CHAPTER XXII
Every morning at dawn it was Spurlock's custom to take a plunge inthe lagoon. Ruth took hers in the sea, but was careful never to gobeyond her depth because of the sharks. She always managed to getback to the bungalow before he did.
As she came in this morning she saw that the lamp was still burningin the study; so she stopped at the door. Spurlock lay with hishead on his arms, asleep. The lamp was spreading soot overeverything and the reek of kerosene was stronger than usual. Sheran to the lamp and extinguished it. Spurlock slept on. It wasstill too dark for reading, but she could see well enough to notethe number of the last page--fifty-six.
Ruth wore a printed cotton kimono. She tied the obi clumsily abouther waist, then gently laid her hand on the bowed head. He did notmove. Mischief bubbled up in her. She set her fingers in the hairand tugged, drawing him to a sitting posture and stooping so thather eyes would be on the level with his when he awoke.
He opened his eyes, protestingly, and beheld the realization of hisdream. He had been dreaming of Ruth--an old recurrency of thatdream he had had in Canton, of Ruth leading him to the top of themountain. For a moment he believed this merely a new phase of thedream. He smiled.
"The Dawn Pearl!" he said, making to recline again.
But she was relentless. "Hoddy, wake up!" She jerked his head toand fro until the hair stung.
"What?... Oh!... Well, good Lord!" He wrenched loose his head andstood 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 himfrom the table toward the doorway; and he staggered out of thebungalow, suddenly stretched his arms, and broke into a trot.
Ruth returned to the table. The tropical dawn is swift. She couldnow see to read; so she stirred the manuscript about until she cameupon the first page. "The Beachcombers."
Romance! The Seven Seas are hers. She roves the blue fields of theNorth, with the clean North Wind on her lips and her blonde headjewelled with frost--mocking valour and hardihood! Out of the Westshe comes, riding the great ships and the endless steel ways thatencompass the earth, and smoke comes with her and the glare offurnace fires--commerce! From the East she brings strange wordsupon her tongue and strange raiment upon her shoulders and theperfume of myrrh--antiquity! But oh! when she springs from theSouth, her rosy feet trailing the lotus, ripe lequats wreathing herhead, in one hand the bright torch of danger and in the other thegolden apples of love, with her eyes full of sapphires and hermouth full of pearls!
"With her eyes full of sapphires and her mouth full of pearls." Allday long the phrase interpolated her thoughts.
A week later the manuscript was polished and typewritten, ready forthe test. Spurlock felt very well pleased with himself. To havewritten 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 toBatavia for some dresses. They would arrive sometime in June.
"That gown is getting shabby."
Ruth spread out the ruffled skirt, sundrily torn and soiled. "Ihaven'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 throbbingfire 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 Iam at fault."
"I wish you did have some faults, Ruth. You're an angel ofgoodness."
"No, no! I have had wicked thoughts."
He laughed and pushed back his chair. "So has the butterfly evilthoughts. We're to be given a treat to-night. McClintock will betuning up the piano to-day. I say, I'll take the yarn over and readit 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 purposeto complete four or five stories before he sent any away. But to-dayhe did not get beyond half a dozen desultory start-offs. FromMcClintock's came an infernal _tinkle-tinkle, tump-tump_! There wasno composing with such a sound hammering upon the ear. Buteventually Spurlock laughed. Not so bad. Battle, murder, and suddendeath--and an old chap like McClintock tuning his piano in themidst 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, andI've only elaborated it."
"Ah, I see." McClintock saw indeed--two things: that the boy had noconceit and that this odd girl would always be giving. "Well, it'sa good story."
He offered cigars, and Ruth got up. She always left the table whenthey began to smoke. Spurlock had not coached her on this line ofconduct. Somewhere she had read that it was the proper thing to doand that men liked to be alone with their tobacco. She hated toleave; for this hour would be the most interesting. Both Spurlockand McClintock stood by their chairs until she was gone.
"Yes, sir," said McClintock, as he sat down; "that's South Seastuff, that yarn of yours. I like the way you shared it. I haveread that authors are very selfish and self-centred."
