Next morning Ruth did not refer to the episode on the sands of the
lagoon. Here again instinct guided her. If he had nothing to tell
her, she had nothing to ask. She did not want particularly to know
what had caused his agony, what had driven him back to the old
coat. He was in trouble and she could not help him; that was the
ache in her heart.
At breakfast both of them played their parts skillfully. There was
nothing in his manner to suggest the misery of the preceding night.
There was nothing on her face to hint of the misery that brimmed
her heart this morning. So they fenced with smiles.
He noted that she was fully dressed, that her hair was carefully
done, that there was a knotted ribbon around her throat. It now
occurred to him that she had always been fully dressed. He did not
know--and probably never would unless she told him--that it was
very easy (and comfortable for a woman) to fall into slatternly
ways in this latitude. So long as she could remember, her father
had never permitted her to sit at the table unless she came fully
dressed. Later, she understood his reasons; and it had now become
habit.
Fascination. It would be difficult to find another human being
subjected to so many angles of attack as Spurlock. Ruth loved him.
This did not tickle his vanity; on the contrary, it enlivened his
terror, which is a phase of fascination. She loved him. That held
his thought as the magnet holds the needle, inescapably. The mortal
youth in him, then, was fascinated, the thinker, the poet; from all
sides Ruth attacked him, innocently. The novel danger of the
situation enthralled him. He saw himself retreating from barricade
to barricade, Ruth always advancing, perfectly oblivious of the
terror she inspired.
While he was stirring his tea, she ran and fetched the comb. She
attacked his hair resolutely. He laughed to hide his uneasiness.
The touch of her hands was pleasurable.
"The part was crooked," she explained.
"I don't believe McClintock would have gone into convulsions at the
sight of it. Anyhow, ten minutes after I get to work I'll be
rumpling it."
"That isn't the point, Hoddy. You don't notice the heat; but it is
always there, pressing down. You must always shave and part your
hair straight. It doesn't matter that you deal with black people.
It isn't for their sakes, it's for your own. Mr. McClintock does
it; and he knows why. In the morning and at night he is dressed as
he would dress in the big hotels. In the afternoon he probably
loafs in his pajamas. You can, too, if you wish.."
"All right, teacher; I'll shave and comb my hair." He rose for fear
she might touch him again.
But such is the perversity of the human that frequently thereafter
he purposely crooked the part in his hair, to give her the excuse
to fetch the comb. Not that he deliberately courted danger; it was
rather the searcher, seeking analysis, the why and wherefore of
this or that invading emotion.
He was always tenderly courteous; he answered her ordinary
questions readily and her extraordinary ones patiently; he always
rose when she entered or left the room. This formality irked her:
she wanted to play a little, romp. The moment she entered the room
and he rose, she felt that she was immediately consigned to the
circle of strangers; and it emptied her heart of its joy and filled
it with diffidence. There was a wall; she was always encountering
it; the one time she was able to break through this wall was when
the part in his hair was crooked.
She began to exercise those lures which were bred in her bone--the
bones of all women. She required no instructions from books; her
wit and beauty were her own. What lends a tragic mockery to all
these tender traps of hers was that she was within lawful bounds.
This man was her husband in the eyes of both God and man.
But Spurlock was ever on guard, even when she fussed over his hair.
His analytical bent saved him many times, though he was not
sensitive to this. The fire--if there was any in him--never made
headway against this insistant demand to know the significance of
these manifold inward agitations.
Thus, more and more Ruth turned to the mongrel dog who bore the
name of Rollo unflinchingly--the dog that adored her openly,
shamelessly, who now without a whimper took his diurnal tubbing.
Upon this grateful animal she lavished that affection which was
subtly repelled by its lawful object.
Spurlock was by nature orderly, despite his literary activities.
Before the first month was gone, McClintock admitted that the boy
was a find. Accounts were now always where he could put his hand on
them. The cheating of the boys in the stores ceased. If there were
any pearls, none came into the light. Gradually McClintock shifted
the burden to Spurlock's shoulders and retired among his books and
music rolls.
Twice Spurlock went to Copeley's--twenty miles to the northwest--for
ice and mail. It was a port of call, since fortnightly a British
mail-boat dropped her mudhook in the bay. All sorts of battered
tramps, junks and riff-raff of the seas trailed in and out. Spurlock
was tremendously interested in these derelicts, and got a good deal
of information regarding them, which he stored away for future use.
