CHAPTER XXIII
Next morning Ruth did not refer to the episode on the sands of thelagoon. Here again instinct guided her. If he had nothing to tellher, she had nothing to ask. She did not want particularly to knowwhat had caused his agony, what had driven him back to the oldcoat. He was in trouble and she could not help him; that was theache in her heart.
At breakfast both of them played their parts skillfully. There wasnothing in his manner to suggest the misery of the preceding night.There was nothing on her face to hint of the misery that brimmedher heart this morning. So they fenced with smiles.
He noted that she was fully dressed, that her hair was carefullydone, that there was a knotted ribbon around her throat. It nowoccurred to him that she had always been fully dressed. He did notknow--and probably never would unless she told him--that it wasvery easy (and comfortable for a woman) to fall into slatternlyways in this latitude. So long as she could remember, her fatherhad never permitted her to sit at the table unless she came fullydressed. Later, she understood his reasons; and it had now becomehabit.
Fascination. It would be difficult to find another human beingsubjected to so many angles of attack as Spurlock. Ruth loved him.This did not tickle his vanity; on the contrary, it enlivened histerror, which is a phase of fascination. She loved him. That heldhis thought as the magnet holds the needle, inescapably. The mortalyouth in him, then, was fascinated, the thinker, the poet; from allsides Ruth attacked him, innocently. The novel danger of thesituation enthralled him. He saw himself retreating from barricadeto barricade, Ruth always advancing, perfectly oblivious of theterror she inspired.
While he was stirring his tea, she ran and fetched the comb. Sheattacked 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 thesight of it. Anyhow, ten minutes after I get to work I'll berumpling it."
"That isn't the point, Hoddy. You don't notice the heat; but it isalways there, pressing down. You must always shave and part yourhair straight. It doesn't matter that you deal with black people.It isn't for their sakes, it's for your own. Mr. McClintock doesit; and he knows why. In the morning and at night he is dressed ashe would dress in the big hotels. In the afternoon he probablyloafs in his pajamas. You can, too, if you wish.."
"All right, teacher; I'll shave and comb my hair." He rose for fearshe might touch him again.
But such is the perversity of the human that frequently thereafterhe purposely crooked the part in his hair, to give her the excuseto fetch the comb. Not that he deliberately courted danger; it wasrather the searcher, seeking analysis, the why and wherefore ofthis or that invading emotion.
He was always tenderly courteous; he answered her ordinaryquestions readily and her extraordinary ones patiently; he alwaysrose when she entered or left the room. This formality irked her:she wanted to play a little, romp. The moment she entered the roomand he rose, she felt that she was immediately consigned to thecircle of strangers; and it emptied her heart of its joy and filledit with diffidence. There was a wall; she was always encounteringit; the one time she was able to break through this wall was whenthe part in his hair was crooked.
She began to exercise those lures which were bred in her bone--thebones of all women. She required no instructions from books; herwit and beauty were her own. What lends a tragic mockery to allthese 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 notsensitive to this. The fire--if there was any in him--never madeheadway against this insistant demand to know the significance ofthese manifold inward agitations.
Thus, more and more Ruth turned to the mongrel dog who bore thename 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 wassubtly repelled by its lawful object.
Spurlock was by nature orderly, despite his literary activities.Before the first month was gone, McClintock admitted that the boywas a find. Accounts were now always where he could put his hand onthem. The cheating of the boys in the stores ceased. If there wereany pearls, none came into the light. Gradually McClintock shiftedthe burden to Spurlock's shoulders and retired among his books andmusic rolls.
Twice Spurlock went to Copeley's--twenty miles to the northwest--forice and mail. It was a port of call, since fortnightly a Britishmail-boat dropped her mudhook in the bay. All sorts of batteredtramps, junks and riff-raff of the seas trailed in and out. Spurlockwas tremendously interested in these derelicts, and got a good dealof information regarding them, which he stored away for future use.There were electric and ice plants, and a great store in which onecould buy anything from jewsharps to gas-engines. White men andnatives dealt conveniently at Copeley's. It saved long voyages andlong waits; and the buyers rarely grumbled because the prices werestiff. There were white men with families, a fine mission-house, anda club-house for cards and billiards.
He was made welcome as McClintock's agent; but he politely declinedall the proffered courtesies. Getting back the ice was rather aserious affair. He loaded the launch with a thousand pounds--allshe could carry--and started home immediately after sundown; buteven then he lost from a hundred to a hundred and fifty poundsbefore he had the stuff cached in McClintock's bamboo-coveredsawdust pit. This ice was used for refrigerator purposes and forMcClintock's evening peg.
Ruth with Rollo as her guide explored the island. In the heart ofthe jungle the dog had his private muck baths. Into one of these hewaded and rolled and rolled, despite her commands. At first shethought he was endeavouring to rid himself of the fleas, but aftera time she came to understand that the muck had healing qualitiesand soothed the burning scratches made by his claws. In thepresence of the husband of his mistress Rollo was alwaysdignifiedly cheerful, but he never leaped or cavorted as he didwhen alone with Ruth.
