c 7-ry 
 
WITHIN THE TIDES 
 
 TALES 
 
 BY 
 
 JOSEPH CONRAD 
 
 , . Go, make you readyo 
 
 Hamlet to the Players 
 
 Garden City New York 
 
 DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY 
 
 1916 
 

 a 
 
 r 
 
 Copyright, 1916, by 
 DOUBLEDAY, PaGE & CoMPANT 
 
 All rights reserved, including that of 
 
 translation into foreign languages, 
 
 including the Scandinavian 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 191 1, BY HARPER & BROTHERS 
 COPYRIGHT, I913, I914, BY METROPOLITAN MAGAZINE 
 
^0 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. RALPH WEDGWOOD 
 
 THIS SHEAF OF CARE-FREE ANTE-BELLUM PAGES 
 
 IN GRATITUDE FOR THEIR CHARMING HOSPITALITY 
 
 IN THE LAST MONTH OF PEACE 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Planter of Malata 3 
 
 The Partner 129 
 
 The Inn of the Two Witches 187 
 
 Because of the Dollars 239 
 
THE PLANTER OF MALATA 
 
 //5 / / / 
 
THE PLANTER OF MALATA 
 
 In the private editorial office of the principal 
 newspaper in a great colonial city two men were 
 talking. They were both young. The stouter of 
 the two, fair, and with more of an urban look 
 about him, was the editor and part-owner of the 
 important newspaper. 
 
 The other's name was Renouard. That he 
 was exercised in his mind about something was 
 evident on his fine bronzed face. He was a lean, 
 lounging, active man. The journalist continued 
 the conversation. 
 
 "And so you were dining yesterday at old 
 Dunster's." 
 
 He used the word old not in the endearing 
 sense in which it is sometimes applied to in- 
 timates, but as a matter of sober fact. The 
 Dunster in question was old. He had been an 
 eminent colonial statesman, but had now retired 
 from active politics after a tour in Europe and a 
 lengthy stay in England, during which he had 
 
4 THE PLANTER OF MALATA 
 
 had a very good press indeed. The colony was 
 proud of him. 
 
 "Yes. I dined there," said Renouard. "Young 
 Dunster asked me just as I was going out of his 
 office. It seemed to be hke a sudden thought. 
 And yet I can't help suspecting some purpose be- 
 hind it. He was very pressing. He swore that 
 his uncle would be very pleased to see me. Said 
 his uncle had mentioned lately that the granting 
 to me of the Malata concession was the last act 
 of his official life." 
 
 * ' Very touching . The old boy sentimentalises 
 over the past now and then." 
 
 "I really don't know why I accepted," con- 
 tinued the other. "Sentiment does not move 
 me very easily. Old Dunster was civil to me of 
 course, but he did not even inquire how I was 
 getting on with my silk plants. Forgot there 
 was such a thing probably. I must say there 
 were more people there than I expected to meet. 
 Quite a big party." 
 
 "I was asked," remarked the newspaper man. 
 **Only I couldn't go. But when did you arrive 
 from Malata.^" 
 
 "I arrived yesterday at daylight. I am 
 anchored out there in the bay — off Garden 
 Point. I was in Dunster's office before he had 
 finished reading his letters. Have you ever seen 
 
THE PLANTER OF MALATA 5 
 
 young Dunster reading his letters? I had a 
 gKmpse of him through the open door. He holds 
 the paper in both hands, hunches his shoulders 
 up to his ugly ears, and brings his long nose and 
 thick lips on to it like a sucking apparatus. ^^ 
 commercial monster." 
 
 "Here we don't consider him a monster," said 
 the newspaper man looking at his visitor 
 thoughtfully. 
 
 "Probably not. You are used to seeing his 
 face and the faces of others. I don't know how 
 it is that, when I come to town, the appearance 
 of the people in the street strikes me with such 
 force. They seem so awfully expressive." 
 
 "And not charming." 
 
 " Well— no. Not as a rule. The effect is for- 
 cible without being clear. ... I know 
 that you think it's because of my solitary man- 
 ner of life away there." 
 
 "Yes. I do think so. It is demoralising. 
 You don't see any one for months at a stretch. 
 You're leading an unhealthy life." 
 
 The other hardly smiled and murmured the 
 admission that true enough it was a good eleven 
 months since he had been in town last. 
 
 "You see," insisted the other. "Solitude 
 works like a sort of poison. And then you per- 
 ceive suggestions in faces — mysterious and 
 
6 THE PLANTER OF MALATA 
 
 forcible, that no sound man would be bothered 
 with. Of course you do." 
 
 Geoffrey Renouard did not tell his journalist 
 friend that the suggestions of his own face, the 
 face of a friend, bothered him as much as the 
 others. He detected a degrading quality in the 
 touches of age which every day adds to a human 
 countenance. They moved and disturbed him, 
 like the signs of a horrible inward travail which 
 was frightfully apparent to the fresh eye he had 
 brought from his isolation in Malata, where he 
 had settled after five strenuous years of adven- 
 ture and exploration. 
 
 "It's a fact," he said, "that when I am at 
 home in Malata I see no one consciously. I take 
 the plantation boys for granted." 
 
 "Well, and we here take the people in the 
 streets for granted. And that's sanity." 
 
 The visitor said nothing to this for fear of en- 
 gaging a discussion. What he had come to seek 
 in the editorial office was not controversy, but 
 information. Yet somehow he hesitated to 
 approach the subject. Solitary life makes a 
 man reticent in respect of anything in the nature 
 of gossip, which those to whom chatting about 
 their kind is an everyday exercise regard as the 
 commonest use of speech. 
 
 "You very busy?" he asked. 
 
THE PLANTER OF MALATA 7 
 
 The Editor making red marks on a long slip of 
 printed paper threw the pencil down. 
 
 "No. I am done. Social paragraphs. This 
 office is the place where everything is known 
 about everybody — including even a great deal of 
 nobodies. Queer fellows drift in and out of this 
 room. Waifs and strays from home, from up- 
 country, from the Pacific. And, by the way, 
 last time you were here you picked up one of 
 that sort for your assistant — didn't you.^^ '* 
 
 "I engaged an assistant only to stop your 
 preaching about the evils of solitude," said 
 Renouard hastily; and the pressman laughed at 
 the half -resentful tone. His laugh was not very 
 loud, but his plump person shook all over. He 
 was aware that his younger friend's deference to 
 his advice was based only on an imperfect belief 
 in his wisdom — or his sagacity. But it was he 
 who had first helped Renouard in his plans of ex- 
 ploration : the five-years' programme of scientific 
 adventure, of work, of danger and endurance, 
 carried out with such distinction and rewarded 
 modestly with the lease of Malata island by the 
 frugal colonial government. And this reward, 
 too, had been due to the journalist's advocacy 
 with word and pen — for he was an influential 
 man in the community. Doubting very much if 
 Renouard really liked him, he was himself with- 
 
8 THE PLANTER OF MALATA 
 
 out great sympathy for a certain side of that 
 man which he could not quite make out. He 
 only felt it obscurely to be his real personality — 
 the true — and, perhaps, the absurd. As, for 
 instance, in that case of the assistant. Renouard 
 had given way to the arguments of his friend and 
 backer — the argument against the unwholesome 
 effect of solitude, the argument for the safety of 
 companionship even if quarrelsome. Very well. 
 In this docility he was sensible and even likeable. 
 But what did he do next.^ Instead of taking 
 counsel as to the choice with his old backer and 
 friend, and a man, besides, knowing everybody 
 employed and unemployed on the pavements of 
 the town, this extraordinary Renouard suddenly 
 and almost surreptitiously picked up a fellow — 
 God knows who — and sailed away with him back 
 to Malata in a hurry; a proceeding obviously 
 rash and at the same time not quite straight. 
 That was the sort of thing. The secretly unfor- 
 giving journalist laughed a little longer and then 
 ceased to shake all over. 
 
 "Oh, yes. About that assistant of yours. . . ." 
 "What about him.^" said Renouard, after 
 waiting a while, with a shadow of uneasiness on 
 his face. 
 
 "Have you nothing to tell me of him.^" 
 "Nothing except. . . ." Incipient grim- 
 
THE PLANTER OF MALATA 9 
 
 ness vanished out of Renouard's aspect and his 
 voice, while he hesitated as if reflecting seriously 
 before he changed his mind. "No. Nothing 
 whatever." 
 
 "You haven't brought him along with you by 
 chance — for a change." 
 
 The Planter of Malata stared, then shook 
 his head, and finally murmured carelessly: "I 
 think he's very well where he is. But I wish you 
 could tell me why young Dunster insisted so 
 much on my dining with his uncle last night. 
 Everybody knows I am not a society man." 
 
 The Editor exclaimed at so much modesty. 
 Didn't his friend know that he was their one and 
 only explorer — that he was the man experiment- 
 ing with the silk plant. . . . 
 
 "Still, that doesn't tell me why I was invited 
 yesterday. For young Dunster never thought 
 of this civility before. . . ." 
 
