Every morning at dawn it was Spurlock's custom to take a plunge in
the lagoon. Ruth took hers in the sea, but was careful never to go
beyond her depth because of the sharks. She always managed to get
back to the bungalow before he did.
As she came in this morning she saw that the lamp was still burning
in the study; so she stopped at the door. Spurlock lay with his
head on his arms, asleep. The lamp was spreading soot over
everything and the reek of kerosene was stronger than usual. She
ran to the lamp and extinguished it. Spurlock slept on. It was
still too dark for reading, but she could see well enough to note
the number of the last page--fifty-six.
Ruth wore a printed cotton kimono. She tied the obi clumsily about
her waist, then gently laid her hand on the bowed head. He did not
move. Mischief bubbled up in her. She set her fingers in the hair
and tugged, drawing him to a sitting posture and stooping so that
her eyes would be on the level with his when he awoke.
He opened his eyes, protestingly, and beheld the realization of his
dream. He had been dreaming of Ruth--an old recurrency of that
dream he had had in Canton, of Ruth leading him to the top of the
mountain. For a moment he believed this merely a new phase of the
dream. He smiled.
"The Dawn Pearl!" he said, making to recline again.
But she was relentless. "Hoddy, wake up!" She jerked his head to
and fro until the hair stung.
"What?... Oh!... Well, good Lord!" He wrenched loose his head and
stood up, sending the chair clattering to the floor. Rollo barked.
"Go and take your plunge while I attend to breakfast."
He started to pick up a sheet of manuscript, but she pushed him
from the table toward the doorway; and he staggered out of the
bungalow, suddenly stretched his arms, and broke into a trot.
Ruth returned to the table. The tropical dawn is swift. She could
now see to read; so she stirred the manuscript about until she came
upon the first page. "The Beachcombers."
Romance! The Seven Seas are hers. She roves the blue fields of the
North, with the clean North Wind on her lips and her blonde head
jewelled with frost--mocking valour and hardihood! Out of the West
she comes, riding the great ships and the endless steel ways that
encompass the earth, and smoke comes with her and the glare of
furnace fires--commerce! From the East she brings strange words
upon her tongue and strange raiment upon her shoulders and the
perfume of myrrh--antiquity! But oh! when she springs from the
South, her rosy feet trailing the lotus, ripe lequats wreathing her
head, in one hand the bright torch of danger and in the other the
golden apples of love, with her eyes full of sapphires and her
mouth full of pearls!
"With her eyes full of sapphires and her mouth full of pearls." All
day long the phrase interpolated her thoughts.
A week later the manuscript was polished and typewritten, ready for
the test. Spurlock felt very well pleased with himself. To have
written a short story in a week was rather a remarkable feat.
It was at breakfast on this day that he told Ruth he had sent to
Batavia for some dresses. They would arrive sometime in June.
"That gown is getting shabby."
Ruth spread out the ruffled skirt, sundrily torn and soiled. "I
haven't worn anything else in weeks. I haven't touched the other."
"Anything like that?"
"Yes; but the colour is lavender."
"Wear that to-night, then. It fits your style. You are very lovely,
Ruth."
She wanted to dance. The joy that filled her veins with throbbing
fire urged her to rise and go swinging and whirling and dipping.
She sat perfectly still, however.
"I am glad you think that," she replied. "Please tell me whenever I
am at fault."
"I wish you did have some faults, Ruth. You're an angel of
goodness."
"No, no! I have had wicked thoughts."
He laughed and pushed back his chair. "So has the butterfly evil
thoughts. We're to be given a treat to-night. McClintock will be
tuning up the piano to-day. I say, I'll take the yarn over and read
it to McClintock. That old chap has a remarkable range in reading.
But, hang it, I know it's good!"
"Of course it is!"
In the afternoon he began work on another tale. It was his purpose
to complete four or five stories before he sent any away. But to-day
he did not get beyond half a dozen desultory start-offs. From
McClintock's came an infernal _tinkle-tinkle, tump-tump_! There was
no composing with such a sound hammering upon the ear. But
eventually Spurlock laughed. Not so bad. Battle, murder, and sudden
death--and an old chap like McClintock tuning his piano in the
midst of it. He made a note of the idea and stored it away.
