McClintock's island was twelve miles long and eight miles wide,
with the shape of an oyster. The coconut plantation covered the
west side. From the white beach the palms ran in serried rows
quarter of a mile inland, then began a jungle of bamboo, gum-tree,
sandalwood, plantain, huge fern, and choking grasses. The south-east
end of the island was hillocky, with volcanic subsoil. There was
plenty of sweet water.
The settlement was on the middle west coast. The stores, the drying
bins, McClintock's bungalows and the native huts sprawled around an
exquisite landlocked lagoon. One could enter and leave by proa, but
nothing with a keel could cross the coral gate. The island had
evidently grown round this lagoon, approached it gradually from the
volcanic upheaval--an island of coral and lava.
There were groves of cultivated guava, orange, lemon, and
pomegranate. The oranges were of the Syrian variety, small but
filled with scarlet honey. This fruit was McClintock's particular
pride. He had brought the shrubs down from Syria, and, strangely
enough, they had prospered.
"Unless you have eaten a Syrian orange," he was always saying, "you
have only a rudimentary idea of what an orange is."
The lemons had enormously thick skins and were only mildly
acidulous--sweet lemons, they were called; and one found them
delicious by dipping the slices in sugar.
But there was an abiding serpent in this Eden. McClintock had
brought from Penang three mangosteen evergreens; and, wonders of
wonders, they had thrived--as trees. But not once in these ten
years had they borne blossom or fruit. The soil was identical, the
climate; still, they would not bear the Olympian fruit, with its
purple-lined jacket and its snow-white pulp. One might have said
that these trees grieved for their native soil; and, grieving,
refused to bear.
Of animal life, there was nothing left but monkeys and wild pig,
the latter having been domesticated. Of course there were goats.
There's an animal! He thrives in all zones, upon all manner of
food. He may not be able to eat tin-cans, but he tries to. The
island was snake-free.
There were all varieties of bird-life known in these latitudes,
from the bird of paradise down to the tiny scarlet-beaked
love-birds. There were always parrots and parrakeets screaming in
the fruit groves.
The bungalows and stores were built of heavy bamboo and gum-wood;
sprawly, one-storied affairs; for the typhoon was no stranger in
these waters. Deep verandas ran around the bungalows, with bamboo
drops which were always down in the daytime, fending off the
treacherous sunshine. White men never went abroad without helmets.
The air might be cool, but half an hour without head-gear was an
invitation to sunstroke.
Into this new world, vivid with colour, came Spurlock, receptively.
For a few days he was able to relegate his conscience to the
background. There was so much to see, so much to do, that he became
what he had once been normally, a lovable boy.
McClintock was amused. He began really to like Spurlock, despite
the shadow of the boy's past, despite his inexplicable attitude
toward this glorious girl. To be sure, he was attentive,
respectful; but in his conduct there was none of that shameless
_camaraderie_ of a man who loved his woman and didn't care a hang
if all the world knew it. If the boy did not love the girl, why the
devil had he dragged her into this marriage?
Spurlock was a bit shaky bodily, but his brain was functioning
clearly; and, it might be added, swiftly--as the brain always acts
when confronted by a perplexing riddle. No matter how swiftly he
pursued this riddle, he could not bring it to a halt. Why had Ruth
married _him_? A penniless outcast, for she must have known he was
that. Why had she married him, off-hand, like that? She did not
love him, or he knew nothing of love signs. Had she too been flying
from something and had accepted this method of escape? But what
frying-pan could be equal to this fire?
All this led him back to the original circle. He saw the colossal
selfishness of his act; but he could not beg off on the plea of
abnormality. He had been ill; no matter about that: he recollected
every thought that had led up to it and every act that had
consummated the deed.
To make Ruth pay for it! He wanted to get away, into some immense
echoless tract where he could give vent to this wild laughter which
tore at his vitals. To make Ruth pay for the whole shot! To wash
away his sin by crucifying her: that was precisely what he had set
about. And God had let him do it! He was--and now he perfectly
understood that he was--treading the queerest labyrinth a man had
ever entered.
Why had he kissed her? What had led him into that? Neither love nor
passion--utter blankness so far as reducing the act to terms. He
had kissed his wife on the mouth ... and had been horrified! There
was real madness somewhere along this road.
He was unaware that his illness had opened the way to the inherent
conscience and that the acquired had been temporarily blanketed, or
that there was any ancient fanaticalism in his blood. He saw what
he had done only as it related to Ruth. He would have to go on; he
would be forced to enact all the obligations he had imposed upon
himself.
