To Spurlock it seemed as if a great iron door had swung in behind
him, shutting out the old world. He was safe, out of the beaten
track, at last really comparable to the needle in the haystack. The
terrific mental tension of the past few months--that had held his
bodily nourishment in a kind of strangulation--became as a dream;
and now his vitals responded rapidly to food and air. On the second
day out he was helped to a steamer-chair on deck; on the third day,
his arm across Ruth's shoulder, he walked from his chair to the
foremast and back. The will to live had returned.
For five days _The Tigress_ chugged her way across the burnished
South China, grumpily, as if she resented this meddling with her
destiny. She had been built for canvas and oil-lamps, and this new
thingumajig that kept her nose snoring at eight knots when normally
she was able to boil along at ten, and these unblinking things they
called lamps (that neither smoked nor smelled), irked and
threatened to ruin her temper.
On the sixth day, however, they made the strong southwest trade,
and broke out the canvas, stout if dirty; and _The Tigress_
answered as a bird released. Taking the wind was her business in
life. She creaked, groaned, and rattled; but that was only her way
of yawning when she awoke.
The sun-canvas was stowed; and Spurlock's chair was set forward the
foremast, where the bulging jib cast a sliding blue shadow over
him. Rather a hazardous spot for a convalescent, and McClintock had
been doubtful at first; but Spurlock declared that he was a good
sailor, which was true. He loved the sea, and could give a good
account of himself in any weather. And this was an adventure of
which he had dreamed from boyhood: aboard a windjammer on the South
Seas.
There were mysterious sounds, all of them musical. There were swift
actions, too: a Kanaka crawled out upon the bowsprit to make taut a
slack stay, while two others with pulley-blocks swarmed aloft.
Occasionally the canvas snapped as the wind veered slightly. The
sea was no longer rolling brass; it was bluer than anything he had
ever seen. Every so often a wall of water, thin and jade-coloured,
would rise up over the port bow, hesitate, and fall smacking
amidships. Once the ship faltered, and the tip of this jade wall
broke into a million gems and splashed him liberally. Ruth,
standing by, heard his true laughter for the first time.
This laughter released something that had been striving for
expression--her own natural buoyancy. She became as _The Tigress_,
a free thing. She dropped beside the chair, sat cross-legged, and
laughed at the futile jade-coloured wall. There was no past, no
future, only this exhilarating present. Yesterday!--who cared?
To-morrow!--who knew?
"Porpoise," she said, touching his hand.
"Fox-terriers of the sea; friends with every ship that comes along.
Funny codgers, aren't they?" he said.
"When you are stronger we'll go up to the cutwater and watch them
from there."
"I have . . . from many ships."
A shadow, which was not cast by the jib, fell upon them both. His
voice had changed, the joy had gone out of it; and she understood
that something from the past had rolled up to spoil this hour. But
she did not know what he knew, that it would always be rolling up,
enlivened by suggestion, no matter how trifling.
What had actually beaten him was not to have known if someone had
picked up his trail. The acid of this incertitude had disintegrated
his nerve; and in Canton had come the smash. But that was all over.
Nobody could possibly find him now. The doctor would never betray
him. He might spend the rest of his days at McClintock's in perfect
security.
McClintock, coming from below, saw them and went forward. "Well,
how goes it?" he asked.
"Thank you, sir," said Spurlock, holding out his hand.
McClintock, without comment, accepted the hand. He rather liked the
"sir"; it signified both gratefulness and the chastened spirit.
"And I want to thank you, too," supplemented Ruth.
"Tut, tut! Don't exaggerate. I needed a man the worst kind of way--a
man I could keep for at least six months. What do you think of the
old tub?"
"She's wonderful!" cried Ruth. "I love her already. I had no idea
she could go so fast."
"Know anything about ships?"
"This kind. I have seen many of them. Once a sick sailor drew three
pictures for me and set down every stay and brace and
sail--square-rigger, schooner, and sloop. But this is the first time
I ever sailed on any one of the three. And I find I can't tell one
stay from another!"
McClintock laughed. "You can't go to sea with a book of rules. _The
Tigress_ is second-hand, built for coast-trade. There used to be an
after deckhouse and a shallow well for the wheel; but I changed
that. Wanted a clean sweep for elbow-room. Of course I ought to
have some lights over the saloon; but by leaving all the cabin
doors open in the daytime, there's plenty of daylight. She's not
for pleasure, but for work. Some day I'm going to paint her; but
that will be when I've retired."
Ruth laughed. "The doctor said something about that."
"I'll tell you really why I keep her in peeled paint. Natives are
queer. I have established a fine trade. She is known everywhere
within the radius of five hundred miles. But if I painted her as
I'd like to, the natives would instantly distrust me; and I'd have
to build up confidence all over again. I did not know you spoke
Kanaka," he broke off.
"So the wheelman told you? I've always spoken it, though I can
neither read nor write it."
