Ruth lost the point entirely. The doctor expected her to seize upon
the subtle inference that there was something furtive, even
criminal, in the manner the patient set this obligation upon
humanity at large, to look after him in the event of his death. The
idea of anything criminal never entered her thoughts. Any man might
have endeavoured to protect himself in this fashion, a man with no
one to care, with an unnameable terror at the thought (as if it
mattered!) of being buried in alien earth, far from the familiar
places he loved.
Close upon this came another thought. She had no place she loved.
In all this world there was no sacred ground that said to her:
Return! She was of all human beings the most lonely. Even now,
during the recurring doubts of the future, the thought of the
island was repellent. She hated it, she hated the mission-house;
she hated the sleek lagoon, the palms, the burning sky. But some
day she would find a place to love: there would be rosy apples on
the boughs, and there would be flurries of snow blowing into her
face. It was astonishing how often this picture returned: cold rosy
apples and flurries of snow.
"The poor young man!" she said.
The doctor sensed that his bolt had gone wrong, but he could not
tell how or why. He dared not go on. He was not sure that the boy
had put himself beyond the pale; merely, the boy's actions pointed
that way. If he laid his own suspicions boldly before the girl, and
in the end the boy came clean, he would always be haunted by the
witless cruelty of the act.
That night in his den he smoked many pipes. Twice he cleaned the
old briar; still there was no improvement. He poured a pinch of
tobacco into his palm and sniffed. The weed was all right. Probably
something he had eaten. He was always forgetting that his tummy was
fifty-four years old.
He would certainly welcome McClintock's advent. Mac would have some
new yarns to spin and a fresh turn-over to his celebrated liver. He
was a comforting, humorous old ruffian; but there were few men in
the Orient more deeply read in psychology and physiognomy. It was,
in a way, something of a joke to the doctor: psychology and
physiognomy on an island which white folks did not visit more than
three or four times a year, only then when they had to. Why did the
beggar hang on down there, when he could have enjoyed all that
civilization had to offer? Yes, he would be mighty glad to see
McClintock; and the sooner he came the better.
Sometimes at sea a skipper will order his men to trim, batten down
the hatches, and clear the deck of all litter. The barometer says
nothing, neither the sky nor the water; the skipper has the "feel"
that out yonder there's a big blow moving. Now the doctor had the
"feel" that somewhere ahead lay danger. It was below consciousness,
elusive; so he sent out a call to his friend, defensively.
* * * * *
At the end of each day Ah Cum would inquire as to the progress of
the patient, and invariably the answer was: "About the same." This
went on for ten days. Then Ah Cum was notified that the patient had
sat up in bed for quarter of an hour. Promptly Ah Cum wired the
information to O'Higgins in Hong-Kong. The detective reckoned that
his quarry would be up in ten days more.
To Ruth the thought of Hartford no longer projected upon her vision
a city of spires and houses and tree-lined streets. Her fanciful
imagination no longer drew pictures of the aunt in the doorway of a
wooden house, her arms extended in welcome. The doctor's lessons,
perhaps delivered with too much serious emphasis, had destroyed
that buoyant confidence in her ability to take care of herself.
Between Canton and Hartford two giants had risen, invisible but
menacing--Fear and Doubt. The unknown, previously so attractive,
now presented another face--blank. The doctor had not heard from
his people. She was reasonably certain why. They did not want her.
Thus, all her interest in life began to centre upon the patient,
who was apparently quite as anchorless as she was. Sometimes a
whole morning would pass without Spurlock uttering a word beyond
the request for a drink of water. Again, he would ask a few
questions, and Ruth would answer them. He would repeat them
innumerable times, and patiently Ruth would repeat her answers.
"What is your name?"
"Ruth."
"Ruth what?"
"Enschede; Ruth Enschede."
"En-shad-ay. You are French?"
"No. Dutch; Pennsylvania Dutch."
And then his interest would cease. Perhaps an hour later he would
begin again.
At other times he seemed to have regained the normal completely. He
would discuss something she had been reading, and he would give her
some unexpected angle, setting a fictional character before her
with astonishing clearness. Then suddenly the curtain would fall.
"What is your name?" To-day, however, he broke the monotony. "An
American. Enschede--that's a queer name."
"I'm a queer girl," she replied with a smile.
Perhaps this was the real turning point: the hour in which the
disordered mind began permanently to readjust itself.
"I've been wondering, until this morning, if you were real."