There were electric and ice plants, and a great store in which one
could buy anything from jewsharps to gas-engines. White men and
natives dealt conveniently at Copeley's. It saved long voyages and
long waits; and the buyers rarely grumbled because the prices were
stiff. There were white men with families, a fine mission-house, and
a club-house for cards and billiards.
He was made welcome as McClintock's agent; but he politely declined
all the proffered courtesies. Getting back the ice was rather a
serious affair. He loaded the launch with a thousand pounds--all
she could carry--and started home immediately after sundown; but
even then he lost from a hundred to a hundred and fifty pounds
before he had the stuff cached in McClintock's bamboo-covered
sawdust pit. This ice was used for refrigerator purposes and for
McClintock's evening peg.
Ruth with Rollo as her guide explored the island. In the heart of
the jungle the dog had his private muck baths. Into one of these he
waded and rolled and rolled, despite her commands. At first she
thought he was endeavouring to rid himself of the fleas, but after
a time she came to understand that the muck had healing qualities
and soothed the burning scratches made by his claws. In the
presence of the husband of his mistress Rollo was always
dignifiedly cheerful, but he never leaped or cavorted as he did
when alone with Ruth.
Spurlock was fond of dogs; he was fond of this offspring of many
mesalliances; but he never made any attempt to win Rollo, to share
him. The dog was, in a sense, a gift of the gods. He filled the
rôle of comrade which Spurlock dared not enact, at least not
utterly as he would have liked. Yes--as he would have liked.
For Ruth grew lovelier as the days went on. She was as lovely in
the spirit as in the flesh. Her moods were many and always
striking. She was never violent when angry: she became as calm and
baffling as the sea in doldrums. She never grew angry for anything
her husband did: such anger as came to her was directed against the
lazy, incompetent servant who was always snooping about in the
inner temple--Spurlock's study.
She formed a habit which embarrassed Spurlock greatly, but at first
he dared not complain. She would come and sit cross-legged just
beyond the bamboo curtain and silently watch him at work. One night
she apparently fell asleep. He could not permit her to remain in
that position. So, very carefully, he raised her in his arms and
carried her to her bed. The moment he was out in the hall, Ruth sat
up hugging and rocking her body in delight. This charming episode
was repeated three times. Then he sensed the trap.
"Ruth, you must not come and sit on the threshold. I can't
concentrate on my work. It doesn't annoy me; it only disturbs me. I
can't help looking at you frequently. You don't want me to spoil
the story, do you?"
"No. But it's so wonderful to watch you! Whenever you have written
something beautiful, your face shows it."
"I know; but ..."
"And sometimes you say out loud: 'That's great stuff!' I never make
any sound."
"But it is the sight of you!"
"All right, Hoddy. I promise not to do it again." She rose. "Good
night."
He stared at the agitated curtain; and slowly his chin sank until
it touched his chest. He had hurt her. But the recollection of the
warm pliant body in his arms ...!
"I am a thief!" he whispered. He had only to recall this fact
(which he did in each crisis) to erect a barrier she could not go
around or over.
Sometimes it seemed to him that he was an impostor: that Ruth
believed him to be one Howard Spurlock, when he was only
masquerading as Spurlock. If ever the denouement came--if ever the
Hand reached him--Ruth would then understand why he had rebuffed
all her tender advances. The law would accord her all her previous
rights: she would return to the exact status out of which in his
madness he had taken her. She might even forgive him.
He thanked God for this talent of his. He could lose himself for
hours at a time. Whatever he wrote he was: he became this or that
character, he suffered or prospered equally. He was the
beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales),
or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. There was
a fourth story; but he never told either Ruth or McClintock about
this. He called it "The Man Who Could Not Go Home." Himself. He did
not write this with lead but with his heart's blood.
By the middle of July he was in full health. In the old days he had
been something of an athlete--a runner, an oarsman, and a crack at
tennis. The morning swims in the lagoon had thickened the red
corpuscle. For all the enervating heat, he applied himself
vigorously to his tasks.
Late in July he finished the fourth story. This time there wasn't
any doubt. He had done it. These were _yarns_! As he was about to
slip the manuscripts into the envelope, something caught his eye:
by Howard Spurlock. Entranced, he stared at the name. Suddenly he
understood what had happened. A wrathful God was watching him.