"I never heard of anybody who could," declared McClintock. "I have
had Kanakas who could read and write in Dutch, and English, though.
The Kanaka--which means man--is a Sandwich Islander, with a Malayan
base. He's the only native I trust in these parts. My boys are all
Sandwich Island born. I wouldn't trust a Malay, not if he were
reared in the Vatican."
Spurlock, who was absorbing this talk thirstily, laughed.
"What's that?" demanded McClintock.
"The idea of a Malay, born Mahometan, being reared in the Vatican,
hit me as funny."
"It would be funny--just as a trustworthy Malay would be funny. I
have a hundred of them--mixed blood--on my island, and they are
always rooking me. But none ever puts his foot on this boat.
To-morrow we'll raise our first island. And from then on we'll see
them, port and starboard, to the end of the voyage. I've opened the
case of books. They're on the forward lounge in the saloon. Take
your pick, Mrs. Spurlock."
The shock of hearing this title pronounced was equally distributed
between Ruth and her husband; but it aroused two absolutely
different emotions. There came to Spurlock the recurrence of the
grim resolution of what he had set out to do: that comradeship was
all he might ever give this exquisite creature; for she was
exquisite, and in a way she dominated this picture of sea and sky
and sail. Ruth's emotion was a primitive joy: she was essential in
this man's life, and she would always be happy because he would
always be needing her.
"You will be wanting your broth, Hoddy," she said. "I'll fetch it."
She made the companion without touching stay or rail, which
necessitated a fine sense of balance, for there was a growing
vigour to the wind and a corresponding lift to the roll of the sea.
The old-fashioned dress, with its series of ruffles and printed
flowers, ballooned treacherously, revealing her well-turned leg in
silk stockings, as it snapped against her body as a mould.
Silk. In Singapore that had been her only dissipation: a dozen
pairs of silk stockings. She did not question or analyze the
craving; she took the plunge joyously. It was the first expression
of the mother's blood. Woman's love of silk is not set by fashion;
it is bred in the bone; and somewhere, somehow, a woman will have
her bit of silk.
McClintock watched her interestedly until her golden head vanished
below; then, with tolerant pity, he looked down at Spurlock, who
had closed his eyes. She would always be waiting upon this boy, he
mused. Proper enough now, when he could not help himself, but the
habit would be formed; and when he was strong again it would become
the normal role, hers to give and his to receive. He wondered if
the young fool had any idea of what he had drawn in this tragic
lottery called marriage. Probably hadn't. As for that, what man
ever had?
"That's a remarkable young woman," he offered, merely to note what
effect it would have.
Spurlock looked up. "She's glorious!" He knew that he must hoodwink
this keen-eyed Scot, even as he must hoodwink everybody: publicly,
the devoted husband; privately, the celibate. He was continually
dramatizing the future, anticipating the singular role he had
elected to play. He saw it in book-covers, on the stage. "Did you
ever see the like of her?"
"No," answered McClintock, gravely. "I wonder how she picked up
Kanaka? On her island they don't talk Kanaka lingo."
Her island! How well he knew it, thought Spurlock, for all he
lacked the name and whereabouts! Suddenly a new thought arose and
buffeted him. How little he knew about Ruth--the background from
which she had sprung! He knew that her father was a missioner, that
her mother was dead, that she had been born on this island, and
that, at the time of his collapse, she had been on the way to an
aunt in the States. But what did he know beyond these facts?
Nothing, clearly. Oh, yes; of Ruth herself he knew much; but the
more he mulled over what he knew, the deeper grew his chagrin. The
real Ruth was as completely hidden as though she stood behind the
walls of Agra Fort. But after all, what did it matter whether she
had secrets or not? To him she was not a woman but a symbol; and
one did not investigate the antecedents of symbols.
"She tells me there was a Kanaka cook; been in the family as long
as she can remember."
"I see. I deal with the Malay mostly; but twice a year I visit
islands occupied by the true blacks, recently cured of their
ancient taste for long-pig."
"What's that?"
"Think it over," said McClintock, grimly.
"Good Lord!--cannibals?"
"Aye. Someday I'll take you down there and have them rig up the
coconut dance for you. The Malays have one, too, but it's a rank
imitation, tom-toms and all. But what I want to get at is this. If
your wife can coach you a bit in native lingo, it will help all
round. I have two Malay clerks in the store; but I'm obliged to
have a white man to watch over them, or they'd clean me out. Single
pearls--Lord knows where they come from!--are always turning up,
some of them of fine lustre; but I never set eyes on them. My boys
buy them with beads or bolts of calico of mine. They steal over to
Copeley's at night and dispose of the pearl for cash. That's how I
finally got wind of it. Primarily your job will be to balance the
stores against the influx of coconut and keep an eye on these boys.
There'll be busy days and idle. Everything goes--the copra for oil,
the fibre of the husk for rope, and the shell for carbon. If you
fall upon a good pearl, buy it in barter and pay me out of your
salary."
