not a bad fellow, Mac. Only you're a fool. When you're doing one
thing you always want to do another. That's not the way to live."
But all the same he raised himself slowly to his feet and began to put
on his clothes. They sauntered back to the village, drank a bowl of
_kava_ with the chief, and then, after a joyful farewell from all the
lazy villagers, drove home.
After dinner, according to his habit, Walker, lighting his cigar,
prepared to go for a stroll. Mackintosh was suddenly seized with fear.
"Don't you think it's rather unwise to go out at night by yourself just
now?"
Walker stared at him with his round blue eyes.
"What the devil do you mean?"
"Remember the knife the other night. You've got those fellows' backs
up."
"Pooh! They wouldn't dare."
"Someone dared before."
"That was only a bluff. They wouldn't hurt me. They look upon me as a
father. They know that whatever I do is for their own good."
Mackintosh watched him with contempt in his heart. The man's
self-complacency outraged him, and yet something, he knew not what, made
him insist.
"Remember what happened this morning. It wouldn't hurt you to stay at
home just to-night. I'll play piquet with you."
"I'll play piquet with you when I come back. The Kanaka isn't born yet
who can make me alter my plans."
"You'd better let me come with you."
"You stay where you are."
Mackintosh shrugged his shoulders. He had given the man full warning. If
he did not heed it that was his own lookout. Walker put on his hat and
went out. Mackintosh began to read; but then he thought of something;
perhaps it would be as well to have his own whereabouts quite clear. He
crossed over to the kitchen and, inventing some pretext, talked for a
few minutes with the cook. Then he got out the gramophone and put a
record on it, but while it ground out its melancholy tune, some comic
song of a London music-hall, his ear was strained for a sound away there
in the night. At his elbow the record reeled out its loudness, the words
were raucous, but notwithstanding he seemed to be surrounded by an
unearthly silence. He heard the dull roar of the breakers against the
reef. He heard the breeze sigh, far up, in the leaves of the coconut
trees. How long would it be? It was awful.
He heard a hoarse laugh.
"Wonders will never cease. It's not often you play yourself a tune,
Mac."
Walker stood at the window, red-faced, bluff and jovial.
"Well, you see I'm alive and kicking. What were you playing for?"
Walker came in.
"Nerves a bit dicky, eh? Playing a tune to keep your pecker up?"
"I was playing your requiem."
"What the devil's that?"
"'Alf o' bitter an' a pint of stout."
"A rattling good song too. I don't mind how often I hear it. Now I'm
ready to take your money off you at piquet."
They played and Walker bullied his way to victory, bluffing his
opponent, chaffing him, jeering at his mistakes, up to every dodge,
browbeating him, exulting. Presently Mackintosh recovered his coolness,
and standing outside himself, as it were, he was able to take a detached
pleasure in watching the overbearing old man and in his own cold
reserve. Somewhere Manuma sat quietly and awaited his opportunity.
Walker won game after game and pocketed his winnings at the end of the
evening in high good humour.
"You'll have to grow a little bit older before you stand much chance
against me, Mac. The fact is I have a natural gift for cards."
"I don't know that there's much gift about it when I happen to deal you
fourteen aces."
"Good cards come to good players," retorted Walker. "I'd have won if I'd
had your hands."
He went on to tell long stories of the various occasions on which he had
played cards with notorious sharpers and to their consternation had
taken all their money from them. He boasted. He praised himself. And
Mackintosh listened with absorption. He wanted now to feed his hatred;
and everything Walker said, every gesture, made him more detestable. At
last Walker got up.
"Well, I'm going to turn in," he said with a loud yawn. "I've got a long
day to-morrow."
"What are you going to do?"
"I'm driving over to the other side of the island. I'll start at five,
but I don't expect I shall get back to dinner till late."
They generally dined at seven.
"We'd better make it half past seven then."
"I guess it would be as well."
Mackintosh watched him knock the ashes out of his pipe. His vitality was
rude and exuberant. It was strange to think that death hung over him. A
faint smile flickered in Mackintosh's cold, gloomy eyes.
"Would you like me to come with you?"
"What in God's name should I want that for? I'm using the mare and
she'll have enough to do to carry me; she don't want to drag you over
thirty miles of road."
"Perhaps you don't quite realise what the feeling is at Matautu. I think
it would be safer if I came with you."
Walker burst into contemptuous laughter.
"You'd be a fine lot of use in a scrap. I'm not a great hand at getting
the wind up."
Now the smile passed from Mackintosh's eyes to his lips. It distorted
them painfully.
"_Quem deus vult perdere prius dementat._"
"What the hell is that?" said Walker.
"Latin," answered Mackintosh as he went out.