Spurlock was fond of dogs; he was fond of this offspring of manymesalliances; but he never made any attempt to win Rollo, to sharehim. The dog was, in a sense, a gift of the gods. He filled therole of comrade which Spurlock dared not enact, at least notutterly as he would have liked. Yes--as he would have liked.
For Ruth grew lovelier as the days went on. She was as lovely inthe spirit as in the flesh. Her moods were many and alwaysstriking. She was never violent when angry: she became as calm andbaffling as the sea in doldrums. She never grew angry for anythingher husband did: such anger as came to her was directed against thelazy, incompetent servant who was always snooping about in theinner temple--Spurlock's study.
She formed a habit which embarrassed Spurlock greatly, but at firsthe dared not complain. She would come and sit cross-legged justbeyond the bamboo curtain and silently watch him at work. One nightshe apparently fell asleep. He could not permit her to remain inthat position. So, very carefully, he raised her in his arms andcarried her to her bed. The moment he was out in the hall, Ruth satup hugging and rocking her body in delight. This charming episodewas repeated three times. Then he sensed the trap.
"Ruth, you must not come and sit on the threshold. I can'tconcentrate on my work. It doesn't annoy me; it only disturbs me. Ican't help looking at you frequently. You don't want me to spoilthe story, do you?"
"No. But it's so wonderful to watch you! Whenever you have writtensomething beautiful, your face shows it."
"I know; but ..."
"And sometimes you say out loud: 'That's great stuff!' I never makeany sound."
"But it is the sight of you!"
"All right, Hoddy. I promise not to do it again." She rose. "Goodnight."
He stared at the agitated curtain; and slowly his chin sank untilit touched his chest. He had hurt her. But the recollection of thewarm 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 goaround or over.
Sometimes it seemed to him that he was an impostor: that Ruthbelieved him to be one Howard Spurlock, when he was onlymasquerading as Spurlock. If ever the denouement came--if ever theHand reached him--Ruth would then understand why he had rebuffedall her tender advances. The law would accord her all her previousrights: she would return to the exact status out of which in hismadness he had taken her. She might even forgive him.
He thanked God for this talent of his. He could lose himself forhours at a time. Whatever he wrote he was: he became this or thatcharacter, he suffered or prospered equally. He was thebeachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales),or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. There wasa fourth story; but he never told either Ruth or McClintock aboutthis. He called it "The Man Who Could Not Go Home." Himself. He didnot 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 hadbeen something of an athlete--a runner, an oarsman, and a crack attennis. The morning swims in the lagoon had thickened the redcorpuscle. For all the enervating heat, he applied himselfvigorously to his tasks.
Late in July he finished the fourth story. This time there wasn'tany doubt. He had done it. These were _yarns_! As he was about toslip the manuscripts into the envelope, something caught his eye:by Howard Spurlock. Entranced, he stared at the name. Suddenly heunderstood what had happened. A wrathful God was watching him.Howard Spurlock. The honey on his tongue turned to ashes. To writeunder a pseudonym!--to be forced to disown his children! He couldnot write under his own name, enjoy the fruits of fame should thesetales 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 winfame and fortune: and particularly to enjoy them. Spurlock slumpedin his chair, weak and empty. This was the bitterest hour he hadever known. From thoughts of fame to thoughts of mere bread andbutter! It seemed to Spurlock that he had tumbled off the edge ofSomewhere into the abyss of Nowhere.
At length, when he saw no escape from the inevitable, he took thefour title pages from the manuscripts and typed new ones,substituting Taber for Spurlock. A vast indifference settled downupon him. He did not care whether the stories were accepted or not.He was so depressed and disheartened that he did not then believehe would ever write again.
Both Ruth and McClintock came down to the launch to wish himGod-speed and good luck. Ruth hugged the envelope and McClintock,with the end of a burnt match, drew a cabalistic sign. Through itall Spurlock maintained a gaiety which deceived them completely. Buthis treasured dream lay shattered at his feet.
And yet--such is the buoyancy of youth--within a fortnight he beganhis first novel, pretending to himself that it was on Ruth'saccount. To be alone with her, in idleness, was an intolerablethought.
* * * * *
Coconuts grew perpetually. There will often be six growths in asingle palm. So proas loaded with nuts were always landing on thebeach. _The Tigress_ went prowling for nut, too. Once, both Ruthand Spurlock accompanied McClintock far south, to an island ofblacks; and Spurlock had his first experience with the coconutdance 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 thestrong pipe tobacco (with which McClintock supplied him) possesseda coconut flavour. Then, mysteriously, he no longer smelled ortasted it.
On the day he carried the manuscript to Copeley's he brought back apacket of letters, magazines, and newspapers. McClintock neverthrew away any advertising matter; in fact, he openly courtedpamphlets; and they came from automobile dealers and greatmail-order houses, from haberdashers and tailors and manufacturersof hair-tonics, razors, gloves, shoes, open plumbing. In this way(he informed Spurlock) he kept posted on what was going on in thestrictly commercial world. "Besides, lad, even an advertisement ofa cough-drop is something to read." So there was always plenty ofmail.
