Spurlock went out on his toes, careful lest the bamboo curtain
rattle behind him. He went into the study and sat down at his
table, but not to write. He drew out the check and the editorial
letter. He had sold half a dozen short tales to third-rate
magazines; but this letter had been issued from a distinguished
editorial room, of international reputation. If he could keep it
up--style and calibre of imagination--within a year the name of
Taber would become widely known. Everything in the world to live
for!--fame that he could not reap, love that he must not take! What
was all this pother about hell as a future state?
By and by things began to stir on the table: little invisible
things. The life with which he had endued these sheets of paper
began to beckon imperiously. So he sharpened a score of pencils,
and after fiddling about and rewriting the last page he had written
the previous night, he plunged into work. It was hot and dry. There
were mysterious rustlings that made him glance hopefully toward the
sea. He was always deceived by these rustlings which promised wind
and seldom fulfilled that promise.
"Time to dress for dinner," said Ruth from behind the curtain. "I
don't see how you do it, Hoddy. It's so stuffy--and all that
tobacco smoke!"
He inspected his watch. Half after six. He was astonished. For four
hours he had shifted his own troubles to the shoulders of these
imaginative characters.
"He called me a wanton, Hoddy. That is what I don't understand."
"There isn't an angel in heaven, Ruth, purer or sweeter than you
are. No doubt--because he did not understand you--he thought you
had run away with someone. The trader you spoke about: he disliked
your father, didn't he? Well, he probably played your father a
horrible practical joke."
"Perhaps that was it. I always wondered why he bought my mother's
pearls so readily. I am dreadfully sad."
"I'll tell you what. I'll speak to McClintock to-night and see if
he won't take us for a junket on _The Tigress_. Eh? Banging against
the old rollers--that'll put some life into us both. Run along
while I rig up and get the part in my hair straight."
"If he had only been my father!--McClintock!"
"God didn't standardize human beings, Ruth; no grain of wheat is
like another. See the new litter of Mrs. Pig? By George, every one
of them looks like the other; and yet each one attacks the source
of supply with a squeal and an oof that's entirely different from
his brothers' and sisters'. Put on that new dress--the one that's
all white. We'll celebrate that check, and let the rest of the
world go hang."
"You are very good to me, Hoddy."
Something reached down into his heart and twisted it. But he held
the smile until she turned away from the curtain. He dressed
mechanically; so many moves this way, so many moves that. The
evening breeze came; the bamboo shades on the veranda clicked and
rasped; the loose edges of the manuscript curled. To prevent the
leaves from blowing about, should a blow develop, he distributed
paper weights. Still unconscious of anything he did physically.
He tried not to think--of Ruth with her mother's locket, of her
misguided father, taking his lonely way to sea. He drew
compellingly upon his new characters to keep him out of this
melancholy channel; but they ebbed and ebbed; he could not hold
them. Enschede: no human emotion should ever again shuttle between
him and God. As if God would not continue to mock him so long as
his brain held a human thought! God had given him a pearl without
price, and he had misunderstood until this day.
McClintock was in a gay mood at dinner that night; but he did not
see fit to give these children the true reason. For a long time
there had been a standing offer from the company at Copeley's to
take over the McClintock plantation; and to-day he had decided to
sell. Why? Because he knew that when these two young people left,
the island would become intolerable. For nearly thirty years he had
lived here in contented loneliness; then youth had to come and fill
him with discontent.
He would give _The Tigress_ a triple coat of paint, and take these
two on a long cruise, wherever they wanted to go--Roundhead and
Seraph, the blunderbus and the flaming angel. And there was another
matter. To have sprung this upon them to-night would have been worth
a thousand pounds. But his lips were honour-locked.
There was a pint of champagne and a quart of mineral water (both
taboo) at his elbow. In a tall glass the rind of a Syrian orange
was arranged in spiral form. The wine bubbled and seethed; and the
exquisite bouquet of oranges permeated the room.