"Oh, Ruth couldn't put it on paper, to be sure; but there was noreason 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 area thoroughbred; but here's a black mark on your ticket, lad. Myfriend the doctor suspected it, and so do I. You are not a touristseeking adventure. You have all the earmarks of a fugitive fromjustice."
Spurlock grew limp in his chair. "If you thought that, why did yougive 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 ofit. A child--as innocent as a child! Nothing about life; bemused bythe fairy stories you writers call novels! I don't know what youhave 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 andforgive? She loves you."
The walls appeared to rock; bulging shadows reached out; the candleflames became mocking eyes; and the blood drummed thunderously inSpurlock's ears. The door to the apocalypse had opened!
"Loves me? . . . Ruth?"
"Why the devil not? Why do you suppose she married you if shedidn't love you? While you read I watched her face. It was in hereyes--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'shand.
"All life is a muddle, and we are all muddlers, more or less. It isa matter of degree. Lord, I am sixty. For thirty years I have livedalone; but once upon a time I lived among men. I know life. I sitback now, letting life slip by and musing upon it; and I find myloneliness 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 youand 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 andpractically penniless like yourself! You
weren't even stirred bygratitude. You just married her. Lad, that fuddles me!"
"Did you bring me down here to crucify me?" cried Spurlock, inpassionate rebellion.
"No, lad," said McClintock, his tone becoming kindly. "Only, whatyou have done is out of all human calculation. You did not marryher because you loved her; you did not marry because she might havehad money; you did not marry her out of gratitude; you did notmarry her because you had to. You just married her! But there sheis--'with her eyes full of sapphires and her mouth full ofpearls'!" McClintock quoted with gentle irony. "What have you gotthere in your breast--a stone? Is there blood or water in yourveins?"
The dam broke, but not with violence. A vast relief filledSpurlock's heart as he decided to tell this man everything whichrelated to Ruth. This island was the one haven he had; he might beforced to remain here for several years--until the Hand hadforgotten him. He must win this man's confidence, even at the riskof being called mad. So, in broken, rather breathless phrases, hetold his story; and when he had done, he laid his arms upon thetable and bent his head to them.
There followed a silence which endured several minutes; or, rathera tableau. The candles--for McClintock never used oil in his diningroom--were burning low in the sconces. Occasionally the flameswould bend, twist and writhe crazily as the punka-boy bestirredhimself.
McClintock's astonishment merged into a state of mild hypnosis.That any human being could conceive and execute such a thing! ARoundhead, here in these prosaic times!--and mad as a hatter!Trying the role of St. Anthony, when God Himself had found only oneman strong enough for that! McClintock shook his head violently, asif to dismiss this dream he was having. But the objects in hisrange of vision remained unchanged. Presently he reached out andlaid his hand upon Spurlock's motionless shoulders.
"'Tis a cruel thing you've done, lad. Even if you were sick in themind and did not understand what you were doing, it's a mightycruel thing you have done. Probably she mistook you; probably shethought you cared. I'm neither an infidel nor an agnostic, so I'llcontent 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 todo something which is neither God's way nor man's. What'll you bedoing?"
"What can I do?" asked Spurlock, raising his haggard face. "Can'tyou see? I can't hurt her, if ... if she cares! I can't tell herI'm a madman as well as a thief!... What a fool! What a fool!"
A thief. McClintock's initial revulsion was natural; he was anhonest man. But this revulsion was engulfed by the succeeding wavesof pity and understanding. One transgression; he was sure of that.The boy was all conscience, and he suffered through this conscienceto such lengths that the law would be impotent to add anything. Allthis muddle to placate his conscience!
"Here--quick!" McClintock thrust a cigar into Spurlock's hand. "Putit in your teeth and light it. I hear her coming."
Spurlock obeyed mechanically. The candle was shaking in his hand asRuth 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 hadbecome, as in the twinkling of an eye, an utter stranger. And thisutter stranger ... loved him! He had no reason to doubtMcClintock's statement; the Scot had solved the riddle why RuthEnschede had married Howard Spurlock. All emotions laid hold ofhim, but none could he stay long enough to analyze it. For a spacehe rode the whirligig.
"We were talking shop," said McClintock, rising. ObservingSpurlock's spell-bound attitude, he clapped the boy on theshoulder. "Come along! We'll start that concert right away."