Among the commercial enticements McClintock found a real letter. Inprivacy he read and reread it a dozen times, and eventuallydestroyed it by fire. It was, in his opinion, the most astonishingletter he had ever read. He hated to destroy it; but that was theobligation imposed; and he was an honourable man.
Not since she had discovered it had Ruth touched or opened themission Bible; but to-night (the same upon which the wonderfulmanuscripts started on their long and circuitous voyage to America)she was inexplicably drawn to it. In all these weeks she had notonce knelt to pray. Why should she? she asked rebelliously. God hadnever answered any of her prayers. But this time she wanted nothingfor herself: she wanted something for Hoddy--success. So, notexactly 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 longsince that an audible prayer was a concentrated one. And yet, atthe end of this prayer a subconscious thought broke through toconsciousness. "And someday let him care for me!"
She sprang up, alarmed. This unexpected interpolation might spoilthe efficacy of all that had gone before. She hadn't meant to askanything for herself. Her stifled misery had betrayed her. She hadbeen 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 mindfor a substance, and now regretted what he had done--married a girlwho was not his equal in anything. The agony on the sands nowceased to puzzle her.
All her tender lures, inherent and acquired, had shatteredthemselves futilely against the reserve he had set between them.Why had he offered her that kiss on board _The Tigress_? Perhapsthat 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 lonelinesshad been trifling beside that which now encompassed her and wouldfor years to come.
If only sometimes he would grow angry at her, impatient! But histender courtesy was unfailing; and under this would be the abidingbitterness of having mistaken gratitude for love. Very well. Shewould meet him upon this ground: he should never be given theslightest hint that she was unhappy.
She still had her letter of credit. She could run away from him, ifshe wished, as she had run away from her father; she could carryout the original adventure. But the cases were not identical. Herfather--man of rock--had never needed her, whereas Hoddy, even ifhe did not love her, would always be needing her.
Love stories!... A sob rushed into her throat, and to smother itshe buried her face in a pillow.
Spurlock, filled with self-mockery, sat in a chair on the westveranda. The chair had extension arms over which a man mightcomfortably dangle his legs. For awhile he watched the revolvinglight on Copeley's. Occasionally he relit his pipe. Once hechuckled aloud. Certain phases of irony always caused him tochuckle 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 ofHoward Spurlock the malefactor; because there were still some dregsin this cup of irony. For what could be more ironical than forHoward Spurlock to see himself grow famous under the name of Taber?The ambrosia of which he had so happily dreamt!--and this gall andwormwood! He stood up and rapped his pipe on the rail.
"All right," he said. "Whatever you say--you, behind those starsthere, 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 pileit all on me!"
He went to bed.
There is something in prayer; not that there may be any noticeableresult, any definite answer; but no human being can offer an honestprayer to God without gaining immeasurably in
courage, infortitude, in resignation, and that alone is worth the effort.
On the morrow Spurlock (who was unaware that he had offered aprayer) let down the bars to his reserve. He became reallycompanionable, discussed the new story he had in mind, and askedsome questions about colour. Ruth, having decided a course forherself--that of renunciation--and having the strength to keep it,met these advances in precisely the mood they were offered. Sothese two young philosophers got along very well that day; and thesucceeding days.
She taught him all the lore she had; about bird-life and tree-lifeand the changing mysteries of the sea. She taught him how to sail aproa, how to hack open a milk-coconut, how to relish bamboosprouts. 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) butfriendly interest in all he said or did. And yet, often when alone,he wondered: had McClintock been wrong, or had she ceased to carein that way? The possibility that she no longer cared should havefilled him with unalloyed happiness, whereas it depressed him, cutthe natural vanity of youth into shreds and tatters. Yesterday thisglorious creature had loved him; to-day she was only friendly. Nomore did she offer her forehead for the good-night kiss. Andinstead of accepting the situation gratefully, he felt vaguelyhurt!
One evening in September a proa rasped in upon the beach. Itbrought no coconut. There stepped forth a tall brown man. Heremained standing by the stem of the proa, his glance rovinginvestigatingly. He wore a battered sun-helmet, a loin-cloth and apair of dilapidated canvas shoes. At length he proceeded towardMcClintock's bungalow, drawn by the lights and the sound of music.
Sure of foot, noiseless, he made the veranda and paused at the sideof one of the screened windows. By and by he ventured to peer intothis window. He saw three people: a young man at the piano, anelderly man smoking in a corner, and a young woman reclining in achair, her eyes closed. The watcher's intake of breath wassibilant.
It was she! The Dawn Pearl!
He vaulted the veranda rail, careless now whether or not he washeard, and ran down to the beach. He gave an order, the proa wasfloated and the sail run up. In a moment the brisk evening breezecaught the lank canvas and bellied it taut. The proa bore away tothe northwest out of which it had come.
James Boyle O'Higgins knew little or nothing of the South Seas, buthe knew human beings, all colours. His deduction was correct thatthe beauty of Ruth Enschede could not remain hidden long even on aforgotten isle.