He read "The Beachcombers" to McClintock that night after coffee;
and when he had done, the old trader nodded.
"That's a good story, lad. You've caught the colour and the life.
But it sounds too real to be imagined. You've never seen a typhoon,
have you?"
"No."
"Well, imagination beats me!"
"It's something Ruth saw. She told me the tale the other night, and
I've only elaborated it."
"Ah, I see." McClintock saw indeed--two things: that the boy had no
conceit and that this odd girl would always be giving. "Well, it's
a good story."
He offered cigars, and Ruth got up. She always left the table when
they began to smoke. Spurlock had not coached her on this line of
conduct. Somewhere she had read that it was the proper thing to do
and that men liked to be alone with their tobacco. She hated to
leave; for this hour would be the most interesting. Both Spurlock
and McClintock stood by their chairs until she was gone.
"Yes, sir," said McClintock, as he sat down; "that's South Sea
stuff, that yarn of yours. I like the way you shared it. I have
read that authors are very selfish and self-centred."
"Oh, Ruth couldn't put it on paper, to be sure; but there was no
reason to hide the source."
"Have you told her?"
"Told her? Told her what?" Spurlock sat straight in his chair.
"You know what I mean," said the trader, gravely. "In spots you are
a thoroughbred; but here's a black mark on your ticket, lad. My
friend the doctor suspected it, and so do I. You are not a tourist
seeking adventure. You have all the earmarks of a fugitive from
justice."
Spurlock grew limp in his chair. "If you thought that, why did you
give me this job?"--his voice faint and thick.
"The doctor and I agreed to give you a chance--for her sake.
Without realizing what she has done, she's made a dreadful mess of
it. A child--as innocent as a child! Nothing about life; bemused by
the fairy stories you writers call novels! I don't know what you
have done; I don't care. But you must tell her."
"I can't! I can't--not now!"
"Bat!--can't you see that she's the kind who would understand and
forgive? She loves you."
The walls appeared to rock; bulging shadows reached out; the candle
flames became mocking eyes; and the blood drummed thunderously in
Spurlock's ears. The door to the apocalypse had opened!
"Loves me? . . . Ruth?"
"Why the devil not? Why do you suppose she married you if she
didn't love you? While you read I watched her face. It was in her
eyes--the big thing that comes but once. But you! Why the devil did
_you_ marry _her_? That's the thing that confounds me."
"God help me, what a muddle!" The cigar crumbled in Spurlock's
hand.
"All life is a muddle, and we are all muddlers, more or less. It is
a matter of degree. Lord, I am sixty. For thirty years I have lived
alone; but once upon a time I lived among men. I know life. I sit
back now, letting life slip by and musing upon it; and I find my
loneliness sweet. I have had my day; and there were women in it.
So, when I tell you she loves you, I know. Supposing they find you
and take you away?--and she unprepared? Have you thought of that?
Why did you marry her?"
"God alone knows!"
"And you don't love her! What kind of a woman do you want,
anyhow?"--with rising anger. He saw the tragedy on the boy's face;
but he was merciless. "Are you a poltroon, after all?"
"That's it! I ought to have died that night!"
"Or is there a taint of insanity in your family history? Alone and
practically penniless like yourself! You weren't even stirred by
gratitude. You just married her. Lad, that fuddles me!"
"Did you bring me down here to crucify me?" cried Spurlock, in
passionate rebellion.
"No, lad," said McClintock, his tone becoming kindly. "Only, what
you have done is out of all human calculation. You did not marry
her because you loved her; you did not marry because she might have
had money; you did not marry her out of gratitude; you did not
marry her because you had to. You just married her! But there she
is--'with her eyes full of sapphires and her mouth full of
pearls'!" McClintock quoted with gentle irony. "What have you got
there in your breast--a stone? Is there blood or water in your
veins?"
The dam broke, but not with violence. A vast relief filled
Spurlock's heart as he decided to tell this man everything which
related to Ruth. This island was the one haven he had; he might be
forced to remain here for several years--until the Hand had
forgotten him. He must win this man's confidence, even at the risk
of being called mad. So, in broken, rather breathless phrases, he
told his story; and when he had done, he laid his arms upon the
table and bent his head to them.