In the living room Spurlock's glance was constantly drawn towardRuth; but in fear that she might sense something wrong, he walkedover 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 willnever approach the hand."
"I know a man.... But I'll tell you about him some other time. I'mcrazy over music, too. I can't pump out all there is to thesecompositions. Try something."
Spurlock gratefully accepted the Grieg _concerto_, gratefully,because it was brilliant and thunderous. _Papillon_ would havebroken him down; anything tender would have sapped his will; andlike as not he would have left the stool and rushed into the night.He played for an hour--Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashingmusic. The action steadied him; and there was a phase of irony,too, that helped. He had been for months without music of thecharacter he loved--and he dared not play any of it!
McClintock, after the music began, left the piano and sat in acorner just beyond the circle of light cast by the lamp. Hisinterest was divided: while his ears drank in the sounds, hisglance constantly roved from Ruth to the performer and back toRuth. These amazing infants!
Suddenly he came upon the true solution: that the boy hadn't meantto steal whatever it was he had stolen. A victim of one of thosemental typhoons that scatter irretrievably the barriers of instinctand breeding; and he had gone on the rocks all in a moment. Neverany doubt of it. That handsome, finely drawn face belonged to asoul with clean ideals. All in a moment. McClintock's heart wentout to Spurlock; he would always be the boy's friend, even thoughhe had dragged this girl on to the rocks with him.
Love and lavender, he thought, perhaps wistfully. He could rememberwhen women laid away their gowns in lavender--as this girl's motherhad. 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 theChopin _ballade_, Ruth had sat tensely on the edge of her chair.She had dreaded the beginning of this hour. What would happen toher? Would her soul be shaken, twisted, hypnotized?--as it had beenthose other times? Music--that took out of her the sense ofreality, whirled her into the clouds, that gave to her will thedirectless energy of a chip of wood on stormy waters. But beforethe 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 matchto relight his cigar, broke the spell. Ruth sighed; Spurlock stoodup and drew his hand across his forehead as if awakening from adream.
"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 asorry 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 theecho of the magic sounds. At the threshold of the study he bade hergood-night; but he did not touch her forehead with his lips.
"I feel like work," he lied. What he wanted desperately was to bealone.
"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 herbedroom, but she did not go to bed. She drew a chair to the windowand stared at the splendour of the tropical night. By and by sheheard the screen door. Hollo rumbled in his throat.
"Hush!" she said.
Presently she saw Spurlock on the way to the lagoon. He walked withbent head. After quarter of an hour, she followed.
The unexpected twist--his disclosure to McClintock--had givenSpurlock but temporary relief. The problem had returned, madegigantic by the possibility of Ruth's love. The thought alluredhim, and therein lay the danger. If it were but the question of hisreason for marrying her
, the solution would have been simple. Buthe was a thief, a fugitive from justice. On that basis alone, hehad 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 hadsaid and done; there were no blank spaces to give him one straw ofexcuse.
Ruth loved him. It was perfectly logical. And he could not returnthis love. He must fight the thought continually, day in and dayout. The Dawn Pearl! To be with her constantly, with no diversionsto serve as barricades! Damn McClintock for putting this thought inhis head--that Ruth loved him!
He flung himself upon the beach, face downward, his outflung handsdigging into the sand: which was oddly like his problem--he couldnot grip it. Torment!
And so Ruth discovered him. She was about to rush to his side, whenshe saw his clenched hands rise and fall upon the sand repeatedly.Her heart swelled to suffocation. To go to him, to console him! Butshe stirred not from her hiding place. Instinctively she knew--somehuman recollection she had inherited--that she must not disturb himin this man-agony. She could not go to him when it was apparentthat he needed her beyond all other instances! What had caused thisagony did not matter--then. It was enough that she witnessed it andcould not go to him.
By and by--as the paroxysm subsided and he became motionless--shestole back to the bungalow to wait. Through her door curtain shecould see the light from the study lamp. If, when he returned, heblew out the light, she would go to bed; but if the light burned onfor any length of time, she would go silently to the study curtainto 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. Hehad something across his knees. At first she could not tell what itwas; but as her eyes became accustomed to the light, she recognizedthe old coat.