 "Our Willie," said the popular journalist, 
 "never does anything without a purpose, that's 
 a fact." 
 
 "And to his uncle's house too!" 
 
 "He lives there." 
 
 "Yes. But he might have given me a feed 
 somewhere else. The extraordinary part is that 
 the old man did not seem to have anything 
 special to say. He smiled kindly on me once or 
 
 y^ 
 
10 THE PLANTER OF MALATA 
 
 twice, and that was all. It was quite a party, 
 sixteen people." 
 
 The Editor then, after expressing his regret 
 that he had not been able to come, wanted to 
 know if the party had been entertaining 
 
 Renouard regretted that his friend had not 
 been there. Being a man whose business or at 
 least whose profession was to know everything 
 that went on in this part of the globe, he could 
 probably have told him something of some 
 people lately arrived from home, who were 
 amongst the guests. Young Dunster (Willie), 
 with his large shirt front and streaks of white 
 skin shining unpleasantly through the thin black 
 hair plastered over the top of his head, bore 
 down on him and introduced him to that party, 
 as if he had been a trained dog or a child phe- 
 nomenon. Decidedly, he said, he disliked 
 Willie — one of these large oppressive men. . . . 
 
 A silence fell, and it was as if Renouard were 
 not going to say anything more when, suddenly, 
 he came out with the real object of his visit to the 
 editorial room. 
 
 "They looked to me like people under a spell." 
 
 The Editor gazed at him appreciatively, think- 
 ing that, whether the effect of solitude or not, 
 this was a proof of a sensitive perception of the 
 expression of faces. 
 
THE PLANTER OF MALATA 11 
 
 "You omitted to tell me their name, but I can 
 make a guess. You mean Proiessor Moorsom, 
 his daughter and sister — don't you?" 
 
 Renouard assented. Yes, a white-haired 
 lady. But from his silence, with his eyes fixed, 
 yet avoiding his friend, it was easy to guess that 
 it was not in the white-haired lady that he was 
 interested. 
 
 "Upon my word," he said, recovering his 
 usual bearing. "It looks to me as if I had been 
 asked there only for the daughter to talk to me." 
 
 He did not conceal that he had been greatly 
 struck by her appearance. Nobody could have 
 helped being impressed. She was different from 
 everybody else in that house, and it was not only 
 the effect of her London clothes. He did not 
 take her down to dinner. Willie did that. It 
 was afterwards, on the terrace. . . . 
 
 The evening was delightfully calm. He was 
 sitting apart and alone, and wishing himself 
 somewhere else — on board the schooner for 
 choice, with the dinner-harness off. He hadn't 
 exchanged forty words altogether during the 
 evening with the other guests. He saw her 
 suddenly all by herself coming towards him along 
 the dimly lighted terrace, quite from a distance. 
 
 She was tall and supple, carrying nobly on her 
 straight body a head of a character which to him 
 
1« THE PLANTER OF MALATA 
 
 appeared peculiar, something — well— pagan, 
 crowned with a great wealth of hair. He had 
 been about to rise, but her decided approach 
 caused him to remain on the seat. He had not 
 looked much at her that evening. He had not 
 that freedom of gaze acquired by the habit of 
 ^y society and the frequent meetings with strangers. 
 It was not shyness, but the reserve of a man not 
 used to the world and to the practice of covert 
 staring, with careless curiosity. All he had 
 captured by his first, keen, instantly lowered 
 glance was the impression that her hair was mag- 
 nificently red and her eyes very black. It was a 
 troubling effect, but it had been evanescent; he 
 had forgotten it almost till very unexpectedly he 
 saw her coming down the terrace slow and eager, 
 as if she were restraining herself, and with a 
 rhythmic upward undulation of her whole figure. 
 The light from an open window fell across her 
 path, and suddenly all that mass of arranged 
 hair appeared incandescent, chiselled and fluid, 
 with the daring suggestion of a helmet of bur- 
 nished copper and the flowing lines of molten 
 metal. It kindled in him an astonished admira- 
 tion. But he said nothing of it to his friend the 
 Editor. Neither did he tell him that her ap- 
 proach woke up in his brain the image of love's 
 infinite grace and the sense of the inexhaustible 
 
THE PLANTER OF MALATA 13 
 
 joy that lives in beauty. No! What he im- 
 parted to the Editor were no emotions, but mere 
 facts conveyed in a dehberate voice and in unin- 
 spired words. 
 
 "That young lady came and sat down by me. 
 She said: 'Are you French, Mr. Renouard.? '% 
 
 He had breathed a whiff of perfume of which 
 he said nothing either — of some perfume he did 
 not know. Her voice was low and distinct. Her 
 shoulders and her bare arms gleamed with an 
 extraordinary splendour, and when she advanced 
 her head into the light he saw the admirable 
 contour of the face, the straight fine nose with 
 delicate nostrils, the exquisite crimson brush- 
 stroke of the lips on this oval without colour. 
 The expression of the eyes was lost in a shadowy 
 mysterious play of jet and silver, stirring under 
 the red coppery gold of the hair as though she 
 had been a being made of ivory and precious 
 metals changed into living tissue. 
 
 " . . . I told her my people were living in 
 Canada, but that I was brought up in England 
 before coming out here. I can't imagine what 
 interest she could have in my history." 
 
 "And you complain of her interest? " 
 
 The accent A the all-knowing journalist 
 seemed to jar on the Planter of Malata. 
 
 "No!" he said in a deadened voice that was 
 
14 THE PLANTER OF MALATA 
 
 almost sullen. But after a short silence he went 
 on. "Very extraordinary. I told her I came 
 out to wander at large in the world when I was 
 /'nineteen, almost directly after I left school. It 
 seems that her late brother was in the same 
 school a couple of years before me. She wanted 
 me to tell her what I did at first when I came out 
 here; what other men found to do when they 
 came out — where they went, what was likely to 
 happen to them — as if I could guess and foretell 
 from my experience the fates of men who come 
 out here with a hundred different projects, for 
 hundreds of different reasons — for no reason but 
 restlessness — who come, and go, and disappear! 
 Preposterous. She seemed to want to hear 
 their histories. I told her that most of them 
 were not worth telling." 
 
 The distinguished journalist leaning on his 
 elbow, his head resting against the knuckles of 
 his left hand, listened with great attention, but 
 gave no sign of that surprise which Renouard, 
 pausing, seemed to expect. 
 
 "You know something," the latter said 
 brusquely. The all-knowing man moved his 
 head slightly and said, "Yes. But go on." 
 
 "It's just this. There is no more to it. I 
 found myself talking to her of my adventures, of 
 my early days. It couldn't possibly have in- 
 
THE PLANTER OF MALATA 15 
 
 terested her. Really," he cried, "this is most 
 extraordinary. Those people have something 
 on their minds. We sat in the light of the win- 
 dow, and her father prowled about the terrace, 
 with his hands behind his back and his head 
 drooping. The white-haired lady came to the 
 dining-room window twice — to look at us I am 
 certain. The other guests began to go away — 
 and still we sat there. Apparently these people 
 are staying with the Dunsters. It was old Mrs. 
 Dunster who put an end to the thing. The 
 father and the aunt circled about as if they were 
 afraid of interfering with the girl. Then she got 
 up all at once, gave me her hand, and said she 
 hoped she would see me again." 
 
 While he was speaking Renouard saw again 
 the sway of her figure in a movement of grace 
 and strength — felt the pressure of her hand — 
 heard the last accents of the deep murmur that 
 came from her throat so white in the light of the 
 window, and remembered the black rays of her 
 steady eyes passing off his face when she turned 
 away. He remembered all this visually, and 
 it was not exactly pleasurable. It was rather 
 startling like the discovery of a new faculty in 
 himself. There are faculties one would rather 
 do without — such, for instance, as seeing through 
 a stone wall or remembering a person with this 
 
^, 
 
 16 THE PLANTER OF MALATA 
 
 uncanny vividness. And what about those two 
 people belonging to her with their air of ex- 
 pectant solicitude! Really, those figures from 
 
 ome got in front of one. In fact, their per- 
 sistence in getting between him and the solid 
 forms of the everyday material world had 
 driven Renouard to call on his friend at the 
 office. He hoped that a little common, gossipy 
 information would lay the ghost of that unex- 
 pected dinner-party. Of course the proper per- 
 son to go to would have been young Dunster, 
 but he couldn't stand Willie Dunster — not at 
 any price. 
 
 ^In the pause the Editor had changed his 
 attitude, faced his desk, and smiled a faint know- 
 ing smile. 
 
 "Striking girl — eh.^" he said. 
 The incongruity of the word was enough to 
 make one jump out of the chair. Striking! That 
 girl striking! Stri . . . ! But Renouard re- 
 strained his feelings . His friend was not a person 
 to give oneself away to. And, after all, this sort 
 of speech was what he had come there to hear. 
 As, however, he had made a movement he re- 
 settled himself comfortably and said, with very 
 creditable indifference, that yes — she was, rather. 
 Especially amongst a lot of over-dressed frumps. 
 There wasn't one woman under forty there. 
 