"I sha'n't offer any of these to you two," he said; "but I know you
won't mind me having an imitation king's peg. The occasion is worth
a dash of the grape, lad. You're on the way to big things. A
thousand dollars is a lot of money for an author to earn."
Spurlock laughed. "Drink your peg; don't bother about me. I
wouldn't touch the stuff for all the pearls in India. A cup of
lies. I know all about it."
Ruth's eyes began to glow. She had often wondered if Hoddy would
ever go back to it. She knew now that he never would.
"Sometimes a cup of lies is a cheering thing," replied the trader.
"In wine there is truth. What about that?"
"It means that drink cheats a man into telling things he ought not
to. And there's your liver."
"Ay, and there's my liver. It'll be turning over to-morrow. But
never mind that," said McClintock grinning as he drew the dish of
bread-fruit toward him. "To-morrow I shall have a visitor. I do not
say guest because that suggests friendship; and I am no friend of
this Wastrel. I've told you about him; and you wrote a shrewd yarn
on the subject."
"The pianist?"
"Yes. He'll be here two or three days. So Mrs. Spurlock had better
stick to the bungalow."
"Ah," said Spurlock; "that kind of a man."
"Many kinds; a thorough outlaw. We've never caught him cheating at
cards; too clever; but we know he cheats. But he's witty and
amusing, and when reasonably drunk he can play the piano like a
Paderewski. He's an interpretative genius, if there ever was one.
Nobody knows what his real name is, but he's a Hollander. Kicked
out of there for something shady. A remittance man. A check arrives
in Batavia every three months. He has a grand time. Then he goes
stony, and beats his way around the islands for another three
months. Retribution has a queer way of acting sometimes. The
Wastrel--as we call him--cannot play when he's sober; hands too
shaky. He can't play cards, either, when he's sober. Alcohol--would
you believe it?--steadies his nerves and keens his brain: which is
against the laws of gravitation, you might say. He has often told
me that if he could play sober, he would go to America and reap a
fortune."
"You never told me what he is like," said Spurlock.
"I thought it best that you should imagine him. You were wide the
mark, physically; otherwise you had him pat. He is big and
powerful; one of those drinkers who show it but little outwardly.
Whisky kills him suddenly; it does not sap him gradually. In his
youth he must have been a remarkably handsome man, for he is still
handsome. I don't believe he is much past forty. A bad one in a
rough-and-tumble; all the water-front tricks. His hair is oddly
streaked with gray--I might say a dishonourable gray. Perhaps in
the beginning the women made fools of themselves over him."
"That's reasonable. I don't know how to explain it," said Spurlock,
"but music hits women queerly. I've often seen them storming the
Carnegie Hall stage."
"Aye, music hits them. I'm thinking that the Wastrel was one day a
celebrated professional; and the women were partly the cause of his
fall. Women! He is always chanting the praise of some discovery;
sometimes it will be a native, often a white woman out of the
stews. So it will be wise for Mrs. Spurlock to keep to the bungalow
until the rogue goes back to Copeley's. Queer world. For every
Eden, there will be a serpent; for every sheepfold, there will be a
wolf."
"What's the matter, Ruth?" asked Spurlock, anxiously.
"It has been ... rather a hard day, Hoddy," Ruth answered. She was
wan and white.
So, after the dinner was over, Spurlock took her home; and worked
far into the night.
* * * * *
The general office was an extension of the west wing of the
McClintock bungalow. From one window the beach was always visible;
from another, the stores. Spurlock was invariably at the high desk
in the early morning, poring over ledgers, and giving the beach and
the stores an occasional glance. Whenever McClintock had guests, he
loafed with them on the west veranda in the morning.
This morning he heard voices--McClintock's and the Wastrel's.
"Sorry," said McClintock, "but I must ask you to check out this
afternoon before five. I'm having some unexpected guests."
"Ah! Sometimes I wonder I don't run amok and kill someone," said
the Wastrel, in broken English. "I give you all of my genius, and
you say--'Get out!' I am some kind of a dog."