Howard Spurlock. The honey on his tongue turned to ashes. To write
under a pseudonym!--to be forced to disown his children! He could
not write under his own name, enjoy the fruits of fame should these
tales prove successful.
Here was a thundering blow. All his dreams shattered in an instant.
What is the supreme idea in the heart and mind of youth? To win
fame and fortune: and particularly to enjoy them. Spurlock slumped
in his chair, weak and empty. This was the bitterest hour he had
ever known. From thoughts of fame to thoughts of mere bread and
butter! It seemed to Spurlock that he had tumbled off the edge of
Somewhere into the abyss of Nowhere.
At length, when he saw no escape from the inevitable, he took the
four title pages from the manuscripts and typed new ones,
substituting Taber for Spurlock. A vast indifference settled down
upon him. He did not care whether the stories were accepted or not.
He was so depressed and disheartened that he did not then believe
he would ever write again.
Both Ruth and McClintock came down to the launch to wish him
God-speed and good luck. Ruth hugged the envelope and McClintock,
with the end of a burnt match, drew a cabalistic sign. Through it
all Spurlock maintained a gaiety which deceived them completely. But
his treasured dream lay shattered at his feet.
And yet--such is the buoyancy of youth--within a fortnight he began
his first novel, pretending to himself that it was on Ruth's
account. To be alone with her, in idleness, was an intolerable
thought.
* * * * *
Coconuts grew perpetually. There will often be six growths in a
single palm. So proas loaded with nuts were always landing on the
beach. _The Tigress_ went prowling for nut, too. Once, both Ruth
and Spurlock accompanied McClintock far south, to an island of
blacks; and Spurlock had his first experience with the coconut
dance and the booming of wooden tom-toms.
At first Spurlock tasted coconut in his eggs, in what meat he ate;
it permeated everything, taste and smell. For a long time even the
strong pipe tobacco (with which McClintock supplied him) possessed
a coconut flavour. Then, mysteriously, he no longer smelled or
tasted it.
On the day he carried the manuscript to Copeley's he brought back a
packet of letters, magazines, and newspapers. McClintock never
threw away any advertising matter; in fact, he openly courted
pamphlets; and they came from automobile dealers and great
mail-order houses, from haberdashers and tailors and manufacturers
of hair-tonics, razors, gloves, shoes, open plumbing. In this way
(he informed Spurlock) he kept posted on what was going on in the
strictly commercial world. "Besides, lad, even an advertisement of
a cough-drop is something to read." So there was always plenty of
mail.
Among the commercial enticements McClintock found a real letter. In
privacy he read and reread it a dozen times, and eventually
destroyed it by fire. It was, in his opinion, the most astonishing
letter he had ever read. He hated to destroy it; but that was the
obligation imposed; and he was an honourable man.
Not since she had discovered it had Ruth touched or opened the
mission Bible; but to-night (the same upon which the wonderful
manuscripts started on their long and circuitous voyage to America)
she was inexplicably drawn to it. In all these weeks she had not
once knelt to pray. Why should she? she asked rebelliously. God had
never answered any of her prayers. But this time she wanted nothing
for herself: she wanted something for Hoddy--success. So, not
exactly hopefully but earnestly, she returned to the feet of God.
She did not open the Bible but laid it on the edge of the bed,
knelt and rested her forehead upon the worn leather cover.
It was not a long prayer. She said it audibly, having learned long
since that an audible prayer was a concentrated one. And yet, at
the end of this prayer a subconscious thought broke through to
consciousness. "And someday let him care for me!"
She sprang up, alarmed. This unexpected interpolation might spoil
the efficacy of all that had gone before. She hadn't meant to ask
anything for herself. Her stifled misery had betrayed her. She had
been fighting down this thought for days: that Hoddy did not care,
that he did not love her, that he had mistaken a vagary of the mind
for a substance, and now regretted what he had done--married a girl
who was not his equal in anything. The agony on the sands now
ceased to puzzle her.
All her tender lures, inherent and acquired, had shattered
themselves futilely against the reserve he had set between them.
Why had he offered her that kiss on board _The Tigress_? Perhaps
that had been his hour of disenchantment. She hadn't measured up;
she had been stupid; she hadn't known how to make love.