THE PLANTER OF JVIALATA 17 
 
 "Is that the way to speak of the cream of our 
 society; the 'top of the basket,' as the French 
 say?" the Editor remonstrated with mock indig- 
 nation. "You aren't moderate in your ex- 
 pressions — you know." 
 
 "I express myself very little," interjected 
 Renouard seriously. 
 
 "I will tell you what you are. You are a 
 fellow that doesn't count the cost. Of course 
 you are safe with me, but will you never 
 learn. . . ." 
 
 "What struck me most," interrupted the 
 other, "is that she should pick me out for such a 
 long conversation." 
 
 "That's perhaps because you were the most 
 remarkable of the men there." 
 
 Renouard shook his head. 
 
 "This shot doesn't seem to me to hit the 
 mark," he said calmly. "Try again." 
 
 "Don't you believe me.^ Oh, you modest 
 creature. Well, let me assure you that under 
 ordinary circumstances it would have been a 
 good shot. You are sufficiently remarkable. 
 But you seem a pretty acute customer too. The 
 circumstances are extraordinary. By Jove, they 
 are!" 
 
 He mused. After a time the Planter of 
 Malata dropped a negligent — 
 
18 THE PLANTER OF MALATA 
 
 "And you know them." 
 
 "And I know them," assented the all-knowing 
 Editor, soberly, as though the occasion were too 
 special for a display of professional vanity; a 
 vanity so well known to Renouard that its 
 absence augmented his wonder and almost made 
 him uneasy as if portending bad news of some 
 sort. 
 
 "You have met those people.^" he asked. 
 
 " No. I was to have met them last night, but 
 I had to send an apology to Willie in the morn- 
 ing. It was then that he had the bright idea to 
 invite you to fill the place, from a muddled no- 
 tion that you could be of use. Willie is stupid 
 sometimes. For it is clear that you are the last 
 man able to help." 
 
 "How on earth do I come to be mixed up in 
 this — whatever it is?" Renouard's voice was 
 slightly altered by nervous irritation. "I only 
 arrived here yesterday morning." 
 
II 
 
 His friend the Editor turned to him squarely. 
 "Willie took me into consultation, and since he 
 seems to have let you in I may just as well tell 
 you what is up. I shall try to be as short as I 
 can. But in confidence — mind!" 
 
 He waited. Renouard, his uneasiness grow- 
 ing on him unreasonably, assented by a nod, and 
 the other lost no time in beginning. Professor 
 Moorsom — physicist and philosopher — fine head 
 of white hair, to judge from the photographs — 
 plenty of brains in the head too — all these 
 famous books — surely even Renouard would 
 know. . . . 
 
 Renouard muttered moodily that it wasn't 
 his sort of reading, and his friend hastened to 
 assure him earnestly that neither was it his sort 
 — except as a matter of business and duty, for 
 the literary page of that newspaper which was 
 his property (and the pride of his life) . The only 
 literary newspaper in the Antipodes could not 
 ignore the fashionable philosopher of the age. 
 Not that anybody read Moorsom at the Antip- 
 
 19 
 
20 THE PLANTER OF MALATA 
 
 odes, but everybody had heard of him — women, 
 children, dock labourers, cabmen. The only 
 person (besides himself) who had read Moorsom, 
 as far as he knew, was old Dunster, who used to 
 .call himself a Moorsomian (or was it Moor- 
 somite) years and years ago, long before Moor- 
 som had worked himself up into the great swell 
 he was now, in every way. . . . Socially 
 too. Quite the fashion in the highest world. 
 
 Renouard listened with profoundly concealed 
 attention. "A charlatan," he muttered lan- 
 guidly. 
 
 "Well — no. I should say not. I shouldn't 
 wonder though if most of his writing had been 
 done with his tongue in his cheek. Of course. 
 That's to be expected. I tell you what : the only 
 really honest writing is to be found in news^ 
 papers and nowhere else — and don't you forget 
 it." 
 
 The Editor paused with a basilisk stare till 
 Renouard had conceded a casual: "I dare say," 
 and only then went on to explain that old 
 Dunster, during his European tour, had been 
 made rather a lion of in London, where he stayed 
 with the Moorsoms — he meant the father and 
 the girl. The professor had been a widower for 
 a long time. 
 
 "She doesn't look just a girl," muttered Re- 
 
THE PLANTER OF MALATA 21 
 
 nouard. The other agreed. Very Hkely not. 
 Had been playing the London hostess to tip-top 
 people ever since she put her hair up, probably. 
 
 *'I don't expect to see any girlish bloom on her 
 when I do have the privilege," he continued. 
 "Those people are staying with the Dunsters 
 incog., in a manner, you understand — something 
 like royalties. They don't deceive anybody, but 
 they want to be left to themselves. We have 
 even kept them out of the paper — to oblige old 
 Dunster. But we shall put your arrival in — our 
 local celebrity." 
 
 "Heavens!" 
 
 "Yes. Mr. G. Renouard, the explorer, whose 
 indomitable energy, etc., and who is now work- 
 ing for the prosperity of our country in another 
 way on his Malata plantation . . . And, by 
 the by, how's the silk plant — flourishing.^ " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Did you bring any fibre .^" 
 
 "Schooner-full." 
 
 "I see. To be transhipped to Liverpool for7 
 experimental manufacture, eh? Eminent capi- ' 
 tahsts at home very much interested, aren't 
 they.?" 
 
 "They are." 
 
 A silence fell. Then the Editor uttered 
 slowly: " You will be a rich man some day." 
 
22 THE PLANTER OF MALATA 
 
 Renouard's face did not betray his opinion of 
 that confident prophecy. He didn't say any- 
 thing till his friend suggested in the same medi- 
 tative voice — 
 
 "You ought to interest Moorsom in the affair 
 too — since Willie has let you in." 
 
 "A philosopher!" 
 
 "I suppose he isn't above making a bit of 
 money. And he may be clever at it for all you 
 know. I have a. notion that he's a fairly practi- 
 cal old cove. . . . Anyhow," and here the 
 tone of the speaker took on a tinge of respect, *'he 
 has made philosophy pay." 
 
 Renouard raised his eyes, repressed an im- 
 pulse to jump up, and got out of the arm-chair 
 slowly. "It isn't perhaps a bad idea," he said. 
 "I'll have to call there in any case." 
 
 He wondered whether he had managed to keep 
 his voice steady, its tone unconcerned enough; 
 for his emotion was strong though it had nothing 
 to do with the business aspect of this suggestion. 
 He moved in the room in vague preparation for 
 departure, when he heard a soft laugh. He 
 spun about quickly with a frown, but the Editor 
 was not laughing at him. He was chuckling 
 across the big desk at the wall: a preliminary of 
 some speech for which Renouard, recalled to him- 
 self, waited silent and mistrustful. 
 
THE PLANTER OF MALATA 23 
 
 **No! You would never guess! No one 
 would ever guess what these people are after. 
 Willie's eyes bulged out when he came to me 
 with the tale." 
 
 "They always do," remarked Renouard with 
 disgust. "He's stupid." 
 
 "He was startled. And so was I after he told 
 me. It's a search party. They are out looking 
 for a man. Willie's soft heart's enlisted in the 
 cause." 
 
 Renouard repeated: "Looking for a man." 
 He sat down suddenly as if on purpose to stare. 
 "Did Willie come to you to borrow the lantern," 
 he asked sarcastically, and got up again for no 
 apparent reason. 
 
 "What lantern.^ " snapped the puzzled Editor, 
 and his face darkened with suspicion. "You, 
 Renouard, are always alluding to things that 
 aren't clear to me. If you were in politics, I, as 
 a party journalist, wouldn't trust you further 
 than I could see you. Not an inch further. 
 You are such a sophisticated beggar. Listen: 
 the man is the man Miss Moorsom was en- 
 gaged to for a year. He couldn't have been a 
 nobody, anyhow. But he doesn't seem to 
 have been very wise. Hard luck for the young 
 lady." 
 
 He spoke with feeling. It was clear that 
 
24 THE PLANTER OF MALATA 
 
 what he had to tell appealed to his sentiment. 
 Yet, as an experienced man of the world, he 
 marked his amused wonder. Young man of 
 good family and connections, going everywhere, 
 yet not merely a man about town, but with a 
 foot in the two big F's. 
 
 Renouard lounging aimlessly in the room 
 turned round: "And what the devil's that?" he 
 asked faintly. 
 
 "Why Fashion and Finance," explained the 
 Editor. "That's how I call it. There are the 
 three R's at the bottom of the social edifice and 
 the two F's on the top. See.^ " 
 
 "Ha! Ha! Excellent! Ha! Ha!" Re- 
 nouard laughed with stony eyes. 
 
