THE MAN WHO DIDN'T CARE
It was the first of February when Ackermann's caravan drew into the
ancient city of Damascus. That part of the caravan deserted by Mahomed
put out for Cairo immediately they struck the regular camel-way.
Fortune, George and Ryanne were in a pitiable condition, heart and body
weary, in rags and tatters. George, now that the haven was assured,
dropped his forced buoyancy, his prattle, his jests. He had done all a
mortal man could do to keep up the spirits of his co-unfortunates; and
he saw that, most of the time, he had wasted his talents. Ryanne, sullen
and morose, often told him to "shut up"; which wasn't exhilarating. And
Fortune viewed his attempts without sensing them and frequently looked
at him without seeing him.
Now, all this was not particularly comforting to the man who loved her
and was doing what he could to lighten the dreariness of the journey. He
made allowances, however; besides suffering unusual privations, Fortune
had had a frightful mental shock. A girl of her depth of character could
not be expected to rise immediately to the old level. Sometimes, while
gathered about the evening fire, he would look up to find her sad eyes
staring at him, and it mattered not if he stared in return; a kind of
clairvoyance blurred visibilities, for she was generally looking into
her garden at Mentone and wondering when this horrible dream would pass.
Subjects for conversation were exhausted in no time. Dig as he might,
George could find nothing new; and often he recounted the same tale
twice of an evening. Sardonic laughter from Ryanne.
Ackermann had given them up as hopeless. He was a strong, vain,
domineering man, kindly at heart, however, but impatient. When he told a
story, he demanded the attention of all; so, when Ryanne yawned before
his eyes, and George drew pictures in the sand, and the girl fell
asleep with her head upon her knees, he drew off abruptly and left them
to their own devices. He had crossed and recrossed the silences so often
that he was no longer capable of judging accurately another man's mental
processes. That they had had a strange and numbing experience he readily
understood; but now that they were out of duress and headed for the
coast, he saw no reason why they should not act like human beings.
They still put up the small tent for Fortune, but the rest of them slept
upon the sand, under the stars. Once, George awoke as the dawn was
gilding the east. Silhouetted against the sky he saw Fortune. She was
standing straight, her hands pressed at her sides, her head tilted
back--a tense attitude. He did not know it, but she was asking God why
these things should be. He threw off his blanket and ran to her.
"Fortune, you mustn't do that. You will catch cold."
"I can not sleep," she replied simply.
He took her by the hand and led her to the tent. "Try," he said. Then he
did something he had never done before to any woman save his mother. He
kissed her hand, turned quickly, and went over to his blanket. She
remained motionless before the tent. The hand fascinated her. From the
hand her gaze traveled to the man settling himself comfortably under his
blanket.... Pity, pity; that was ever to be her portion; pity!
In Damascus the trio presented themselves at the one decent hotel, and
but for Ackermann's charges upon the manager, it is doubtful if he would
have accepted them as guests; for a more suspicious-looking trio he had
never set eyes upon. (A hotel man weighs a person by the quality of his
clothes.) Moreover, they carried no luggage. Ackermann went sponsor; and
knowing something of the integrity of the rug-hunter, the manager
surrendered. And when George presented his letter of credit at the
Imperial Ottoman Bank, again it was Ackermann who vouched for him. It
had been agreed to say nothing of the character of their adventure. None
of them wanted to be followed by curious eyes.
With a handful of British gold in his pocket, George faced the future
hopefully. He took his companions in and about town, hunting the shops
for clothing, which after various difficulties they succeeded in
finding. It was ill-fitting and cheap, but it would serve till they
reached either Alexandria or Naples.
"How are you fixed?" asked Ryanne, gloomily surveying George's shoddy
cotton-wool suit.
"Cash in hand?"
"Yes."
"About four-hundred pounds. At Naples I can cable. Do you want any?"
"Would you mind advancing me two months' salary?"
"Ryanne, do you really mean to stick to that proposition?"
"It's on my mind just now."