His salvation--if there was to be any--lay in her ignorance of
life. But she could not live in constant association with him
without having these gaps filled. And when she learned that she had
been doubly cheated, what then? His thoughts began to fall on her
side of the scales, and his own misery grew lighter as he
anticipated hers. He was an imaginative young man.
Never again would he repeat that kiss; but at night when they
separated, he would touch her forehead with his lips, and sometimes
he would hold her hand in his and pat it.
"I'll have my cot in here," said Spurlock to Ruth, "where this
table is. You never can tell. I'm likely to get up any time in the
night to work."
Together they were making habitable the second bungalow, which was
within calling distance of McClintock's. They had scrubbed and
dusted, torn down and hung up until noon.
"Whatever you like, Hoddy," she agreed, wiping the sweat from her
forehead. She was vaguely happy over this arrangement which put her
in the wing across the middle hall, alone. "This will be very
comfortable."
"Isn't that lagoon gorgeous? I wonder if there'll be sharks?"
"Not in the lagoon. Mr. McClintock says they can't get in there, or
at least they never try it."
"Lord!--think of having sharks for neighbours? Every morning I'll
take a dip into the lagoon. That'll tune me up."
"But don't ever swim off the main beach without someone with you."
"I wonder where the deuce I'll be able to get some writing paper?
I'm crazy to get to work again."
"Probably Mr. McClintock will have some."
"I sha'n't want these curtains. You take them. The veranda bamboo
will be enough for me."
He stuffed the printed chintz into her arms and smiled into her
eyes. And the infernal thought of that kiss returned--the softness
of her lips and the cool smoothness of her cheeks. He turned
irresolutely to the table upon which lay the scattered leaves of
his old manuscripts.
"I believe I'll tear them up. So long as they're about, I'll always
be rewriting them and wasting my time."
"Let me have them."
"What for? What do you want of them?"
"Why, they are ... yours. And I don't want anything of yours
destroyed, Hoddy. Those were dreams."
"All right, then." He shifted the pages together, rolled and thrust
them under her arm. "But don't ever let me see them again. By
George, I forgot! McClintock said there was a typewriter in the
office and that I could have it. I'll dig it up. I'll be feeling
fine in no time. The office is a sight--not one sheet of paper on
another; bills and receipts everywhere. I'll have to put some pep
into the game--American pep. It will take a month to clean up. I've
been hunting for this particular job for a thousand years!"
She smiled a little sadly over this fine enthusiasm; for in her
wisdom she had a clear perception where it would eventually end--in
the veranda chair. All this--the island and its affairs--was an old
story; but her own peculiar distaste had vanished to a point
imperceptible, for she was seeing the island through her husband's
eyes, as in the future she would see all things.
For Ruth was in love, tenderly and beautifully in love; but she did
not know how to express it beyond the fetch and carry phase. Her
heart ached; and that puzzled her. Love was joy, and joyous she was
when alone. But in his presence a wall of diffidence and timidity
encompassed her.
The call of youth to youth, and we name it love for want of
something better: a glamorous, evanescent thing "like snow upon the
desert's dusty face, lighting a little hour or two, was gone." Man
is a peculiar animal. No matter what the fire and force of his
passion, it falters eventually, and forever after smoulders or goes
out. He has nothing to fall back upon, no substitute; but a woman
always has the mother love. When the disillusion comes, when the
fairy story ends, if she is blessed with children, she doesn't
mind. If she has no children, she goes on loving her husband; but
he is no longer a man but a child.
A dog appeared unexpectedly upon the threshold. He was yellow and
coarse of hair; flea-bitten, too; and even as he smiled at Ruth and
wagged his stumpy tail, he was forced to turn savagely upon one of
these disturbers who had no sense of the fitness of things.
"Well, well; look who's here!" cried Spurlock.
He started toward the dog with the idea of ejecting him, but Ruth
intervened.
"No, please! It is good luck for a dog to enter your house. Let me
keep him."
"What? Good Lord, he's alive with fleas! They'll be all over the
place."
"Please!"
She dropped the curtains and the manuscripts, knelt and held out
her arms. The dog approached timidly, his tail going furiously. He
suspected a trap. The few whites he had ever known generally
offered to pet him when they really wanted to kick him. But when
Ruth's hand fell gently upon his bony head, he knew that no one in
this house would ever offer him a kick. So he decided to stay.
"You want him?"
"Please!" said Ruth.
"All right. What'll we call him--Rollo?"--ironically.
"I never had a pet. I never had even a real doll," she added, as
she snuggled the flea-bitten head to her heart. "See how glad he
is!"
His irony and displeasure subsided. She had never had a pet, never
had a real doll. Here was a little corner of the past--a tragic
corner. He knew that tragedy was as blind as justice, that it
struck the child and the grown-up impartially. He must never refuse
her anything which was within his power to grant--anything (he
modified) which did not lead to his motives.