 "And you proceed from one set to the other 
 in this democratic age," the Editor went on with 
 unperturbed complacency. "That is if you are 
 clever enough. The only danger is in being too 
 clever. And I think something of the sort hap- 
 pened here. That swell I am speaking of got 
 himself into a mess. Apparently a very ugly 
 mess of a financial character. You will under- 
 stand that Willie did not go into details with me. 
 They were not imparted to him with very great 
 abundance either. But a bad mess — something 
 of the criminal order. Of course he was inno- 
 cent. But he had to quit all the same. " 
 
THE PLANTER OF MALATA 25 
 
 "Ha! Ha!" Renouard laughed again 
 abruptly, staring as before. "So there's one 
 more big F in the tale." 
 
 "What do you mean?" inquired the Editor 
 quickly, with an air as if his patent were being 
 infringed. 
 
 "I mean— Fool." 
 
 "No. I wouldn't say that. I wouldn't say 
 that." 
 
 "Well — let him be a scoundrel then. What 
 the devil do I care." 
 
 "But hold on! You haven't heard the end 
 of the story." 
 
 Renouard, his hat on his head already, sat 
 down with the disdainful smile of a man who had 
 discounted the moral of the story. Still he sat 
 down and the Editor swung his revolving chair 
 right round. He was full of unction. 
 
 "Imprudent, I should say. In many ways 
 money is as dangerous to handle as gunpowder. 
 You can't be too careful either as to who you are 
 working with. Anyhow there was a mighty 
 flashy burst up, a sensation, and — his familiar 
 haunts kiiew him no more. But before he 
 vanished he went to see Miss Moorsom. That 
 very fact argues for his innocence — don't it? 
 What was said between them no man knows — 
 unless the professor had the confidence from his 
 
g6 THE PLANTER OF MALATA 
 
 daughter. There couldn't have been much 
 to say. There was nothing for it but to let 
 him go — was there? — for the affair had got into 
 the papers. And perhaps the kindest thing 
 would have been to forget him. Anyway the 
 easiest. Forgiveness would have been more 
 difficult, I fancy, for a young lady of spirit and 
 position drawn into an ugly affair like that. 
 Any ordinary young lady, I mean. Well, the 
 fellow asked nothing better than to be forgotten, 
 only he didn't find it easy to do so himself, be- 
 cause he would write home now and then. Not 
 to any of his friends though. He had no near 
 relations. The professor had been his guardian. 
 No, the poor devil wrote now and then to an old 
 retired butler of his late father, somewhere in the 
 country, forbidding him at the same time to let 
 any one know of his whereabouts. So that 
 worthy old ass would go up and dodge about the 
 Moorsom's town house, perhaps waylay Miss 
 Moorsom's maid, and then would write to 
 * Master Arthur' that the young lady looked 
 well and happy, or some such cheerful intelli- 
 gence. I dare say he wanted to be forgotten, 
 but I shouldn't think he was much cheered by 
 the news. What would you say .^^ " 
 
 Renouard, his legs stretched out and his chin 
 on his breast, said nothing. A sensation which 
 
THE PLANTER OF MALATA 27 
 
 was not curiosity, but rather a vague nervous 
 anxiety, distinctly unpleasant, like a mysterious 
 symptom of some malady, prevented him from 
 getting up and going away. 
 
 " Mixed feelings," the Editor opined. " Many 
 fellows out here receive news from home with 
 mixed feelings. But what will his feelings be 
 when he hears what I am going to tell you now? 
 For we know he has not heard yet. Six months 
 ago a city clerk, just a common drudge of 
 finance, gets himself convicted of a common 
 embezzlement or something of that kind. Then 
 seeing he's in for a long sentence he thinks of 
 making his conscience comfortable, and makes a 
 clean breast of an old story of tampered with, or 
 else suppressed, documents, a story which clears 
 altogether the honesty of our ruined gentleman.'' 
 That embezzling fellow was in a position to 
 know, having been employed by the firm before 
 the smash. There was no doubt about the 
 character being cleared — but where the cleared 
 man was nobody could tell. Another sensation 
 in society. And then Miss Moorsom says: *He 
 will come back to claim me, and I'll marry him.' 
 But he didn't come back. Between you and me 
 I don't think he was much wanted — except by 
 Miss Moorsom. I imagine she's used to have her 
 own way. She grew impatient, and declared 
 
28 THE PLANTER OF MALATA 
 
 that if she knew where the man was she would go 
 to him. But all that could be got out of the old 
 butler was that the last envelope bore the post- 
 mark of our beautiful city; and that this was the 
 only address of 'Master Arthur' that he ever 
 had. That and no more. In fact the fellow 
 was at his last gasp — with a bad heart. Miss 
 Moorsom wasn't allowed to see him. She had 
 gone herself into the country to learn what she 
 could, but she had to stay downstairs while the 
 old chap's wife went up to the invalid. She 
 brought down the scrap of intelligence I've told 
 you of. He was already too far gone to be cross- 
 examined on it, and that very night he died. He 
 didn't leave behind him much to go by, did he.^^ 
 Our Willie hinted to me that there had been 
 pretty stormy days in the professor's house, but 
 — here they are. I have a notion she isn't the 
 kind of everyday young lady who may be per- 
 mitted to gallop about the world all by herself — 
 eh.^ Well, I think it rather fine of her, but I quite 
 understand that the professor needed all his 
 philosophy under the circumstances. She is his 
 only child now — and brilliant — what.'^ Willie 
 positively spluttered trying to describe her to 
 me; and I could see directly j^ou came in that you 
 had an uncommon experience." 
 
 Renouard, with an irritated gesture, tilted his 
 
THE PLANTER OF MALATA 29 
 
 hat more forward on his eyes, as though he were 
 bored. The Editor went on with the remark 
 that to be sure neither he (Renouard) nor yet 
 WiUie were much used to meet girls of that re- 
 markable superiority. Willie when learning 
 business with a firm in London, years before, had 
 seen none but boarding-house society, he 
 guessed. As to himself in the good old days, 
 when he trod the glorious flags of Fleet Street, he 
 neither had access to, nor yet would have cared 
 for the swells. Nothing interested him then but 
 parliamentary politics and the oratory of the 
 House of Commons. 
 
 He paid to this not very distant past the 
 tribute of a tender, reminiscent smile, and re- 
 turned to his first idea that for a society girl her 
 action was rather fine. All the same the pro- 
 fessor could not be very pleased. The fellow if 
 he was as pure as a lily now was just about as 
 devoid of the goods of the earth. And there 
 were misfortunes, however undeserved, which 
 damaged a man's standing permanently. On 
 the other hand, it was difiicult to oppose 
 cynically a noble impulse — not to speak of the 
 great love at the root of it. Ah! Love! And 
 then the lady was quite capable of going off by 
 herself. She was of age, she had money of her 
 own, plenty of pluck too. Moorsom must have 
 
30 THE PLANTER OF MALATA 
 
 concluded that it was more truly paternal, more 
 prudent too, and generally safer all round to let 
 himself be dragged into this chase. The aunt 
 came along for the same reasons. It was given 
 out at home as a trip round the world of the 
 usual kind. 
 
 Renouard had risen and remained standing 
 with his heart beating, and strangely affected by 
 this tale, robbed as it was of all glamour by the 
 prosaic personality of the narrator. The Editor 
 added: "I've been asked to help in the search — 
 you know." 
 
 Renouard muttered something about an 
 appointment and went out into the street. His 
 inborn sanity could not defend him from a misty 
 creeping jealousy. He thought that obviously 
 no man of that sort could be worthy of such a 
 woman's devoted fidelity. Renouard, however, 
 had lived long enough to reflect that a man's 
 activities, his views, and even his ideas may be 
 very inferior to his character; and moved by a 
 delicate consideration for that splendid girl he 
 tried to think out for the man a character of 
 inward excellence and outward gifts — some 
 extraordinary seduction. But in vain. Fresh 
 from months of solitude and from days at sea, 
 her splendour presented itself to him absolutely 
 unconquerable in its perfection, unless by her 
 
THE PLANTER OF MALATA 31 
 
 own folly. It was easier to suspect her of this 
 than to imagine in the man qualities which would 
 be worthy of her. Easier and less degrading. Be- 
 cause folly may be generous — could be nothing 
 else but generosity in her; whereas to imagine 
 her subjugated by something common was in- 
 tolerable. 
 
 Because of the force of the physical impression 
 he had received from her personality (and such 
 impressions are the real origins of the deepest 
 movements of our soul) this conception of her 
 was even inconceivable. But no Prince Charm- 
 ing has ever lived out of a fairy tale. He doesn't 
 walk the worlds of Fashion and Finance — and 
 with a stumbling gait at that. Generosity. Yes. 
 It was her generosity. But this generosity was 
 altogether regal in its splendour, almost absurd 
 in its lavishness — or, perhaps, divine. 
 
