CHAPTER XXVI
Spurlock went out on his toes, careful lest the bamboo curtainrattle behind him. He went into the study and sat down at histable, but not to write. He drew out the check and the editorialletter. He had sold half a dozen short tales to third-ratemagazines; but this letter had been issued from a distinguishededitorial room, of international reputation. If he could keep itup--style and calibre of imagination--within a year the name ofTaber would become widely known. Everything in the world to livefor!--fame that he could not reap, love that he must not take! Whatwas all this pother about hell as a future state?
By and by things began to stir on the table: little invisiblethings. The life with which he had endued these sheets of paperbegan to beckon imperiously. So he sharpened a score of pencils,and after fiddling about and rewriting the last page he had writtenthe previous night, he plunged into work. It was hot and dry. Therewere mysterious rustlings that made him glance hopefully toward thesea. He was always deceived by these rustlings which promised windand seldom fulfilled that promise.
"Time to dress for dinner," said Ruth from behind the curtain. "Idon't see how you do it, Hoddy. It's so stuffy--and all thattobacco smoke!"
He inspected his watch. Half after six. He was astonished. For fourhours he had shifted his own troubles to the shoulders of theseimaginative 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 youare. No doubt--because he did not understand you--he thought youhad run away with someone. The trader you spoke about: he dislikedyour father, didn't he? Well, he probably played your father ahorrible practical joke."
"Perhaps that was it. I always wondered why he bought my mother'spearls so readily. I am dreadfully sad."
"I'll tell you what. I'll speak to McClintock to-night and see ifhe won't take us for a junket on _The Tigress_. Eh? Banging againstthe old rollers--that'll put some life into us both. Run alongwhile 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 islike another. See the new litter of Mrs. Pig? By George, every oneof them looks like the other; and yet each one attacks the sourceof supply with a squeal and an oof that's entirely different fromhis brothers' and sisters'. Put on that new dress--the one that'sall white. We'll celebrate that check, and let the rest of theworld go hang."
"You are very good to me, Hoddy."
Something reached down into his heart and twisted it. But he heldthe smile until she turned away from the curtain. He dressedmechanically; so many moves this way, so many moves that. Theevening breeze came; the bamboo shades on the veranda clicked andrasped; the loose edges of the manuscript curled. To prevent theleaves from blowing about, should a blow develop, he distributedpaper weights. Still unconscious of anything he did physically.
He tried not to think--of Ruth with her mother's locket, of hermisguided father, taking his lonely way to sea. He drewcompellingly upon his new characters to keep him out of thismelancholy channel; but they ebbed and ebbed; he could not holdthem. Enschede: no human emotion should ever again shuttle betweenhim and God. As if God would not continue to mock him so long ashis brain held a human thought! God had given him a pearl withoutprice, and he had misunderstood until this day.
McClintock was in a gay mood at dinner that night; but he did notsee fit to give these children the true reason. For a long timethere had been a standing offer from the company at Copeley's totake over the McClintock plantation; and to-day he had decided tosell. Why? Because he knew that when these two young people left,the island would become intolerable. For nearly thirty years he hadlived here in contented loneliness; then youth had to come and fillhim with discontent.
He would give _The Tigress_ a triple coat of paint, and take thesetwo on a long cruise, wherever they wanted to go--Roundhead andSeraph, the blunderbus and the flaming angel. And there was anothermatter. To have sprung this upon them to-night would have been wortha thousand pounds. But his lips were honour-locked.
There was a pint of champagne and a quart of mineral water (bothtaboo) at his elbow. In a tall glass the rind of a Syrian orangewas arranged in spiral form. The wine bubbled and seethed; and theexquisite bouquet of oranges permeated the room.
"I sha'n't offer any of these to you two," he said; "but I know youwon't mind me having an imitation king's peg. The occasion is wortha dash of the grape, lad. You're on the way to big things. Athousand dollars is a lot of money for an author to earn."
Spurlock laughed. "Drink your peg; don't bother about me. Iwouldn't touch the stuff for all the pearls in India. A cup oflies. I know all about it."
Ruth's eyes began to glow. She had often wondered if Hoddy wouldever 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 notto. And there's your liver."