"That is your fault, none of mine. Without whisky," went on
McClintock, "your irritability is beyond tolerance. You have said a
thousand times that there was no shame in you. Nobody can trust
you. Nobody can anticipate your next move. We tolerate you for your
genius, that's a fact. But underneath this tolerance there is
always the vague hope that your manhood will someday reassert
itself."
The Wastrel laughed. "Did you ever hear me whine?"
"No," admitted McClintock
"You've no objection to my dropping in again later, after your
guests go?"
"No. When I'm alone I don't mind."
"Very well. You won't mind if I empty this gin?"
"No. Befuddle yourself, if you want to."
Silence.
Spurlock mused over the previous night. After he had eaten dinner
with Ruth, he had gone to McClintock's; and he had heard music such
as he had heard only in the great concert halls. The picturesque
scoundrel had the true gift; and Spurlock was filled with pity at
the thought of such genius gone to pot. To use it as a passport to
card-tables and gin-bottles! McClintock wasn't having any guests;
at any rate, he had not mentioned the fact.
Spurlock had sensed what had gone completely over McClintock's
head--that this was the playing of a soul in damnation. His own
peculiar genius--a miracle key to the hidden things in men's
souls--had given him this immediate and astonishing illumination. As
the Wastrel played, Spurlock knew that the man saw the inevitable
end--death by drink; saw the glory of the things he had thrown away,
the past, once so full of promise. And, decently as he could,
McClintock was giving the man the boot.
There was, it might be said, a double illumination. But for Ruth,
he, Howard Spurlock, might have ended upon the beach, inescapably
damned. The Dawn Pearl. After all, the Wastrel was in luck: he was
alone.
These thoughts, however, came to a broken end. From the window he
saw _The Tigress_ faring toward Copeley's! Then somebody was
coming? Some political high muckamuck, probably. Still, he was
puzzled because McClintock had not spoken.
Presently McClintock came in. "General inspection after lunch;
drying bins, stores and the young palms south-east. It will be hot
work, but it must be done at once."
"All right, Mr. McClintock." Spurlock lowered his voice. "You are
giving that chap the boot rather suddenly?"
"Had to."
"Somebody coming?"
"Yes. Top-side insurance people. You know all this stuff is
insured. They'll inspect the schooner on the way back," McClintock
lied, cheerfully.
"The Wastrel seemed to take it all right."
"Oh, it's a part of the game," said McClintock. "He knows he had to
take it. There are some islands upon which he is not permitted to
land any more."
At luncheon, preoccupied in thought, Spurlock did not notice the
pallor on Ruth's cheeks or the hunted look in her eyes. She hung
about his chair, followed him to the door, touched his sleeve
timidly, all the while striving to pronounce the words which
refused to rise to her tongue.
He patted the hand on his sleeve. "Could you get any of the music
last night?"
"Yes."
"Wonderful! It's an infernal shame."
"Couldn't ... couldn't I go with you this afternoon?"
"Too hot."
"But I'm used to that, Hoddy," she said, eagerly.
"I'd rather you went over the last four chapters, which I haven't
polished yet. You know what's what. Slash and cut as much as you
please. I'll knock off at tea. By-by."
The desperate eagerness to go with him--and she dared not voice it!
She watched him until McClintock joined him and the two made off
toward the south. She turned back into the hall. Rollo began to
cavort.
"No, Rollo; not this afternoon."
"But I've got to go!" insisted Rollo, in perfectly understandable
dog-talk.
"Be still!"
"Oh, come along! I've just got to have my muck bath. I'm burning
up."
"Rollo!"
There were no locks or panelled doors in the bungalow; and Rollo
was aware of it. He dashed against the screen door before she could
catch him and made the veranda. Once more he begged; but as Ruth
only repeated her sharp command, he spun about and raced toward the
jungle. Immediately he was gone, she regretted that she had not
followed.
Hidden menace; a prescience of something dreadful about to happen.