And now he chuckled. His mood had changed. He had done all he could and
the matter was in the hands of fate. He slept more soundly than he had
done for weeks. When he awoke next morning he went out. After a good
night he found a pleasant exhilaration in the freshness of the early
air. The sea was a more vivid blue, the sky more brilliant, than on most
days, the trade wind was fresh, and there was a ripple on the lagoon as
the breeze brushed over it like velvet brushed the wrong way. He felt
himself stronger and younger. He entered upon the day's work with zest.
After luncheon he slept again, and as evening drew on he had the bay
saddled and sauntered through the bush. He seemed to see it all with new
eyes. He felt more normal. The extraordinary thing was that he was able
to put Walker out of his mind altogether. So far as he was concerned he
might never have existed.
He returned late, hot after his ride, and bathed again. Then he sat on
the verandah, smoking his pipe, and looked at the day declining over the
lagoon. In the sunset the lagoon, rosy and purple and green, was very
beautiful. He felt at peace with the world and with himself. When the
cook came out to say that dinner was ready and to ask whether he should
wait, Mackintosh smiled at him with friendly eyes. He looked at his
watch.
"It's half-past seven. Better not wait. One can't tell when the boss'll
be back."
The boy nodded, and in a moment Mackintosh saw him carry across the yard
a bowl of steaming soup. He got up lazily, went into the dining-room,
and ate his dinner. Had it happened? The uncertainty was amusing and
Mackintosh chuckled in the silence. The food did not seem so monotonous
as usual, and even though there was Hamburger steak, the cook's
invariable dish when his poor invention failed him, it tasted by some
miracle succulent and spiced. After dinner he strolled over lazily to
his bungalow to get a book. He liked the intense stillness, and now
that the night had fallen the stars were blazing in the sky. He shouted
for a lamp and in a moment the Chink pattered over on his bare feet,
piercing the darkness with a ray of light. He put the lamp on the desk
and noiselessly slipped out of the room. Mackintosh stood rooted to the
floor, for there, half hidden by untidy papers, was his revolver. His
heart throbbed painfully, and he broke into a sweat. It was done then.
He took up the revolver with a shaking hand. Four of the chambers were
empty. He paused a moment and looked suspiciously out into the night,
but there was no one there. He quickly slipped four cartridges into the
empty chambers and locked the revolver in his drawer.
He sat down to wait.
An hour passed, a second hour passed. There was nothing. He sat at his
desk as though he were writing, but he neither wrote nor read. He merely
listened. He strained his ears for a sound travelling from a far
distance. At last he heard hesitating footsteps and knew it was the
Chinese cook.
"Ah-Sung," he called.
The boy came to the door.
"Boss velly late," he said. "Dinner no good."
Mackintosh stared at him, wondering whether he knew what had happened,
and whether, when he knew, he would realise on what terms he and Walker
had been. He went about his work, sleek, silent, and smiling, and who
could tell his thoughts?
"I expect he's had dinner on the way, but you must keep the soup hot at
all events."
The words were hardly out of his mouth when the silence was suddenly
broken into by a confusion, cries, and a rapid patter of naked feet. A
number of natives ran into the compound, men and women and children;
they crowded round Mackintosh and they all talked at once. They were
unintelligible. They were excited and frightened and some of them were
crying. Mackintosh pushed his way through them and went to the gateway.
Though he had scarcely understood what they said he knew quite well what
had happened. And as he reached the gate the dog-cart arrived. The old
mare was being led by a tall Kanaka, and in the dog-cart crouched two
men, trying to hold Walker up. A little crowd of natives surrounded it.
The mare was led into the yard and the natives surged in after it.
Mackintosh shouted to them to stand back and the two policemen, sprang
suddenly from God knows where, pushed them violently aside. By now he
had managed to understand that some lads who had been fishing, on their
way back to their village had come across the cart on the home side of
the ford. The mare was nuzzling about the herbage and in the darkness
they could just see the great white bulk of the old man sunk between the
seat and the dashboard. At first they thought he was drunk and they
peered in, grinning, but then they heard him groan, and guessed that
something was amiss. They ran to the village and called for help. It was
when they returned, accompanied by half a hundred people, that they
discovered Walker had been shot.
With a sudden thrill of horror Mackintosh asked himself whether he was
already dead. The first thing at all events was to get him out of the
cart, and that, owing to Walker's corpulence, was a difficult job. It
took four strong men to lift him. They jolted him and he uttered a dull
groan. He was still alive. At last they carried him into the house, up
the stairs, and placed him on his bed. Then Mackintosh was able to see
him, for in the yard, lit only by half a dozen hurricane lamps,
everything had been obscured. Walker's white ducks were stained with
blood, and the men who had carried him wiped their hands, red and
sticky, on their _lava-lavas_. Mackintosh held up the lamp. He had not
expected the old man to be so pale. His eyes were closed. He was
breathing still, his pulse could be just felt, but it was obvious that
he was dying. Mackintosh had not bargained for the shock of horror that
convulsed him. He saw that the native clerk was there, and in a voice
hoarse with fear told him to go into the dispensary and get what was
necessary for a hypodermic injection. One of the policemen had brought
up the whisky, and Mackintosh forced a little into the old man's mouth.