There followed a silence which endured several minutes; or, rather
a tableau. The candles--for McClintock never used oil in his dining
room--were burning low in the sconces. Occasionally the flames
would bend, twist and writhe crazily as the punka-boy bestirred
himself.
McClintock's astonishment merged into a state of mild hypnosis.
That any human being could conceive and execute such a thing! A
Roundhead, here in these prosaic times!--and mad as a hatter!
Trying the rôle of St. Anthony, when God Himself had found only one
man strong enough for that! McClintock shook his head violently, as
if to dismiss this dream he was having. But the objects in his
range of vision remained unchanged. Presently he reached out and
laid his hand upon Spurlock's motionless shoulders.
"'Tis a cruel thing you've done, lad. Even if you were sick in the
mind and did not understand what you were doing, it's a mighty
cruel thing you have done. Probably she mistook you; probably she
thought you cared. I'm neither an infidel nor an agnostic, so I'll
content myself by saying that the hand of God is in this somewhere.
'He's a good fellow, and 'twill all end well'. You have set out to
do something which is neither God's way nor man's. What'll you be
doing?"
"What can I do?" asked Spurlock, raising his haggard face. "Can't
you see? I can't hurt her, if ... if she cares! I can't tell her
I'm a madman as well as a thief!... What a fool! What a fool!"
A thief. McClintock's initial revulsion was natural; he was an
honest man. But this revulsion was engulfed by the succeeding waves
of pity and understanding. One transgression; he was sure of that.
The boy was all conscience, and he suffered through this conscience
to such lengths that the law would be impotent to add anything. All
this muddle to placate his conscience!
"Here--quick!" McClintock thrust a cigar into Spurlock's hand. "Put
it in your teeth and light it. I hear her coming."
Spurlock obeyed mechanically. The candle was shaking in his hand as
Ruth appeared in the doorway.
"I thought we were going to have some music," she said.
Her husband stared at her over the candle flame. Flesh and blood,
vivid, alluring; she was no longer the symbol, therefore she had
become, as in the twinkling of an eye, an utter stranger. And this
utter stranger ... loved him! He had no reason to doubt
McClintock's statement; the Scot had solved the riddle why Ruth
Enschede had married Howard Spurlock. All emotions laid hold of
him, but none could he stay long enough to analyze it. For a space
he rode the whirligig.
"We were talking shop," said McClintock, rising. Observing
Spurlock's spell-bound attitude, he clapped the boy on the
shoulder. "Come along! We'll start that concert right away."
In the living room Spurlock's glance was constantly drawn toward
Ruth; but in fear that she might sense something wrong, he walked
over to the piano and struck a few chords.
"You play?" asked McClintock, who was sorting the rolls.
"A little. This is a good piano."
"It ought to be; it cost enough to get it here," said the Scot,
ruefully. "Ever play one of these machines?"
"Yes. I've always been more or less music-mad. But machinery will
never approach the hand."
"I know a man.... But I'll tell you about him some other time. I'm
crazy over music, too. I can't pump out all there is to these
compositions. Try something."
Spurlock gratefully accepted the Grieg _concerto_, gratefully,
because it was brilliant and thunderous. _Papillon_ would have
broken him down; anything tender would have sapped his will; and
like as not he would have left the stool and rushed into the night.
He played for an hour--Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing
music. The action steadied him; and there was a phase of irony,
too, that helped. He had been for months without music of the
character he loved--and he dared not play any of it!
McClintock, after the music began, left the piano and sat in a
corner just beyond the circle of light cast by the lamp. His
interest was divided: while his ears drank in the sounds, his
glance constantly roved from Ruth to the performer and back to
Ruth. These amazing infants!
Suddenly he came upon the true solution: that the boy hadn't meant
to steal whatever it was he had stolen. A victim of one of those
mental typhoons that scatter irretrievably the barriers of instinct
and breeding; and he had gone on the rocks all in a moment. Never
any doubt of it. That handsome, finely drawn face belonged to a
soul with clean ideals. All in a moment. McClintock's heart went
out to Spurlock; he would always be the boy's friend, even though
he had dragged this girl on to the rocks with him.