Loneliness. Here was an appalling fact: all her previous loneliness
had been trifling beside that which now encompassed her and would
for years to come.
If only sometimes he would grow angry at her, impatient! But his
tender courtesy was unfailing; and under this would be the abiding
bitterness of having mistaken gratitude for love. Very well. She
would meet him upon this ground: he should never be given the
slightest hint that she was unhappy.
She still had her letter of credit. She could run away from him, if
she wished, as she had run away from her father; she could carry
out the original adventure. But the cases were not identical. Her
father--man of rock--had never needed her, whereas Hoddy, even if
he did not love her, would always be needing her.
Love stories!... A sob rushed into her throat, and to smother it
she buried her face in a pillow.
Spurlock, filled with self-mockery, sat in a chair on the west
veranda. The chair had extension arms over which a man might
comfortably dangle his legs. For awhile he watched the revolving
light on Copeley's. Occasionally he relit his pipe. Once he
chuckled aloud. Certain phases of irony always caused him to
chuckle audibly. Every one of those four stories would be accepted.
He knew it absolutely, as if he had the check in his hand. Why?
Because Howard Spurlock the author dared not risk the liberty of
Howard Spurlock the malefactor; because there were still some dregs
in this cup of irony. For what could be more ironical than for
Howard Spurlock to see himself grow famous under the name of Taber?
The ambrosia of which he had so happily dreamt!--and this gall and
wormwood! He stood up and rapped his pipe on the rail.
"All right," he said. "Whatever you say--you, behind those stars
there, if you are a God. We Spurlocks take our medicine, standing.
Pile it on! But if you can hear the voice of the mote, the speck,
don't let her suffer for anything I've done. Be a sport, and pile
it all on me!"
He went to bed.
There is something in prayer; not that there may be any noticeable
result, any definite answer; but no human being can offer an honest
prayer to God without gaining immeasurably in courage, in
fortitude, in resignation, and that alone is worth the effort.
On the morrow Spurlock (who was unaware that he had offered a
prayer) let down the bars to his reserve. He became really
companionable, discussed the new story he had in mind, and asked
some questions about colour. Ruth, having decided a course for
herself--that of renunciation--and having the strength to keep it,
met these advances in precisely the mood they were offered. So
these two young philosophers got along very well that day; and the
succeeding days.
She taught him all the lore she had; about bird-life and tree-life
and the changing mysteries of the sea. She taught him how to sail a
proa, how to hack open a milk-coconut, how to relish bamboo
sprouts. Eventually this comradeship (slightly resented by Rollo)
reached a point where he could call out from the study: "Hey,
Ruth!--come and tell me what you think of this."
Her attitude now entirely sisterly, he ceased to be afraid of her;
there was never anything in her eyes (so far as he could see) but
friendly interest in all he said or did. And yet, often when alone,
he wondered: had McClintock been wrong, or had she ceased to care
in that way? The possibility that she no longer cared should have
filled him with unalloyed happiness, whereas it depressed him, cut
the natural vanity of youth into shreds and tatters. Yesterday this
glorious creature had loved him; to-day she was only friendly. No
more did she offer her forehead for the good-night kiss. And
instead of accepting the situation gratefully, he felt vaguely
hurt!
One evening in September a proa rasped in upon the beach. It
brought no coconut. There stepped forth a tall brown man. He
remained standing by the stem of the proa, his glance roving
investigatingly. He wore a battered sun-helmet, a loin-cloth and a
pair of dilapidated canvas shoes. At length he proceeded toward
McClintock's bungalow, drawn by the lights and the sound of music.
Sure of foot, noiseless, he made the veranda and paused at the side
of one of the screened windows. By and by he ventured to peer into
this window. He saw three people: a young man at the piano, an
elderly man smoking in a corner, and a young woman reclining in a
chair, her eyes closed. The watcher's intake of breath was
sibilant.
It was she! The Dawn Pearl!
He vaulted the veranda rail, careless now whether or not he was
heard, and ran down to the beach. He gave an order, the proa was
floated and the sail run up. In a moment the brisk evening breeze
caught the lank canvas and bellied it taut. The proa bore away to
the northwest out of which it had come.
James Boyle O'Higgins knew little or nothing of the South Seas, but
he knew human beings, all colours. His deduction was correct that
the beauty of Ruth Enschede could not remain hidden long even on a
forgotten isle.