"I've been wondering, too."
"Are you a real nurse?"
"Yes."
"Professional?"
"Why do you wish to know?"
"Professional nurses wear a sort of uniform."
"While I look as if I had stepped out of the family album?"
He frowned perplexedly. "Where did I hear that before?"
"Perhaps that first day, in the water-clock tower."
"I imagine I've been in a kind of trance."
"And now you are back in the world again, with things to do and
places to go. There is a button loose on that coat under your
pillow. Shall I sew it on for you?"
"If you wish."
This readiness to surrender the coat to her surprised Ruth. She had
prepared herself to meet violent protest, a recurrence of that
burning glance. But in a moment she believed she understood. He was
normal now, and the coat was only a coat. It had been his fevered
imagination that had endued the garment with some extraordinary
value. Gently she raised his head and withdrew the coat from under
the pillow.
"Why did I want it under my pillow?" he asked.
"You were a little out of your head."
Gravely he watched the needle flash to and fro. He noted the strong
white teeth as they snipped the thread. At length the task was
done, and she jabbed the needle into a cushion, folded the coat,
and rose.
"Do you want it back under the pillow?"
"Hang it over a chair. Or, better still, put all my clothes in the
trunk. They litter up the room. The key is in my trousers."
This business over, she returned to the bedside with the key. She
felt a little ashamed of herself, a bit of a hypocrite. Every
article in the trunk was fully known to her, through a recounting
of the list by the doctor. To hand the key back in silence was like
offering a lie.
"Put it under my pillow," he said.
Immediately she had spoken of the loose button he knew that
henceforth he must show no concern over the disposition of that
coat. He must not in any way call their attention to it. He must
preserve it, however, as they preserved the Ark of the Covenant. It
was his redemption, his ticket out of hell--that blue-serge coat.
To witness this girl sewing on a loose button, flopping the coat
about on her knees, tickled his ironic sense of humour; and
laughter bubbled into his throat. He smothered it down with such a
good will that the reaction set his heart to pounding. The walls
rocked, the footrail of the bed wavered, and the girl's head had
the nebulosity of a composite photograph. So he shut his eyes.
Presently he heard her voice.
"I must tell you," she was saying. "We went through your
belongings. We did not know where to send ... in case you died.
There was nothing in the pockets of the coat."
"Don't worry about that." He opened his eyes again.
"I wanted you to know. There is nobody, then?"
"Oh, there is an aunt. But if I were dying of thirst, in a desert,
I would not accept a cup of water at her hands. Will you read to
me? I am tired; and the sound of your voice makes me drowsy."
Half an hour later she laid aside the book. He was asleep. She
leaned forward, her chin in her palms, her elbows on her knees, and
she set her gaze upon his face and kept it there in dreamy
contemplation. Supposing he too wanted love and his arms were as
empty as hers?
Some living thing that depended upon her. The doll she had never
owned, the cat and the dog that had never been hers: here they
were, strangely incorporated in this sleeping man. He depended upon
her, for his medicine, for his drink, for the little amusement it
was now permissible to give him. The knowledge breathed into her
heart a satisfying warmth.
At noon the doctor himself arrived. "Go to lunch," he ordered Ruth.
He wanted to talk with the patient, test him variously; and he
wanted to be alone with him while he put these tests. His idea was
to get behind this sustained listlessness. "How goes it?" he began,
heartily. "A bit up in the world again; eh?"
"Why did you bother with me?"
"Because no human being has the right to die. Death belongs to God,
young man."
"Ah." The tone was neutral.
"And had you been the worst scoundrel unhung, I'd have seen to it
that you had the same care, the same chance. But don't thank me;
thank Miss Enschede. She caught the fact that it was something more
than strong drink that laid you out. If they hadn't sent for me,
you'd have pegged out before morning."
"Then I owe my life to her?"
"Positively."
"What do you want me to do?"
The doctor thought this query gave hopeful promise. "Always
remember the fact. She is something different. When I told her that
there were no available nurses this side of Hong-Kong, she offered
her services at once, and broke her journey. And I need not tell
you that her hotel bill is running on the same as yours."
"Do you want me to tell her that I am grateful?"
"Well, aren't you?"
"I don't know; I really don't know."
"Look here, my boy, that attitude is all damned nonsense. Here you
are, young, sound, with a heart that will recover in no time,
provided you keep liquor out of it. And you talk like that! What
the devil have you been up to, to land in this bog?" It was a cast
at random.