 In the evening, on board his schooner, sitting 
 on the rail, his arms folded on his breast and his 
 eyes fixed on the deck, he let the darkness catch 
 him unawares in the midst of a meditation on the 
 mechanism of sentiment and the springs of 
 passion. And all the time he had an abiding 
 consciousness of her bodily presence. The effect 
 on his senses had been so penetrating that in the 
 middle of the night, rousing up suddenly, wide- 
 eyed in the darkness of his cabin, he did not create 
 
32 THE PLANTER OF MALATA 
 
 a faint mental vision of her person for himself, 
 but, more intimately affected, he scented dis- 
 tinctly the faint perfume she used, and could 
 almost have sworn that he had been awakened 
 by the soft rustle of her dress. He even sat up 
 listening in the dark for a time, then sighed and 
 lay down again, not agitated but, on the con- 
 trary, oppressed by the sensation of something 
 that had happened to him and could not be 
 undone. 
 
m 
 
 In the afternoon he lounged into the editorial 
 office, carrying with affected nonchalance that 
 weight of the irremediable he had felt laid on 
 him suddenly in the small hours of the night — 
 that consciousness of something that could no 
 longer be helped. His patronising friend in- 
 formed him at once that he had made the 
 acquaintance of the Moorsom party last night. 
 At the Dunster's, of course. Dinner. 
 
 "Very quiet. Nobody there. It was much 
 better for the business. I say . . ." 
 
 Renouard, his hand grasping the back of a 
 chair, stared down at him dumbly. 
 
 "Phew! That's a stunning girl. . . . Why 
 do you want to sit on that chair ? It's uncomfort- 
 able!" 
 
 "I wasn't going to sit on it." Renouard 
 walked slowly to the window, glad to find in 
 himself enough self-control to let go the chair in- 
 stead of raising it on high and bringing it down 
 on the Editor's head. 
 
 "Willie kept on gazing at her with tears in his 
 
 33 
 
34 THE PLANTER OF MALATA 
 
 boiled eyes. You should have seen him bending 
 sentimentally over her at dinner." 
 
 *' Don't," said Renouard in such an anguished 
 tone that the Editor turned right round to look 
 at his back. 
 
 *' You push your dislike of young Dunster too 
 far. It's positively morbid," he disapproved 
 mildly. "We can't be all beautiful after thirty. 
 . . . I talked a little, about you mostly, to 
 the professor. He appeared to be interested in 
 the silk plant — if only as a change from the great 
 subject. Miss Moorsom didn't seem to mind 
 when I confessed to her that I had taken you 
 into the confidence of the thing. Our Willie 
 approved too. Old Dunster with his white 
 beard seemed to give me his blessing. All those 
 people have a great opinion of you, simply be- 
 cause I told them that you've led every sort of 
 life one can think of before you got struck on 
 exploration. They want you to make sugges- 
 tions. What do you think 'Master Arthur' is 
 likely to have taken to.^^ " 
 
 "Something easy," muttered Renouard with- 
 out unclenching his teeth. 
 
 "Hunting man. Athlete. Don't be hard on 
 the chap. He may be riding boundaries, or 
 droving cattle, or humping his swag about the 
 back-blocks away to the devil — somewhere. He 
 
THE PLANTER OF MALATA 35 
 
 may be even prospecting at the back of beyond 
 — this very moment." 
 
 " Or lying dead drunk in a roadside pub. It's 
 late enough in the day for that." 
 
 The Editor looked up instinctively. The 
 clock was pointing at a quarter to five. "Yes, 
 it is," he admitted. "But it needn't be. And 
 he may have lit out mto the Western Pacific all 
 of a sudden — say in a trading schooner. Though 
 I really don't see in what capacity. Still . . ." 
 
 "Or he may be passing at this very moment 
 under this very window." 
 
 "Not he . . . and I wish you would get 
 away from it to where one can see your face. I 
 hate talking to a man's back. You stand there 
 like a hermit on a sea-shore growling to yourself. 
 I tell you what it is, Geoffrey, you don't like 
 mankind." 
 
 "I don't make my living by talking about 
 mankind's affairs," Renouard defended himself. 
 But he came away obediently and sat down in 
 the arm-chair. " How can you be so certain that 
 your man isn't down there in the street.^" he 
 asked. " It's neither more nor less probable than 
 every single one of your other suppositions." 
 
 Placated by Renouard's docility the Editor 
 gazed at him for a while. "Aha! I'll tell you 
 how. Learn then that we have begun the cam- 
 
36 THE PLANTER OF IVIALATA 
 
 paign. We have telegraphed his description to 
 the pohce of every township up and down the 
 land. And what's more we've ascertained defi- 
 nitely that he hasn't been in this town for the 
 last three months at least. How much longer 
 he's been away we can't tell." 
 
 "That's very curious." 
 
 "It's very simple. Miss Moorsom wrote to 
 him, to the post oflBce here, directly she returned 
 to London after her excursion into the country 
 to see the old butler. Well — her letter is still 
 lying there. It has not been called for. Ergo, 
 this town is not his usual abode. Personally, I 
 never thought it was. But he cannot fail to turn 
 up some time or other. Our main hope lies just 
 in the certitude that he must come to town 
 sooner or later. Remember he doesn't know 
 that the butler is dead, and he will want to 
 inquire for a letter. Well, he'll find a note from 
 Miss Moorsom." 
 
 Renouard, silent, thought that it was likely 
 enough. His profound distaste for this conver- 
 sation was betrayed by an air of weariness dark- 
 ening his energetic sun-tanned features, and by 
 the augmented dreaminess of his eyes. The 
 Editor noted it as a further proof of that im- 
 moral detachment from mankind, of that callous- 
 ness of sentiment fostered by the unhealthy 
 
THE PLANTER OF MALATA 37 
 
 conditions of solitude — according to his own 
 favourite theory. Aloud he observed that as 
 long as a man had not given up correspondence 
 he could not be looked upon as lost. Fugitive 
 criminals had been tracked in that way by 
 justice, he reminded his friend; then suddenly 
 changed the bearing of the subject somewhat by 
 asking if Renouard had heard from his people 
 lately, and if every member of his large tribe 
 was well and happy. 
 
 "Yes, thanks." 
 
 The tone was curt, as if repelling a liberty. 
 Renouard did not like being asked about his 
 people, for whom he had a profound and re- 
 morseful affection. He had not seen a single 
 human being to whom he was related, for many 
 years, and he was extremely different from them 
 all. 
 
 On the very morning of his arrival from his 
 island he had gone to a set of pigeon-holes in 
 Willie Dunster's outer office and had taken out 
 from a compartment labelled "Malata" a very 
 small accumulation of envelopes, a few ad- 
 dressed to himself, and one addressed to his 
 assistant, all to the care of the firm, W. Dunster 
 and Co. As opportunity offered, the firm used 
 to send them on to Malata either by a man-of- 
 war schooner going on a cruise, or by some trad- 
 
38 THE PLANTER OF MALATA 
 
 ing craft proceeding that way. But for the last 
 four months there had been no opportunity. 
 
 "You going to stay here some time.^^" asked 
 the Editor, after a longish silence. 
 
 Renouard, perfunctorily, did see no reason why 
 he should make a long stay. 
 
 "For health, for your mental health, my boy," 
 rejoined the newspaper man. "To get used to 
 human faces so that they don't hit you in the eye 
 so hard when you walk about the streets. To 
 get friendly with your kind. I suppose that 
 assistant of yours can be trusted to look after 
 things?" 
 
 "There's the half-caste too. The Portuguese. 
 He knows what's to be done." 
 
 "Aha!" The Editor looked sharply at his 
 friend. "Wliat's his name?" 
 
 "Who's name?" 
 
 "The assistant's you picked up on the sly be- 
 hind my back." 
 
 Renouard made a slight movement of im- 
 patience. 
 
 "I met him unexpectedly one evening. I 
 thought he would do as well as another. He 
 had come from up country and didn't seem 
 happy in a town. He told me his name was 
 Walter. I did not ask him for proofs, you know." 
 
 " I don't think you get on very well with him." 
 
THE PLANTER OF MALATA 39 
 
 "Why? What makes you think so." 
 
 "I don't know. Something reluctant in your 
 manner when he's in question." 
 
 "Really. My manner! I don't think he's a 
 great subject for conversation, perhaps. Why 
 not drop him?" 
 
 "Of course! You wouldn't confess to a mis- 
 take. Not you. Nevertheless I have my sus- 
 picions about it." 
 
 Renouard got up to go, but hesitated, looking 
 down at the seated Editor. 
 
 "How funny," he said at last with the utmost 
 seriousness, and was making for the door, when 
 the voice of his friend stopped him. 
 
 "You know what has been said of you? That 
 you couldn't get on with anybody you couldn't 
 kick. Now, confess — is there any truth in the 
 soft impeachment?" 
 
 "No," said Renouard. "Did you print that 
 in your paper." 
 
 "No. I didn't quite believe it. But I will 
 tell you what I believe. I believe that when 
 your heart is set on some object you are a man 
 that doesn't count the cost to yourself or others. 
 And this shall get printed some day." 
 
 "Obituary notice?" Renouard dropped negli- 
 gently. 
 
 " Certain — some day." 
 
40 THE PLANTER OF MALATA 
 
 "Do you then regard yourself as immortal?'* 
 
 "No, my boy. I am not immortal. But the 
 voice of the press goes on for ever. 
 And it will say that this was the secret of 
 your great success in a task where better 
 men than you — meaning no offence — did fail 
 repeatedly." 
 