The room was crowded with natives. They sat about the floor, speechless
now and terrified, and every now and then one wailed aloud. It was very
hot, but Mackintosh felt cold, his hands and his feet were like ice, and
he had to make a violent effort not to tremble in all his limbs. He did
not know what to do. He did not know if Walker was bleeding still, and
if he was, how he could stop the bleeding.
The clerk brought the hypodermic needle.
"You give it to him," said Mackintosh. "You're more used to that sort of
thing than I am."
His head ached horribly. It felt as though all sorts of little savage
things were beating inside it, trying to get out. They watched for the
effect of the injection. Presently Walker opened his eyes slowly. He did
not seem to know where he was.
"Keep quiet," said Mackintosh. "You're at home. You're quite safe."
Walker's lips outlined a shadowy smile.
"They've got me," he whispered.
"I'll get Jervis to send his motor-boat to Apia at once. We'll get a
doctor out by to-morrow afternoon."
There was a long pause before the old man answered,
"I shall be dead by then."
A ghastly expression passed over Mackintosh's pale face. He forced
himself to laugh.
"What rot! You keep quiet and you'll be as right as rain."
"Give me a drink," said Walker. "A stiff one."
With shaking hand Mackintosh poured out whisky and water, half and half,
and held the glass while Walker drank greedily. It seemed to restore
him. He gave a long sigh and a little colour came into his great fleshy
face. Mackintosh felt extraordinarily helpless. He stood and stared at
the old man.
"If you'll tell me what to do I'll do it," he said.
"There's nothing to do. Just leave me alone. I'm done for."
He looked dreadfully pitiful as he lay on the great bed, a huge,
bloated, old man; but so wan, so weak, it was heart-rending. As he
rested, his mind seemed to grow clearer.
"You were right, Mac," he said presently. "You warned me."
"I wish to God I'd come with you."
"You're a good chap, Mac, only you don't drink."
There was another long silence, and it was clear that Walker was
sinking. There was an internal hæmorrhage and even Mackintosh in his
ignorance could not fail to see that his chief had but an hour or two to
live. He stood by the side of the bed stock still. For half an hour
perhaps Walker lay with his eyes closed, then he opened them.
"They'll give you my job," he said, slowly. "Last time I was in Apia I
told them you were all right. Finish my road. I want to think that'll be
done. All round the island."
"I don't want your job. You'll get all right."
Walker shook his head wearily.
"I've had my day. Treat them fairly, that's the great thing. They're
children. You must always remember that. You must be firm with them, but
you must be kind. And you must be just. I've never made a bob out of
them. I haven't saved a hundred pounds in twenty years. The road's the
great thing. Get the road finished."
Something very like a sob was wrung from Mackintosh.
"You're a good fellow, Mac. I always liked you."
He closed his eyes, and Mackintosh thought that he would never open them
again. His mouth was so dry that he had to get himself something to
drink. The Chinese cook silently put a chair for him. He sat down by the
side of the bed and waited. He did not know how long a time passed. The
night was endless. Suddenly one of the men sitting there broke into
uncontrollable sobbing, loudly, like a child, and Mackintosh grew aware
that the room was crowded by this time with natives. They sat all over
the floor on their haunches, men and women, staring at the bed.
"What are all these people doing here?" said Mackintosh. "They've got no
right. Turn them out, turn them out, all of them."
His words seemed to rouse Walker, for he opened his eyes once more, and
now they were all misty. He wanted to speak, but he was so weak that
Mackintosh had to strain his ears to catch what he said.
"Let them stay. They're my children. They ought to be here."
Mackintosh turned to the natives.
"Stay where you are. He wants you. But be silent."
A faint smile came over the old man's white face.
"Come nearer," he said.
Mackintosh bent over him. His eyes were closed and the words he said
were like a wind sighing through the fronds of the coconut trees.
"Give me another drink. I've got something to say."
This time Mackintosh gave him his whisky neat. Walker collected his
strength in a final effort of will.
"Don't make a fuss about this. In 'ninety-five when there were troubles
white men were killed, and the fleet came and shelled the villages. A
lot of people were killed who'd had nothing to do with it. They're
damned fools at Apia. If they make a fuss they'll only punish the wrong
people. I don't want anyone punished."
He paused for a while to rest.
"You must say it was an accident. No one's to blame. Promise me that."
"I'll do anything you like," whispered Mackintosh.
"Good chap. One of the best. They're children. I'm their father. A
father don't let his children get into trouble if he can help it."
A ghost of a chuckle came out of his throat. It was astonishingly weird
and ghastly.
"You're a religious chap, Mac. What's that about forgiving them? You
know."
For a while Mackintosh did not answer. His lips trembled.
"Forgive them, for they know not what they do?"
"That's right. Forgive them. I've loved them, you know, always loved
them."