"You poor child!--you can have all the dogs on the island, if you
want them! Come along to the kitchen, and we'll give Rollo a
tubbing."
And thus their domesticity at McClintock's began--with the tubbing
of a stray yellow dog. It was an uproarious affair, for Rollo now
knew that he had been grieviously betrayed: they were trying to
kill him in a new way. Nobody will ever know what the fleas
thought.
The two young fools laughed until they cried. They were drenched
with water and suds. Their laughter, together with the agonized
yowling of the dog, drew a circle of wondering natives; and at
length McClintock himself came over to see what the racket was
about. When he saw, his roars could be heard across the lagoon.
"You two will have this island by the ears," he said, wiping his
eyes. "Those boys out there think this is some new religious rite
and that you are skinning the dog alive to eat him!"
The shock of this information loosened Spurlock's grip on the dog,
who bolted out of the kitchen and out of the house, maintaining his
mile-a-minute gait until he reached the jungle muck, where he
proceeded to neutralize the poison with which he had been lathered
by rolling in the muck.
But they found him on the veranda when they returned from
McClintock's that evening. He had forgiven everybody. From then on
he was Ruth's dog.
Nothing else so quickly establishes the condition of comradeship as
the sharing of a laughable incident. Certain reserves went down on
both sides. Spurlock discussed the affairs of the island and Ruth
gave him in exchange her adventures with the native girl who was to
be their servant.
This getting up at dawn--real dawn--and working until seven was a
distinct novelty. From then until four in the afternoon there was
nothing to do--the whole island went to sleep. Even the chattering
monkeys, parrots, and parrakeets departed the fruit groves for the
smelly dark of the jungle. If, around noon, a coconut proa landed,
the boys made no effort to unload. They hunted up shady nooks and
went to sleep; but promptly at four they would be at the office,
ready for barter.
Spurlock had found the typewriter, oiled and cleaned it, and began
to practise on it in the night. He would never be able to compose
upon it, but it would serve to produce the finished work. Above the
work-table was a drop-light--kerosene. The odour of kerosene
permeated the bungalow; but Ruth mitigated the nuisance to some
extent by burning native punk in brass jars.
He was keen to get to work, but the inspiration would not come. He
started a dozen stories, but they all ended in the waste-basket.
Then, one night, he glanced up to behold Ruth and Rollo in the
doorway. She crooked her finger.
"What is it?"
"The night," she answered. "Come and see the lagoon in the
moonlight."
He drew down the lamp and blew it out, and followed her into the
night, more lovely than he had ever imagined night to be. There was
only one sound--the fall of the sea upon the main beach, and even
that said: "Hush! Hush! Hus-s-sh!" Not a leaf stirred, not a shadow
moved. The great gray boles of the palms reminded him of some
fabulous Grecian temple.
"Let us sit here," she said, indicating the white sand bordering
the lagoon; "and in a minute or two you will see something quite
wonderful . . . . There!"
Out of the dark unruffled sapphire of the lagoon came vertical
flashes of burning silver, singly and in groups.
"What in the world is it?" he asked.
"Flying fish. Something is feeding upon them. I thought you might
like to see. You might be able to use the picture some day."
"I don't know." He bent his head to his knees. "Something's wrong.
I can't invent; the thing won't come."
"Shall I tell you a real story?"
"Something you have seen?"
"Yes."
"Tell it. Perhaps what I need is something to bite in."
So she told him the adventure of the two beachcombers in the
typhoon, and how they became regenerated by their magnificent
courage.
"That's tremendous!" he cried. "Lord, if I can only remember to
write it exactly as you told it!" He jumped to his feet. "I'll
tackle it to-night!"
"But it's after ten!"
"What's that got to do with it? ... The roofs of the native huts
scattering in the wind! ... the absolute agony of the twisting
palms!.... and those two beggars laughing as they breasted death!
Girl, you've gone and done it!"
He leaned down and caught her by the hand, and then raced with her
to the bungalow.
Five hours later she tiptoed down the hall and paused at the
threshold of what they now called his study. There were no doors in
the bungalow; instead, there were curtains of strung bead and
bamboo, always tinkling mysteriously. His pipe hung dead in his
teeth, but the smoke was dense about him. His hand flew across the
paper. As soon as he finished a sheet, he tossed it aside and began
another. Occasionally he would lean back and stare at the window
which gave upon the sea. But she could tell by the dullness of his
eyes that he saw only some inner vision.
Unobserved, she knelt and kissed the threshold: for she knew what
kisses were now. The curtain tinkled as her head brushed it, but he
neither saw nor heard.