Ruth shivered; she was cold. Alone; not even the dog to warn her,
and Hoddy deep in the island somewhere. Help--should she need
it--from the natives was out of the question. She had not made
friends with any; so they still eyed her askance.
Yes; she had heard the music the night before. She had resisted as
long as she could; then she had stolen over. She had to make sure,
for the peace of her mind, that this was really the man. One glance
through the window at that picturesque head had been sufficient. A
momentary petrifaction, and terror had lent wings to her feet.
He had found her by the same agency her father had: native talk,
which flew from isle to isle as fast as proas could carry it. She
was a lone white woman, therefore marked.
What was it in her heart or mind or soul that went out to this man?
Music--was that it? Was he powerless to stir her without the gift?
But hadn't he fascinated her by his talk, gentle and winning? Ah,
but that had been after he had played for her.
She had gone into Morgan's one afternoon for a bag of salt. One
hour later she had gone back to the mission--without the salt. For
the first time in her life she had heard music; the door to
enchanted sounds had been flung wide. For hours after she had not
been sensible to life, only to exquisite echoes.
Of course she had often heard sailors hammering out their ditties.
Sometimes ships would stop three or four days for water and
repairs; and the men would carouse in the back room at Morgan's.
Day after day--five, to be exact--she had returned to Morgan's; and
each time the man would understand what had drawn her, and with a
kindly smile would sit down at the piano and play. Sometimes the
music would be tender and dreamy, like a native mother's crooning
to her young; sometimes it would be so gay that the flesh tingled
and the feet were urged to dance; again, it would be like the
storms crashing, thunderous.
On the fifth day he had ventured speech with her. He told her
something about music, the great world outside. Then he had gone
away. But two weeks later he returned. Again he played for her; and
again the eruption of the strange senses that lay hidden in her
soul. He talked with his manner gentle and kindly. Shy, grateful in
her loneliness for this unexpected attention, she had listened. She
had even confided to him how lonely it was in the island. He had
promised her some books, for she had voiced her hunger for stories.
On his third visit to the island she had surprised him, that is,
she had glanced up suddenly and caught the look of the beast in his
eyes.
And it had not shocked her! It was this appalling absence of
indignation that had put terror into her heart. The same look she
had often seen in the eyes of the drunken beachcombers her father
had brought home, and it had not filled her with horror. And now
she comprehended that the man (she had never known him by any name)
knew she had surprised the look and had not resented it.
Still, thereafter she had avoided Morgan's; partly out of fear and
partly because of her father's mandate. Yet the thing hidden within
her called and called.
Traps, set with peculiar cunning; she had encountered them
everywhere. By following her he had discovered her secret nook in
the rocks. Here she would find candy awaiting her, bits of ribbon,
books. She wondered even at this late day how she had been able to
hold her maddening curiosity in check. Books! She knew now what had
saved her--her mother's hand, reaching down from heaven, had set
the giver's flaming eyes upon the covers of these books. One day
she had thrown all the gifts into the lagoon, and visited the
secret nook no more.
And here he was, but a hundred yards away, this wastrel who trailed
his genius through the mud. Hoddy! All her fears fell away. Between
herself and yonder evil mind she had the strongest buckler God
could give--love. Hoddy. No other man should touch her; she was
Hoddy's, body and soul, in this life and after.
She turned into the study, sat down at the table and fingered the
pencils, curiously stirred. Lead, worth nothing at all until Hoddy
picked them up; then they became full of magic. She began to read,
and presently she entered another world, and remained in it for two
hours. She read on and on, now thrilled by the swiftly moving
drama, now enraptured by the tender passages of love. Love.... He
could imagine it even if he could not feel it. That was the true
miracle of the gift; without actual experience, to imagine love and
hate and greed and how they would react upon each other; and then,
when these passions had served their temporary purpose, to cast
them aside for new imaginings.
She heard the bamboo curtain rattle slightly. She looked up
quickly. The Wastrel, his eyes full of humorous evil, stood inside
the room.