"Well, we'll go back to the bank and I'll draw a hundred pounds for you.
You can pay your own expenses as we go. But what are we going to do in
regard to Fortune?"
"See that she gets safely back to Mentone."
"Suppose she will not go there?"
"It's up to you, Percival; it's all up to you. You're the gay Lochinvar
from the west. I'm not sure--no one ever is regarding a woman--but I
think she'll listen to you. She wouldn't give an ear to a scallawag like
me. This caravan business has put me outside the pale. I've lost caste."
"You're only desperate and discouraged; you can pull up straight."
"Much obliged!"
"You haven't looked at life normally; that's what the matter is."
"Solon, you're right. There's that poor devil back in Bagdad. I've
killed a man, Percival. It doesn't mix well with my dreams."
"You said that it was in self-defense."
"And God knows it was. But if I hadn't gone after that damned rug, he'd
have been alive to-day. Oh, damn it all; let's go back to the hotel and
order that club-steak, or the best imitation they have. I'm going to
have a pint of wine. I'm as dull as a ditch in a paddy-field."
"A bottle or two will not hurt any of us. We'll ask Ackermann. For God
knows where we'd have been to-day but for him. And let him do all the
yarning. It will please him."
"And while he gabs, we'll get the best of the steak and the wine!" For
the first time in days Ryanne's laughter had a bit of the erstwhile
rollicking tone.
The dinner was an event. No delicacy (mostly canned) was overlooked. The
manager, as he heard the guineas jingle in George's pocket, was filled
with shame; not over his original doubts, but relative to his lack of
perception. The tourists who sat at the other tables were scandalized at
the popping of champagne-corks. Sanctimonious faces glared reproof. A
jovial spirit in the Holy Land was an anacronism, not to be tolerated.
And wine! Horrible! Doubtless, when they retired to their native
back-porches, they retold with never-ending horror of having witnessed
such a scene and having heard such laughter upon the sacred soil.
Even Fortune laughed, though Ryanne's ear, keenest then, detected the
vague note of hysteria. If the meat was tough, the potatoes greasy, the
vegetables flavorless, the wine flat, none of them appeared to be aware
of it. If Ackermann could talk he could also eat; and the clatter of
forks and knives was the theme rather than the variation to the
symphony.
George felt himself drawn deeper and deeper into those magic waters from
which, as in death, there is no return. She was so lonely, so sad and
forlorn, that there was as much brother as lover in his sympathy. How
patient she had been during all those inconceivable hardships! How brave
and steady; and never a murmur! The single glass of wine had brought the
color back to her cheek and the sparkle into her eye; yet he was sure
that behind this apparent liveliness lay the pitiful desperation of the
helpless. He had not spoken again about old Mortimer. He would wait till
after he had sent a long cable. Then he would speak and show her the
answer, of which he had not a particle of doubt. As matters now stood,
he could not tell her that he loved her; his quixotic sense of chivalry
was too strong to permit this step, urge as his heart might upon it. She
might misinterpret his love as born of pity, and that would be the end
of everything. He was confident now that Ryanne meant nothing to her.
Her lack of enthusiasm, whenever Ryanne spoke to her in these days; the
peculiar horizontality of her lips and brows, whenever Ryanne offered a
trifling courtesy--all pointed to distrust. George felt a guilty
gladness. After all, why shouldn't she distrust Ryanne?
George concluded that he must acquire patience. She was far too loyal to
run away without first giving him warning. In the event of her refusing
Mortimer's roof and protection, he knew what his plans would be. Some
one else could do the buying for Mortimer & Jones; his business would be
to revolve round this lonely girl, to watch and guard her without her
being aware of it. Of what use were riches if he could not put them to
whatever use he chose? So he would wait near her, to see that she came
and went unmolested, till against that time when she would recognize how
futile her efforts were and how wide and high the wall of the world was.
That mother of hers! To his mind it was positively unreal that one so
charming and lovely should be at heart strong as the wind and merciless
as the sea. His mother had been everything; hers, worse than none, an
eternal question. What a drama she had moved about in, without
understanding!