"Pearls!"
"Sounds romantic, eh? Well, forty years ago the pearl game
hereabouts was romantic; but there's only one real pearl region
left--the Persian Gulf. In these waters the shell has about given
out. Still, they bob up occasionally. I need a white man, if only
to talk to; and it will be a god send to talk to someone of your
intelligence. The doctor said you wrote."
"Trying to."
"Well, you'll have lots of time down there."
Here Ruth returned with the broth; and McClintock strode aft,
convinced that he was going to have something far more interesting
than books to read.
Spurlock stared at Ruth across the rim of his bowl. He was vaguely
uneasy; he knew not what about. Here was the same Ruth who had left
him a few minutes since: the same outwardly; and yet...!
On the ninth day Spurlock was up and about; that is, he was strong
enough to walk alone, from the companion to his chair, to lean upon
the rail when the chair grew irksome, to join Ruth and his employer
at lunch and dinner: strong enough to argue about books, music,
paintings. He was, in fact, quite eager to go on living.
Ruth drank in these intellectual controversies, storing away facts.
What she admired in her man was his resolute defense of his
opinions. McClintock could not browbeat him, storm as he might. But
whenever the storm grew dangerous, either McClintock or Spurlock
broke into saving laughter.
McClintock would bang his fist upon the table. "I wouldn't give a
betel-nut for a man who wouldn't stick to his guns, if he believed
himself in the right. We'll have some fun down there at my place,
Spurlock; but we'll probably bore your wife to death."
"Oh, no!" Ruth protested. "I have so much to learn."
"Aye," said McClintock, in a tone so peculiar that it sent
Spurlock's glance to his plate.
"All my life I've dreamed of something like this," he said,
divertingly, with a gesture which included the yacht. "These
islands that come out of nowhere, like transparent amethyst, that
deepen to sapphire, and then become thickly green! And always the
white coral sand rimming them--emeralds set in pearls!"
"'A thing of beauty is a joy forever!'" quoted McClintock. "But I
like Bobby Burns best. He's neighbourly; he has a jingle for every
ache and joy I've had."
So Ruth heard about the poets; she became tolerably familiar with
the exploits of that engaging ruffian Cellini; she heard of the
pathetic deafness of Beethoven; she was thrilled, saddened,
exhilarated; and on the evening of the twelfth day she made bold to
enter the talk.
"There is something in The Tale of Two Cities that is wonderful,"
she said.
"That's a fine tale," said Spurlock. "The end is the most beautiful
in English literature. 'It is a far, far better thing that I do,
than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to,
than I have ever known.' That has always haunted me."
"I liked that, too," she replied; "but it wasn't that I had in
mind. Here it is." She opened the book which she had brought to the
table. "'A wonderful fact to reflect upon, that every human
creature is constituted to be that profound secret and mystery to
every other. A solemn consideration, when I enter a great city at
night, that every one of those darkly clustered houses encloses its
own secret; that every room in every one of them encloses its own
secret; that every beating heart in the hundreds of thousands of
breasts there, is, in some of its imaginings, a secret to the heart
nearest it!' ... It kind of terrifies me," said Ruth, looking up,
first at the face of her husband, then at McClintock's. "No matter
how much I tell of myself, I shall always keep something back. No
matter how much you tell me, you will always keep something back."
Neither man spoke. McClintock stared into the bowl of his pipe and
Spurlock into his coffee cup. But McClintock's mind was perceptive,
whereas Spurlock's was only dully confused. The Scot understood
that, gently and indirectly, Ruth was asking her husband a
question, opening a door if he cared to enter.
So the young fool had not told her! McClintock had suspected as
much. Everything in this world changed--except human folly. This
girl was strong and vital: how would she take it when she learned
that she had cast her lot with a fugitive from justice? For
McClintock was certain that Spurlock was a hunted man. Well, well;
all he himself could do would be to watch this singular drama
unroll.
The night before they made McClintock's Ruth and Spurlock leaned
over the rail, their shoulders touching. It might have been the
moon, or the phosphorescence of the broken water, or it might have
been his abysmal loneliness; but suddenly he caught her face in his
hands and kissed her on the mouth.
"Oh!" she gasped. "I did not know ... that it was ... like that!"
She stepped back; but as his hands fell she caught and held them
tightly. "Please, Hoddy, always tell me when do I things wrong. I
never want you to be ashamed of me. I will do anything and
everything I can to become your equal."
"You will never become that, Ruth. But if God is kind to me,
someday I may climb up to where you are. I'd like to be alone now.
Would you mind?"
She wanted another kiss, but she did not know how to go about it;
so she satisfied the hunger by pressing his hands to her thundering
heart. She let them fall and sped to the companion, where she stood
for a moment, the moonlight giving her a celestial touch. Then she
went below.
Spurlock bent his head to the rail. The twists in his brain had
suddenly straightened out; he was normal, wholly himself; and he
knew now exactly what he had done.