 "Success," muttered Renouard, pulling-to the 
 oflSce door after him with considerable energy. 
 And the letters of the word Private like a row 
 of white eyes seemed to stare after his back 
 sinking down the staircase of that temple of 
 publicity. 
 
 Renouard had no doubt that all the means of 
 publicity would be put at the service of love and 
 used for the discovery of the loved man. He 
 did not wish him dead. He did not wish him 
 any harm. We are all equipped with a fund of 
 humanity which is not exhausted without many 
 and repeated provocations — and this man had 
 done him no evil. But before Renouard had left 
 old Dunster's house, at the conclusion of the call 
 he made there that very afternoon, he had dis- 
 covered in himself the desire that the search 
 might last long. He never really flattered him- 
 self that it might fail. It seemed to him that 
 there was no other course in this world for him- 
 self, for all mankind, but resignation. And he 
 
THE PLANTER OF MALATA 41 
 
 could not help thinking that Professor Moorsom 
 had arrived at the same conclusion too. 
 
 Professor Moorsom, slight frame of middle 
 height, a thoughtful keen head under the thick 
 wavy hair, veiled dark eyes under straight eye- 
 brows, and with an inward gaze w^hich when dis- 
 engaged and arriving at one seemed to issue 
 from an obscure dream of books, from the limbo 
 of meditation, showed himself extremely gracious 
 to him. Renouard guessed in him a man whom 
 an incurable habit of investigation and analysis 
 had made gentle and indulgent; inapt for action, 
 and more sensitive to the thoughts than to the 
 events of existence. Withal not crushed, sub- 
 ironic without a trace of acidity, and with a 
 simple manner which put people at ease quickly. 
 They had a long conversation on the terrace 
 commanding an extended view of the town and 
 the harbour. 
 
 The splendid immobility of the bay resting 
 under his gaze, with its grey spurs and shining 
 indentations, helped Renouard to regain his self- 
 possession, which he had felt shaken, in coming 
 out on the terrace, into the setting of the most 
 powerful emotion of his life, when he had sat 
 within a foot of Miss Moorsom with fire in his 
 breast, a humming in his ears, and in a complete 
 disorder of his mind. There was the very garden 
 
42 THE PLANTER OF MALATA 
 
 seat on which he had been enveloped in the 
 radiant spell. And presently he was sitting on 
 it again with the professor talking of her. Near 
 by the patriarchal Dunster leaned forward in a 
 wicker arm-chair, benign and a little deaf, his 
 big hand to his ear with the innocent eagerness 
 of his advanced age remembering the fires of life. 
 
 It was with a sort of apprehension that Re- 
 nouard looked forward to seeing Miss Moorsom. 
 And strangely enough it resembled the state of 
 mind of a man who fears disenchantment more 
 than sortilege. But he need not have been 
 afraid. Directly he saw her in a distance at the 
 other end of the terrace he shuddered to the roots 
 of his hair. With her approach the power of 
 speech left him for a time. Mrs. Dunster and 
 her aunt were accompanying her. All these 
 people sat down; it was an intimate circle into 
 which Renouard felt himself cordially admitted; 
 and the talk was of the great search which 
 occupied all their minds. Discretion was ex- 
 pected by these people, but of reticence as to the 
 object of the journey there could be no question. 
 Nothing but ways and means and arrangements 
 could be talked about. 
 
 By fixing his eyes obstinately on the ground, 
 which gave him an air of reflective sadness, 
 Renouard managed to recover his seK-possqs- 
 
THE PLANTER OF MALATA 43 
 
 sion. He used it to keep his voice in a low key 
 and to measure his words on the great subject. 
 And he took care with a great inward effort to 
 make them reasonable without giving them a 
 discouraging complexion. For he did not want 
 the quest to be given up, since it would mean her 
 going away with her two attendant grey-heads 
 to the other side of the world. 
 
 He was asked to come again, to come often 
 and take part in the counsels of all these people 
 captivated by the sentimental enterprise of a 
 declared love. On taking Miss Moorsom's hand 
 he looked up, would have liked to say something, 
 but found himself voiceless, with his lips sud- 
 denly sealed. She returned the pressure of his 
 fingers, and he left her with her eyes vaguely 
 staring beyond him, an air of listening for an 
 expected sound, and the faintest possible smile 
 on her lips — a smile not for him, evidently, but 
 the reflection of some deep and inscrutable 
 thought. 
 
IV 
 
 He went on board his schooner. She lay white, 
 and as if suspended, in the crepuscular atmos- 
 phere of sunset mingling with the ashy gleam of 
 the vast anchorage. He tried to keep his 
 thoughts as sober, as reasonable, as measured as 
 his words had been, lest they should get away 
 from him and cause some sort of moral disaster. 
 What he was afraid of in the coming night was 
 sleeplessness and the endless strain of that 
 wearisome task. It had to be faced however. 
 He lay on his back, sighing profoundly in the 
 dark, and suddenly beheld his very own self, 
 carrying a small bizarre lamp, reflected in a long 
 mirror inside a room in an empty and unfur- 
 nished palace. In this startling image of himself 
 he recognised somebody he had to follow — the 
 frightened guide of his dream. He traversed 
 endless galleries, no end of lofty halls, innumer- 
 able doors. He lost himself utterly — he found his 
 way again. Room succeeded room. At last 
 the lamp went out, and he stumbled against some 
 object which, when he stooped for it, he found to 
 
 44 
 
THE PLANTER OF IVIALATA 45 
 
 be very cold and heavy to lift. The sickly white 
 light of dawii showed him the head of a statue. 
 Its marble hair was done in the bold lines of a 
 helmet, on its lips the chisel had left a faint 
 smile, and it resembled Miss Moorsom. \Miile 
 he was staring at it fixedly, the head began to 
 grow light in his fingers, to diminish and crumble 
 to pieces, and at last turned into a handful of 
 dust, which was blown away by a puff of wind so 
 chilly that he woke up with a desperate shiver 
 and leaped headlong out of his bed-place. The 
 day had really come. He sat down by the cabin 
 table, and taking his head between his hands, did 
 not stir for a very long time. 
 
 Very quiet, he set himself to review this dream. 
 The lamp, of course, he connected with Jh^ 
 search for a man. But on closer examination he j 
 perceived that the reflection of himself in the 
 mirror was not really the true Renouard, butj 
 somebody else whose face he could not remember J 
 In the deserted palace he recognised a sinister 
 adaptation by his brain of the long corridors 
 with many doors, in the great building in which 
 his friend's newspaper was lodged on the first 
 floor. The marble head with Miss Moorsom's 
 face! Well! What other face could he have 
 dreamed of.^ And her complexion was fairer 
 than Parian marble, than the heads of angels. 
 
46 THE PLANTER OF MALATA 
 
 The wind at the end was the morning breeze 
 entering through the open porthole and touching 
 his face before the schooner could swing to the 
 chilly gust. 
 
 Yes ! And all this rational explanation of the 
 fantastic made it only more mysterious and 
 weird. There was something daemonic in that 
 dream. It was one of those experiences which 
 throw a man out of conformity with the estab- 
 lished order of his kind and make him a creature 
 of obscure suggestions. 
 
 Henceforth, without ever trying to resist, he 
 went every afternoon to the house where she 
 lived. He went there as passively as if in a 
 dream. He could never make out how he had 
 attained the footing of intimacy in the Dunster 
 mansion above the bay — whether on the ground 
 of personal merit or as the pioneer of the vege- 
 table silk industry. It must have been the last, 
 because he remembered distinctly, as distinctly 
 as in a dream, hearing old Dunster once telling 
 him that his next public task would be a careful 
 survey of the Northern Districts to discover 
 tracts suitable for the cultivation of the silk 
 plant. The old man wagged his beard at him 
 sagely. It was indeed as absurd as a dream. 
 
 Willie of course would be there in the evening. 
 But he was more of a figure out of a nightmare. 
 
THE PLANTER OF MALATA 47 
 
 hovering about the circle of chairs in his dress- 
 clothes like a gigantic, repulsive, and sentimen- 
 tal bat. " Do away with the beastly cocoons all 
 over the world," he buzzed in his blurred, water- 
 logged voice. He affected a great horror of 
 insects of all kinds. One evening he appeared 
 with a red flower in his button-hole. Nothing 
 could have been more disgustingly fantastic. 
 And he would also say to Renouard: "You may 
 yet change the history of our country. For 
 economic conditions do shape the history of 
 nations. Eh.^ What?" And he would turn to 
 Miss Moorsom for approval, lowering protect- 
 ingly his spatulous nose and looking up with 
 feeling from under his absurd eyebrows, which 
 grew thin, in the manner of canebrakes, out of 
 his spongy skin. For this large, bilious creature 
 was an economist and a sentimentalist, facile to 
 tears, and a member of the Cobden Club. 
 