Love and lavender, he thought, perhaps wistfully. He could remember
when women laid away their gowns in lavender--as this girl's mother
had. He would always be her friend, too. That boy--blind as a bat!
Why, he hadn't seen the Woman until to-night!
From the first chord of the Grieg _concerto_ to the _finale_ of the
Chopin _ballade_, Ruth had sat tensely on the edge of her chair.
She had dreaded the beginning of this hour. What would happen to
her? Would her soul be shaken, twisted, hypnotized?--as it had been
those other times? Music--that took out of her the sense of
reality, whirled her into the clouds, that gave to her will the
directless energy of a chip of wood on stormy waters. But before
the Grieg _concerto_ was done, she knew that she was free. Free!
All the fine ecstasy, without the numbing terror.
Spurlock sat limply, his arms hanging. McClintock, striking a match
to relight his cigar, broke the spell. Ruth sighed; Spurlock stood
up and drew his hand across his forehead as if awakening from a
dream.
"I didn't know the machine had such stuff in it," said McClintock.
"I imagine I must have a hundred rolls--all the old fellows. It's a
sorry world," he went on. "Nobody composes any more, nobody paints,
nobody writes--I mean, on a par with what we've just heard."
The clock tinkled ten. Shortly Ruth and Spurlock took the way home.
They walked in silence. With a finger crooked in his side-pocket,
she measured her step with his, her senses still dizzy from the
echo of the magic sounds. At the threshold of the study he bade her
good-night; but he did not touch her forehead with his lips.
"I feel like work," he lied. What he wanted desperately was to be
alone.
"But you are tired!"
"I want to go over the story again."
"Mr. McClintock liked it."
"He couldn't help it, Ruth. It's big, thanks to you."
"You.... need me a little?"
"Not a little, but a great deal."
That satisfied something of her undefined hunger. She went to her
bedroom, but she did not go to bed. She drew a chair to the window
and stared at the splendour of the tropical night. By and by she
heard the screen door. Hollo rumbled in his throat.
"Hush!" she said.
Presently she saw Spurlock on the way to the lagoon. He walked with
bent head. After quarter of an hour, she followed.
The unexpected twist--his disclosure to McClintock--had given
Spurlock but temporary relief. The problem had returned, made
gigantic by the possibility of Ruth's love. The thought allured
him, and therein lay the danger. If it were but the question of his
reason for marrying her, the solution would have been simple. But
he was a thief, a fugitive from justice. On that basis alone, he
had no right to give or accept love.
Had he been sick in the mind when he had done this damnable thing?
It did not seem possible, for he could recall clearly all he had
said and done; there were no blank spaces to give him one straw of
excuse.
Ruth loved him. It was perfectly logical. And he could not return
this love. He must fight the thought continually, day in and day
out. The Dawn Pearl! To be with her constantly, with no diversions
to serve as barricades! Damn McClintock for putting this thought in
his head--that Ruth loved him!
He flung himself upon the beach, face downward, his outflung hands
digging into the sand: which was oddly like his problem--he could
not grip it. Torment!
And so Ruth discovered him. She was about to rush to his side, when
she saw his clenched hands rise and fall upon the sand repeatedly.
Her heart swelled to suffocation. To go to him, to console him! But
she stirred not from her hiding place. Instinctively she knew--some
human recollection she had inherited--that she must not disturb him
in this man-agony. She could not go to him when it was apparent
that he needed her beyond all other instances! What had caused this
agony did not matter--then. It was enough that she witnessed it and
could not go to him.
By and by--as the paroxysm subsided and he became motionless--she
stole back to the bungalow to wait. Through her door curtain she
could see the light from the study lamp. If, when he returned, he
blew out the light, she would go to bed; but if the light burned on
for any length of time, she would go silently to the study curtain
to learn if his agony was still upon him. She heard him come in;
the light burned on.
She discovered him sitting upon the floor beside his open trunk. He
had something across his knees. At first she could not tell what it
was; but as her eyes became accustomed to the light, she recognized
the old coat.