"Ay, and there's my liver. It'll be turning over to-morrow. Butnever mind that," said McClintock grinning as he drew the dish ofbread-fruit toward him. "To-morrow I shall have a visitor. I do notsay guest because that suggests friendship; and I am no friend ofthis Wastrel. I've told you about him; and you wrote a shrewd yarnon the subject."
"The pianist?"
"Yes. He'll be here two or three days. So Mrs. Spurlock had betterstick to the bungalow."
"Ah," said Spurlock; "that kind of a man."
"Many kinds; a thorough outlaw. We've never caught him cheating atcards; too clever; but we know he cheats. But he's witty andamusing, and when reasonably drunk he can play the piano like aPaderewski. He's an interpretative genius, if there ever was one.Nobody knows what his real name is, but he's a Hollander. Kickedout of there for something shady. A remittance man. A check arrivesin Batavia every three months. He has a grand time. Then he goesstony, and beats his way around the islands for another threemonths. Retribution has a queer way of acting sometimes. TheWastrel--as we call him--cannot play when he's sober; hands tooshaky. He can't play cards, either, when he's sober. Alcohol--wouldyou believe it?--steadies his nerves and keens his brain: which isagainst the laws of gravitation, you might say. He has often toldme that if he could play sober, he would go to America and reap afortune."
"You never told me what he is like," said Spurlock.
"I thought it best that you should imagine him. You were wide themark, physically; otherwise you had him pat. He is big andpowerful; one of those drinkers who show it but little outwardly.Whisky kills him suddenly; it does not sap him gradually. In hisyouth he must have been a remarkably handsome man, for he is stillhandsome. I don't believe he is much past forty. A bad one in arough-and-tumble; all the water-front tricks. His hair is oddlystreaked with gray--I might say a dishonourable gray. Perhaps inthe 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 theCarnegie Hall stage."
"Aye, music hits them. I'm thinking that the Wastrel was one day acelebrated professional; and the women were partly the cause of hisfall. Women! He is always chanting the praise of some discovery;sometimes it will be a native, often a white woman out of thestews. So it will be wise for Mrs. Spurlock to keep to the bungalowuntil the rogue goes back to Copeley's. Queer world. For everyEden, there will be a serpent; for every sheepfold, there will be awolf."
"What's the matter, Ruth?" asked Spurlock, anxiously.
"It has been ... rather a hard day, Hoddy," Ruth answered. She waswan and white.
So, after the dinner was over, Spurlock took her home; and workedfar into the night.
* * * * *
The general office was an extension of the west wing of theMcClintock bungalow. From one window the beach was always visible;from another,
the stores. Spurlock was invariably at the high deskin the early morning, poring over ledgers, and giving the beach andthe stores an occasional glance. Whenever McClintock had guests, heloafed 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 thisafternoon before five. I'm having some unexpected guests."
"Ah! Sometimes I wonder I don't run amok and kill someone," saidthe Wastrel, in broken English. "I give you all of my genius, andyou say--'Get out!' I am some kind of a dog."
"That is your fault, none of mine. Without whisky," went onMcClintock, "your irritability is beyond tolerance. You have said athousand times that there was no shame in you. Nobody can trustyou. Nobody can anticipate your next move. We tolerate you for yourgenius, that's a fact. But underneath this tolerance there isalways the vague hope that your manhood will someday reassertitself."
The Wastrel laughed. "Did you ever hear me whine?"
"No," admitted McClintock
"You've no objection to my dropping in again later, after yourguests 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 dinnerwith Ruth, he had gone to McClintock's; and he had heard music suchas he had heard only in the great concert halls. The picturesquescoundrel had the true gift; and Spurlock was filled with pity atthe thought of such genius gone to pot. To use it as a passport tocard-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'shead--that this was the playing of a soul in damnation. His ownpeculiar genius--a miracle key to the hidden things in men'ssouls--had given him this immediate and astonishing illumination. Asthe Wastrel played, Spurlock knew that the man saw the inevitableend--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, inescapablydamned. The Dawn Pearl. After all, the Wastrel was in luck: he wasalone.
These thoughts, however, came to a broken end. From the window hesaw _The Tigress_ faring toward Copeley's! Then somebody wascoming? Some political high muckamuck, probably. Still, he waspuzzled 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 hotwork, but it must be done at once."