 In order to see as little of him as possible Re- 
 nouard began coming earlier so as to get away 
 before his arrival, without curtailing too much 
 the hours of secret contemplation for which he 
 lived. He had given up trying to deceive him- 
 self. His resignation was without bounds. He 
 accepted the immense misfortune of being in 
 love with a woman who was in search of another 
 man only to throw herself into his arms. With 
 
48 THE PLANTER OF MALATA 
 
 such desperate precision he defined in his 
 thoughts the situation, the consciousness of which 
 traversed Hke a sharp arrow the sudden silences of 
 general conversation. The only thought before 
 which he quailed was the thought that this could 
 not last; that it must come to an end. He 
 feared it instinctively as a sick man may fear 
 death. For it seemed to him that it must be 
 the death of him followed by a lightless, bottom- 
 less pit. But his resignation was not spared the 
 torments of jealousy: the cruel, insensate, poign- 
 ant, and imbecile jealousy, when it seems that 
 a woman betrays us simply by this that she 
 exists, that she breathes — and when the deep 
 movements of her nerves or her soul become a 
 matter of distracting suspicion, of killing doubt, 
 of mortal anxiety. 
 
 In the peculiar condition of their sojourn Miss 
 Moorsom went out very little. She accepted 
 this seclusion at the Dunster's mansion as in 
 a hermitage, and lived there, watched over by a 
 group of old people, with lofty endurance of a 
 condescending and strong-headed goddess. It 
 was impossible to say if she suffered from any- 
 thing in the world, and whether this was the in- 
 sensibility of a great passion concentrated on 
 itself, or a perfect restraint of manner, or the 
 indifference of superiority so complete as to be 
 
THE PLANTER OF MALATA 49 
 
 sufficient to itself. But it was visible to Re- 
 nouard that she took some pleasure in talking to 
 him at times. Was it because he was the only 
 person near her age? Was this, then, the secret 
 of his admission to the circle.^ 
 
 He admired her voice as well poised as her 
 movements, as her attitudes. He himself had 
 always been a man of tranquil tones. But the 
 power of fascination had torn him out of his very 
 nature so completely that to preserve his habit- 
 ual calmness from going to pieces had become a 
 terrible effort. He used to go from her on board 
 the schooner exhausted, broken, shaken up, as 
 though he had been put to the most exquisite 
 torture. When he saw her approaching he al- 
 ways had a moment of hallucination. She was a 
 misty and fair creature, fitted for invisible music, 
 for the shadows of love, for the murmurs of 
 waters. After a time (he could not be always 
 staring at the ground) he would summon up all 
 his resolution and look at her. There was a 
 sparkle in the clear obscurity of her eyes; and 
 when she turned them on him they seemed to 
 give a new meaning to life. He would say to 
 himself that another man would have found long 
 before the happy release of madness, his wits 
 burnt to cinders in that radiance. But no such 
 luck for him. His wits had come unscathed 
 
50 THE PLANTER OF MALATA 
 
 through the furnaces of hot suns, of blazing 
 deserts, of flaming angers against the weaknesses 
 of men and the obstinate cruelties of hostile 
 nature. 
 
 Being sane he had to be constantly on his 
 guard against falling into adoring silences or 
 breaking out into wild speeches. He had to 
 keep watch on his eyes, his limbs, on the muscles 
 of his face. Their conversations were such as 
 they could be between these two people: she a 
 young lady fresh from the thick twilight of four 
 million people and the artificiality of several 
 London seasons ; he the man of definite conquer- 
 ing tasks, the familiar of wide horizons, and in 
 his very repose holding aloof from these agglom- 
 erations of units in which one loses one's im- 
 portance even to oneself. They had no com- 
 mon conversational small change. They had to 
 use the great pieces of general ideas, but they 
 exchanged them trivially. It was no serious 
 commerce. Perhaps she had not much of that 
 coin. Nothing significant came from her. It 
 could not be said that she had received from the 
 contacts of the external world impressions of a 
 personal kind, different from other women. 
 What was ravishing in her was her quietness and, 
 in her grave attitudes, the unfailing brilhance of 
 her femininity. He did not know what there 
 
THE PLANTER OF MALATA 51 
 
 was under that ivory forehead so splendidly 
 shaped, so gloriously crowned. He could not 
 tell what were her thoughts, her feelings. Her 
 replies were reflective, always preceded by a short 
 silence, while he hung on her lips anxiously. He 
 felt himself in the presence of a mysterious being 
 in whom spoke an unknown voice, like the voice 
 of oracles, bringing everlasting unrest to the 
 heart. 
 
 He was thankful enough to sit in silence with 
 secretly clenched teeth, devoured by jealousy — 
 and nobody could have guessed that his quiet 
 deferential bearing to all these grey-heads was 
 the supreme effort of stoicism, that the man was 
 engaged in keeping a sinister watch on his tor- 
 tures lest his strength should fail him. As be-^; 
 fore, when grappling with other forces of nature, ^^ 
 he could find in himself all sorts of courage \ 
 except the courage to run away. 
 
 It was perhaps from the lack of subjects they 
 could have in common that Miss Moorsom made 
 him so often speak of his own life. He did not 
 shrink from talking about himself, for he was 
 free from that exacerbated, timid vanity which 
 seals so many vain-glorious lips. He talked to 
 her in his restrained voice, gazing at the tip of 
 her shoe, and thinking that the time was bound 
 to come soon when her very inattention would 
 
52 THE PLANTER OF MALATA 
 
 get weary of him. And indeed on stealing a 
 glance he would see her dazzling and perfect, her 
 eyes vague, staring in mournful immobility, 
 with a drooping head that made him think of a 
 ^.-tragic Venus arising before him, not from the 
 / foam of the sea, but from a distant, still more 
 formless, mysterious, and potent immensity of 
 mankind. 
 
 ^ 
 
 c^' 
 
 r^ \ 
 
 \/r' 
 
One afternoon Henouard stepping out on the 
 terrace found nobody. there. It was for him, at 
 the same time, a melancholy disappointment and 
 a poignant relief. 
 
 The heat was great, the air was still, all the 
 long windows of the house stood wide open. At 
 the further end, grouped round a lady's work- 
 table, several chairs disposed sociably suggested 
 invisible occupants, a company of conversing 
 shades. Renouard looked toward them with a 
 sort of dread. A most elusive, faint sound of 
 ghostly talk issuing from one of the rooms added 
 to the illusion and stopped his already hesitating 
 footsteps. He leaned over the balustrade of stone 
 near a squat vase holding a tropical plant of a 
 bizarre shape. Professor Moorsom coming up 
 from the garden with a book under his arm and 
 a white parasol held over his bare head, found 
 him there and, closing the parasol, leaned over 
 by his side with a remark on the increasing heat of 
 the season. Renouard assented and changed his 
 position a little; the other, after a short silence, 
 
 53 
 
54 THE PLANTER OF MALATA 
 
 administered unexpectedly a question which, 
 like the blow of a club on the head, deprived Re- 
 nouard of the power of speech and even thought, 
 but, more cruel, left him quivering with appre- 
 hension, not of death but of everlasting torment. 
 Yet the words were extremely simple. 
 
 "Something will have to be done soon. We 
 can't remain in a state of suspended expectation 
 for ever. Tell me what do you think of our 
 chances.^" 
 
 Renouard, speechless, produced a faint smile. 
 The professor confessed in a jocular tone his im- 
 patience to complete the circuit of the globe and 
 be done with it. It was impossible to remain 
 quartered on the dear excellent Dunsters for 
 an indefinite time. And then there were the 
 lectures he had arranged to deliver in Paris. A 
 serious matter. 
 
 That lectures by Professor Moorsom were a 
 European event and that brilliant audiences 
 would gather to hear them Renouard did not 
 know. All he was aware of was the shock of this 
 hint of departure. The menace of separation 
 fell on his head like a thunderbolt. And he saw 
 the absurdity of his emotion, for hadn't he lived 
 all these days under the very cloud .'^ The pro- 
 fessor, his elbows spread out, looked down into 
 the garden and went on unburdening his mind. 
 
THE PLANTER OF MALATA 55 
 
 Yes. The department of sentiment was directed 
 by his daughter, and she had plenty of volun- 
 teered moral support; but he had to look after 
 the practical side of life without assistance. 
 
 "I have the less hesitation in speaking to you 
 about my anxiety, because I feel you are friendly 
 to us and at the same time you are detached from 
 all these sublimities — confound them." 
 
 "What do you mean?" murmured Renouard. 
 
 *'I mean that you are capable of calm judg- 
 ment. Here the atmosphere is simply detestable. 
 Everybody has knuckled under to sentiment. 
 Perhaps your deliberate opinion could in- 
 fluence . . ." 
 
 " You want Miss Moorsom to give it up? " 
 
 The professor turned to the young man dis- 
 mally. 
 
 "Heaven only knows what I want." 
 
 Renouard leaning his back against the balus- 
 trade folded his arms on his breast, appeared to 
 meditate profoundly. His face, shaded softly 
 by the broad brim of a planter's panama hat, 
 with the straight line of the nose level with the 
 forehead, the eyes lost in the depth of the setting, 
 and the chin well forward, had such a profile as 
 may be seen amongst the bronzes of classical 
 museums, pure under a crested helmet — recalled 
 vaguely a Minerva's head. 
 
