Hours later Roger found himself on the bank of the river far below
Garman's house. He had wandered wildly, avoiding paths, dodging
clearings, holding to dark, shaded jungle-land, like a hurt animal
seeking to hide its wounds from the light of day. The joy of victory
over Garman glowed steadily in his bosom, yet though he knew that
Garman now was a broken man and that he no longer would attempt to play
king in the district, he also knew that the fruits of the victory were
like ashes upon his tongue. He felt old and defeated, like a man
suddenly robbed of his illusions. Garman had been right; he had been
dwelling in the Fool's Paradise of Youth, accepting dreams for
realities. Now, he had "torn the mask of illusions from the face of
Life and seen the old hag as she really is."
Garman's phrases kept ringing in his ears, and with repetition they
came to hold a note of mocking triumph.
Garman was whipped, yet he had won. His words remained to cut and
torture. In his state of semidelirium Roger began to doubt that he had
won over Garman. The doubt became a certainty. Defeat, not victory,
was his portion. Garman's was the victory, the victory of bitter
knowledge over the vaporish ideals of youth.
Roger stooped to drink from a clear pool at the river's brink and
shrank back at the reflection he beheld in the water. A strange, lined
face stared up at him. He shut his eyes as he drank, then plunged his
head into the pool. Cooled off and cleansed, he again studied his
reflection. The traces of dust and combat were washed away, and he saw
how little they had to do with the transformation. The change was
deeper than the skin, deeper than the flesh. It had bitten into the
spirit; and the bitterness and hate in his eyes, the cynical sneer that
leered up at him, sprang from the change that had taken place in his
soul.
Garman was still winning.
Roger laughed aloud, and at the sound of his voice checked himself
abruptly. He turned away from the pool, cursing it for what it had
revealed, and stumbled back into the darkness of the jungle.
In time he came to the spot where he and Garman had fought. His enemy
was gone. It was some minutes before Roger realized how this
disappointed him. He had returned to tell Garman he was right. He no
longer hated Garman. Garman made him see the truth.
Later, as he sat near the spot where his foe had fallen, he saw that
others had visited the spot recently. There were a multitude of fresh
tracks in the sand about the palmetto scrub. He regarded them
indifferently until he saw the deep marks of Higgins' hunting boots.
Besides these he saw other men's tracks, including the marks of Willy
High Pocket's bare feet. And then he saw that which sent the blood
racing to his head.
Clearly outlined in the sand were the marks of a girl's tennis
slippers, and he knew they were Annette's.
He searched the sand like a hound now, seeking signs of what had
happened. He saw where the tracks had come into the clearing--Higgins,
Willy High Pocket and Annette. They had been running. Then he saw how
they had scattered, searching the country round, and had returned to
the spot where Garman lay. From there they had gone toward the path
leading to Garman's house. There were tracks of half a dozen men.
Garman's was among them. He had, apparently, been helped to his feet
and led away.
As the last rays of the setting sun were gilding the palm tops Roger
pushed aside a curtain of moon vine and looked out upon Garman's house
and the little lake beyond. To his surprise the Egret lay at the dock,
the captain on the bridge, ready to start downstream. Higgins, Davis
and Willy High Pockets were standing near the pergola looking toward
the house. Presently they turned and walked slowly out of sight and
hearing.
Garman came tottering out of the house onto the walk leading to the
dock. He was freshly clad and extensively bandaged. Beside him walked
Annette, supporting him with the strength of her tall young body.
Garman was broken physically, but his spirit remained strong.
Suddenly he halted, painfully freeing his arm from her supporting hand.
"No," he mumbled through his bandages, "I can't let you do that."
"But I want to help you to the boat," she protested. "You're very
weak, you know."
Garman tottered, yet he gestured her away. He spoke slowly, each word
an effort.
"Might it occur to you that even in my present condition I might be
capable of feeling a sense of humiliation at being helped away--by you?"
"I wouldn't want you to feel that," she replied.
"Ha!" he laughed faintly, "The magnanimity of victorious youth toward
the conquered. Star-eyed youth has won, and----"
"Oh, please don't take up that old strain, Mr. Garman. You are badly
hurt; you must think of getting to a doctor at once."
"Can the leopard change his spots?" he said. "No. He doesn't want to.
I was very weak a moment ago. My strength is returning. But I am not.
A strong man leaves and forgets the scene of his defeat, and the
defeat. You will never see me again. Can you bear up under that?"
"I'm very sorry to hear you say things like that."
Garman swayed like a broken tree, but despite it he smiled sardonically.
"You had hoped I had changed?" His voice was little more than a
painful whisper. Swaying drunkenly, almost falling, he drove himself
on to speak. "That the leopard's spots had become whiter than snow?
My dear Miss Fairclothe, people don't change like that. Behold
yourself: even the jungle and sun, even I, couldn't change you. The
flesh wavered, but the soul held true. I won't play the hypocrite and
say I am glad you were too strong for me. I am not. I wish I could
have made you like myself. Now I'm going away and forget you and all
this, and the whole affair of civilization. If you feel sorry for me
your emotion is wasted. On the whole it will be a relief for me.
Business, and so on--I was getting pretty well bored with the whole
thing."
He staggered grotesquely toward the dock and halted.
"And don't you worry about Payne. You'll find him. Trust the woman to
find the man she's marked for her victim! No, no! Don't grow
indignant; I'll change 'victim' to 'mate.' There's really little
difference. Payne's all right." A quiver of pain convulsed him.
"He's got some brains, too. Not too much, but enough. You two are too
perfectly matched for anything to keep you apart, and, having joined
one another, too perfectly matched to avoid fighting." He chuckled
faintly behind his bandages. "Oh, yes, you'll fight, my dear girl,
take my word for that; he's got a will of his own, too. But your
fights will be embraces in disguise."
He tottered toward the river and again turned.
"Will you shake hands with me before I go?" he asked.
"Why, yes," she said. "Of course."
Garman chuckled, but turned away without touching her proffered hand.
"I merely wanted to know," he said, and went staggering on his away
aboard the Egret. He mumbled an order and an oath to the captain. The
Egret slipped swiftly down the river.
Annette watched until the yacht had gone. When she turned round Roger
was coming toward her. She cried out, a cry of relief, of happiness,
of love.
"Annette!" he whispered, and came close to her.
"Wait, wait!" she said. "There are things to be explained."
"I know." He moved back a step. "I was a brute, too."
"What?"
"Garman----"
"Oh--that! It was terrible, I know, but you were not the aggressor. I
mean about the note."
"Do notes--or things like it--matter now?" he asked.
"Yes; they matter very, very much. I wish to explain. I--I went out
there to Palm Island to fight out my fight with myself."