"All right, Mr. McClintock." Spurlock lowered his voice. "You aregiving that chap the boot rather suddenly?"
"Had to."
"Somebody coming?"
"Yes. Top-side insurance people. You know all this stuff isinsured. They'll inspect the schooner on the way back," McClintocklied, cheerfully.
"The Wastrel seemed to take it all right."
"Oh, it's a part of the game," said McClintock. "He knows he had totake it. There are some islands upon which he is not permitted toland any more."
At luncheon, preoccupied in thought, Spurlock did not notice thepallor on Ruth's cheeks or the hunted look in her eyes. She hungabout his chair, followed him to the door, touched his sleevetimidly, all the while striving to pronounce the words whichrefused to rise to her tongue.
He patted the hand on his sleeve. "Could you get any of the musiclast 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'tpolished yet. You know what's what. Slash and cut as much as youplease. 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 offtoward the south. She turned back into the hall. Rollo began tocavort.
"No, Rollo; not this afternoon."
"But I've got to go!" insisted Rollo, in perfectly understandabledog-talk.
"Be still!"
"Oh, come along! I've just got to have my muck bath. I'm burningup."
"Rollo!"
There were no locks or panelled doors in the bungalow; and Rollowas aware of it. He dashed against the screen door before she couldcatch him and made the veranda. Once more he begged; but as Ruthonly repeated her sharp command, he spun about and raced toward thejungle. Immediately he was gone, she regretted that she had notfollowed.
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 needit--from the natives was out of the question. She had not madefriends with any; so they still eyed her askance.
Yes; she had heard the music the night before. She had resisted aslong 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 glancethrough the window at that picturesque head had been sufficient. Amomentary 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. Shewas 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. Onehour later she had gone back to the mission--without the salt. Forthe first time in her life she had heard music; the door toenchanted sounds had been flung wide. For hours after she had notbeen 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 andrepairs; 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; andeach time the man would understand what had drawn her, and with akindly smile would sit down at the piano and play. Sometimes themusic would be tender and dreamy, like a native mother's crooningto her young; sometimes it would be so gay that the flesh tingledand the feet were urged to dance; again, it would be like thestorms crashing, thunderous.
On the fifth day he had ventured speech with her. He told hersomething about music, the great world outside. Then he had goneaway. But two weeks later he returned. Again he played for her; andagain the eruption of the strange senses that lay hidden in hersoul. He talked with his manner gentle and kindly. Shy, grateful inher loneliness for this unexpected attention, she had listened. Shehad even confided to him how lonely it was in the island. He hadpromised 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 hiseyes.
And it had not shocked her! It was this appalling absence ofindignation that had put terror into her heart. The same look shehad often seen in the eyes of the drunken beachcombers her fatherhad brought home, and it had not filled her with horror. And nowshe 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 andpartly because of her father's mandate. Yet the thing hidden withinher called and called.
Traps, set with peculiar cunning; she had encountered themeverywhere. By following her he had discovered her secret nook inthe rocks. Here she would find candy awaiting her, bits of ribbon,books. She wondered even at this late day how she had been able tohol
d her maddening curiosity in check. Books! She knew now what hadsaved her--her mother's hand, reaching down from heaven, had setthe giver's flaming eyes upon the covers of these books. One dayshe had thrown all the gifts into the lagoon, and visited thesecret nook no more.
And here he was, but a hundred yards away, this wastrel who trailedhis genius through the mud. Hoddy! All her fears fell away. Betweenherself and yonder evil mind she had the strongest buckler Godcould give--love. Hoddy. No other man should touch her; she wasHoddy's, body and soul, in this life and after.
She turned into the study, sat down at the table and fingered thepencils, curiously stirred. Lead, worth nothing at all until Hoddypicked them up; then they became full of magic. She began to read,and presently she entered another world, and remained in it for twohours. She read on and on, now thrilled by the swiftly movingdrama, now enraptured by the tender passages of love. Love.... Hecould imagine it even if he could not feel it. That was the truemiracle of the gift; without actual experience, to imagine love andhate and greed and how they would react upon each other; and then,when these passions had served their temporary purpose, to castthem aside for new imaginings.
She heard the bamboo curtain rattle slightly. She looked upquickly. The Wastrel, his eyes full of humorous evil, stood insidethe room.