George did not possess that easy and adjustable sophistry which made
Ryanne look upon smuggling as a clever game between two cheats. His
point of view coincided with Fortune's; it was thievery, more or less
condoned, but the ethics covering it were soundly established. He had
come very near being culpable himself. True, he would not have been
guilty of smuggling for profit; but none the less he would have tried to
cheat the government. His sin had found him out; he had now neither the
rug nor his thousand pounds.
All these cogitations passed through his mind, disjointedly, as the
dinner progressed toward its end. They bade Ackermann good-by and
God-speed, as he was to leave early for Beirut, upon his way to Smyrna.
Fortune went to bed; Ryanne sought the billiard-room and knocked about
the balls; while George asked the manager if he could send a cable from
the hotel. Certainly he could. It took some time to compose the cable to
Mortimer; and it required some gold besides. Mortimer must have a fair
view of the case; and George presented it, requesting a reply to be sent
to Cook's in Naples, where they expected to be within ten days.
"How much will this be?"
The porter got out his telegraph-book and studied the rates carefully.
"Twelve pounds and six, sir."
The porter greeted each sovereign with a genuflection, the lowest being
the twelfth. George pocketed the receipt and went in search of Ryanne.
But that gentleman was no longer in the billiard-room. Indeed, he had
gone quietly to the other hotel and written a cable himself, the code of
which was not to be found in any book. For a long time he seemed to be
in doubt, for he folded and refolded his message half a dozen times
before his actions became decisive. He tore it up and threw the scraps
upon the floor and hastened into the street, as if away from temptation.
He walked fast and indirectly, smoking innumerable cigarettes. He was
fighting, and fighting hard, the evil in him against the good, the
chances of the future against the irreclaimable past. At the end of an
hour he returned to the strange hotel. His lips were puffed and
bleeding. He had smoked so many cigarettes and had pulled them so
impatiently from his mouth, that the dry paper had cracked the delicate
skin.
He rewrote his cable and paid for the sending of it. Then he poked about
the unfamiliar corridors till he found the dingy bar. He sat down before
a peg of whisky, which was followed by many more, each a bit stiffer
than its predecessor. At last, when he had had enough to put a normal
man's head upon the table or to cover his face with the mask of inanity,
Ryanne fell into the old habit of talking aloud.
"Horace, old top, what's the use? We'd just like to be good if we could;
eh? But they won't let us. We'd grow raving mad in a monastery. We were
honest at the time, but we couldn't stand the monotony of watching green
olives turn purple upon the silvery bough. Nay, nay!"
He pushed the glass away from him and studied the air-bubbles as they
formed, rose to the surface, and were dissipated.
"No matter what the game has been, somehow or other, they've bashed us,
and we've lost out."
He emptied the glass and ordered another. He and the bartender were
alone.
"After all, love is like money. It's better to live frugally upon the
interest than to squander the capital and go bankrupt. And who cares,
anyhow?"
He drank once more, dropped a half-sovereign upon the table, and pushed
back his chair. His eyes were bloodshot now, and the brown of his skin
had become a slaty tint; but he walked steadily enough into the
reading-room, where he wrote a short letter. It was not without a
perverted sense of humor, for a smile twisted his lips till he had
sealed the letter and addressed the envelope to George Percival Algernon
Jones. He stuffed it into a pocket and went out whistling _The Heavy
Dragoons_ from the opera _Patience_.
Before the lighted window of a shop he paused. He swayed a little. From
a pocket of his new coat he pulled out a glove. It was gray and small
and much wrinkled. From time to time he drew it through his fingers,
staring the while at the tawdry trinkets in the shop-window. Finally he
looked down at the token. He became very still. A moment passed; then he
flung the glove into the gutter, and proceeded to his own hotel. He left
the letter with the porter, paid his bill, and went out again into the
dark, chill night.
He was now what he had been two months ago, the man who didn't care.