His guardian angel warned Spurlock to speak carefully. "I have been
very unhappy."
"So have we all. But we get over it. And you will."
After a moment Spurlock said: "Perhaps I am an ungrateful dog."
"That's better. Remember, if there's anything you'd like to get off
your chest, doctors and priests are in the same boat."
With no little effort--for the right words had a way of tumbling
back out of reach--he marshalled his phrases, and as he uttered
them, closed his eyes to lessen the possibility of a break. "I'm
only a benighted fool; and having said that, I have said
everything. I'm one of those unfortunate duffers who have too much
imagination--the kind who build their own chimeras and then run
away from them. How long shall I be kept in this bed?"
"That's particularly up to you. Ten days should see you on your
feet. But if you don't want to get up, maybe three times ten days."
There had never been, from that fatal hour eight months gone down
to this, the inclination to confess. He had often read about it,
and once he had incorporated it in a story, that invisible force
which sent men to prison and to the gallows, when a tongue
controlled would have meant liberty indefinite. As for himself,
there had never been a touch of it. It was less will than
education. Even in his fevered hours, so the girl had said, his
tongue had not betrayed him. Perhaps that sealed letter was a form
of confession, and thus relieved him on that score. And yet that
could not be: it was a confession only in the event of his death.
Living, he knew that he would never send that letter.
His conscience, however, was entirely another affair. He could
neither stifle nor deaden that. It was always jabbing him with
white-hot barbs, waking or sleeping. But it never said: "Tell
someone! Tell someone!" Was he something of a moral pervert, then?
Was it what he had lost--the familiar world--rather than what he
had done?
He stared dully at the footrail. For the present the desire to fly
was gone. No doubt that was due to his helplessness. When he was up
and about, the idea of flight would return. But how far could he
fly on a few hundred? True, he might find a job somewhere; but
every footstep from behind...!
"Who is she? Where does she come from?"
"You mean Miss Enschede?"
"Yes. That dress she has on--my mother might have worn it."
He was beginning to notice things, then? The doctor was pleased.
The boy was coming around.
"Miss Enschede was born on an island in the South Seas. She is
setting out for Hartford, Connecticut. The dress was her mother's,
and she was wearing it to save a little extra money."
The doctor had entered the room fully determined to tell the
patient the major part of Ruth's story, to inspire him with proper
respect and gratitude. Instead, he could not get beyond these minor
details--why she wore the dress, whence she had come, and whither
she was bound. The idea of this sudden reluctance was elusive; the
fact was evident but not the reason for it.
"How would you like a job on a copra plantation?" he asked,
irrelevantly to the thoughts crowding one another in his mind. "Out
of the beaten track, with a real man for an employer? How would
that strike you?"
Interest shot into Spurlock's eyes; it spread to his wan face. Out
of the beaten track! He must not appear too eager. "I'll need a job
when I quit this bed. I'm not particular what or where."
"That kind of talk makes you sound like a white man. Of course, I
can't promise you the job definitely. But I've an old friend on the
way here, and he knows the game down there. If he hasn't a job for
you, he'll know someone who has. Managers and accountants are
always shifting about, so he tells me. It's mighty lonesome down
there for a man bred to cities."
"Find me the job. I don't care how lonesome it is."
Out of the beaten track! thought Spurlock. A forgotten island
beyond the ship lanes, where that grim Hand would falter and move
blindly in its search for him! From what he had read, there
wouldn't be much to do; and in the idle hours he could write.
"Thanks," he said, holding out a thin white hand. "I'll be very
glad to take that kind of a job, if you can find it."
"Well, that's fine. Got you interested in something, then? Would
you like a peg?"
"No. I hated the stuff. There was a pleasant numbness in the
bottle; that's why I went to it."
"Thought so. But I had to know for sure. Down there, whisky raises
the very devil with white men. Don't build your hopes too high; but
I will do what I can. While there's life there's hope. Buck up."
"I'm afraid I don't understand."
"Understand what?"
"You or this girl. There are, then, in this sorry world, people who
can be disinterestedly kind!"
The doctor laughed, gave Spurlock's shoulder a pat, and left the
room. Outside the door he turned and stared at the panels. Why
hadn't he gone on with the girl's story? What instinct had stuffed
it back into his throat? Why the inexplicable impulse to hurry this
rather pathetic derelict on his way?