56 THE PLANTER OF MALATA 
 
 "This is the most troublesome time I ever had 
 in my life," exclaimed the professor testily. 
 
 " Surely the man must be worth it," muttered 
 Renouard with a pang of jealousy traversing his 
 breast like a self-inflicted stab. 
 
 Whether enervated by the heat or giving way 
 to pent-up irritation the professor surrendered 
 himself to the mood of sincerity. 
 
 "He began by being a pleasantly dull boy. 
 He developed into a pointlessly clever young 
 man, without, I suspect, ever trying to under- 
 stand anything. My daughter knew him from 
 childhood. I am a busy man, and I confess 
 that their engagement was a complete surprise 
 to me. I wish their reasons for that step had 
 been more naive. But simplicity was out of 
 fashion in their set. From a worldly point 
 of view he seems to have been a mere baby. 
 Of course, now, I am assured that he is the vic- 
 tim of his noble confidence in the rectitude of 
 his kind. But that's mere idealising of a sad 
 reality. For my part I will tell you that from 
 the very beginning I had the gravest doubts 
 of his dishonesty. Unfortunately my clever 
 daughter hadn't. And now we behold the 
 reaction. No. To be earnestly dishonest one 
 must be really poor. This was only a mani- 
 festation of his extremely refined cleverness. 
 
THE PLANTER OF MALATA 57 
 
 The complicated simpleton. He had an awful 
 awakening though." 
 
 In such words did Professor Moorsom give 
 his "young friend" to understand the state of 
 his feelings toward the lost man. It was evi- 
 dent that the father of Miss Moorsom wished 
 him to remain lost. Perhaps the unprecedented 
 heat of the season made him long for the cool 
 spaces of the Pacific, the sweep of the ocean's 
 free wind along the promenade decks, cumbered 
 with long chairs, of a ship steaming toward 
 the Calif ornian coast. To Renouard the philos- 
 opher appeared simply the most treacherous 
 of fathers. He was amazed. But he was not 
 at the end of his discoveries. 
 
 *'He may be dead," the professor murmured. 
 
 " Why.^ People don't die here sooner than in 
 Europe. If he had gone to hide in Italy, for 
 instance, you wouldn't think of saying that." 
 
 "Well! And suppose he has become morally 
 disintegrated. You know he was not a strong 
 personality," the professor suggested moodily. 
 "My daughter's future is in question here." 
 
 Renouard thought that the love of such a 
 woman was enough to pull any broken man 
 together — to drag a man out of his grave. And 
 he thought this with inward despair, which 
 kept him silent as much almost as his astonish- 
 
58 THE PLANTER OF MALATA 
 
 ment. At last he managed to stammer out a 
 generous — 
 
 "Oh! Don't let us even suppose . . ." 
 
 The professor struck in with a sadder accent 
 than before — 
 
 "It's good to be young. And then you have 
 been a man of action, and necessarily a believer 
 in success. But I have been looking too long 
 at life not to distrust its surprises. Age! Age! 
 Here I stand before you a man full of doubts 
 and hesitation — sjpe lentus, timidus futuri.^' 
 
 He made a sign to Renouard not to interrupt, 
 and in a lowered voice, as if afraid of being over- 
 heard, even there, in the solitude of the terrace — 
 
 "And the worst is that I am not even sure 
 how far this sentimental pilgrimage is genuine. 
 Yes. I doubt my own child. It's true that 
 she's a woman . . ." 
 
 Renouard detected with horror a tone of 
 resentment, as if the professor had never for- 
 given his daughter for not dying instead of his 
 son. The latter noticed the young man's stony 
 stare. 
 
 "Ah! you don't understand. Yes, she's 
 clever, open-minded, popular, and — well, charm- 
 ing. But you don't know what it is to have 
 moved, breathed, existed, and even triumphed 
 in the mere smother and froth of life — the 
 
THE PLANTER OF MALATA 59 
 
 brilliant froth. There thoughts, sentiments, 
 opinions, feelings, actions too, are nothing but 
 agitation in empty space — to amuse life — a sort 
 of superior debauchery, exciting and fatiguing, 
 meaning nothing, leading nowhere. She is the 
 creature of that circle. And I ask myself if she 
 is obeying the uneasiness of an instinct seeking 
 its satisfaction, or is it a revulsion of feeling, 
 or is she merely deceiving her own heart by 
 this dangerous trifling with romantic images. 
 And everything is possible — except sincerity, 
 such as only stark, struggling humanity can 
 know. No woman can stand that mode of life 
 in which women rule, and remain a perfectly 
 genuine, simple human being. . . . Ah! 
 There's some people coming out." 
 
 He moved off a pace, then turning his head: 
 "Upon my word! I would be infinitely obliged 
 to you if you could throw a little cold water 
 . . . " and at a vaguely dismayed gesture 
 of Renouard, he added: "Don't be afraid. 
 You wouldn't be putting out a sacred fire." 
 
 Renouard could hardly find words for a pro- 
 test: *'I assure you that I never talk with Miss 
 Moorsom — on — on — that. And if you, her 
 father . . ." 
 
 "I envy you your innocence," sighed the 
 professor. "A father is only an everyday per- 
 
60 THE PLANTER OF MALATA 
 
 son. Flat. Stale. Moreover, my child would 
 naturally mistrust me. We belong to the same 
 set. Whereas you carry with you the prestige 
 of the unknown. You have proved yourself 
 to be a force." 
 
 Thereupon the professor, followed by Renou- 
 ard, joined the circle of all the inmates of the 
 house assembled at the other end of the terrace 
 about a tea-table: three white heads and that 
 resplendent vision of woman's glory, the sight 
 of which had the power to flutter his heart like 
 a reminder of the mortality of his frame. 
 
 He avoided the seat by the side of Miss 
 Moorsom. The others were talking together 
 languidly. Unnoticed he looked at that wo- 
 man so marvellous that centuries seemed to lie 
 between them. He was oppressed and over- 
 come at the thought of what she could give to 
 some man who really would be a force! What 
 a glorious struggle with this amazon. What 
 noble burden for the victorious strength. 
 
 Dear old Mrs. Dunster was dispensing tea, 
 looking from time to time with interest toward 
 Miss Moorsom. The aged statesman having 
 eaten a raw tomato and drunk a glass of milk 
 (a habit of his early farming days, long before 
 politics, when, pioneer of wheat growing, he 
 demonstrated the possibility of raising crops on 
 
THE PLANTER OF MALATA 61 
 
 ground looking barren enough to discourage a 
 magician), smoothed his white beard, and 
 struck Hghtly Renouard's knee with his big 
 wrinkled hand. 
 
 "You had better come back to-night and dine 
 with us quietly." 
 
 He liked this young man, a pioneer, too, in 
 more than one direction. Mrs. Dunster added: 
 "Do. It will be very quiet. I don't even know 
 if Willie will be home for dinner." Renouard 
 murmured his thanks, and left the terrace to go 
 on board the schooner. While lingering in the 
 drawing-room doorway he heard the resonant 
 voice of old Dunster uttering oracularly — 
 
 " . . . the leading man here some day. 
 . . . Like me." 
 
 Renouard let the thin summer portiere of the 
 doorway fall behind him. The voice of Pro- 
 fessor Moorsom said — 
 
 "I am told that he has made an enemy of 
 almost every man who had to work with him." 
 
 "That's nothing. He did his work. . . . 
 Like me." 
 
 "He never counted the cost they say. Not 
 even of lives." 
 
 Renouard understood that they were talking 
 of him. Before he could move away, Mr^. 
 Dunster struck in placidly — 
 
62 THE PLANTER OF MALATA 
 
 "Don't let yourself be shocked by the tales 
 you may hear of him, my dear. Most of it is 
 envy." 
 
 Then he heard Miss Moorsom's voice replying 
 to the old lady — 
 
 "Oh! I am not easily deceived. I think I 
 may say I have an instinct for truth." 
 
 He hastened away from that house with his 
 heart full of dread. 
 
VI 
 
 On board the schooner, lying on the settee on his 
 back with the knuckles of his hands pressed over 
 his eyes, he made up his mind that he would not 
 return to that house for dinner — that he would 
 never go back there any more. He made up his 
 mind some twenty times. The knowledge that 
 he had only to go up on the quarter deck, utter 
 quietly the words: "Man the windlass," and 
 that the schooner springing into life would run a 
 hundred miles out to sea before sunrise, deceived 
 his struggling will. Nothing easier! Yet, in 
 the end, this young man, almost ill-famed for 
 his ruthless daring, the inflexible leader of two 
 tragically successful expeditions, shrank from 
 that act of savage energy, and began, instead, 
 to hunt for excuses. 
 
 No! It was not for him to run away like an 
 incurable who cuts his throat. He finished 
 dressing and looked at his own impassive face 
 in the saloon mirror scornfully. AMiile being 
 pulled on shore in the gig, he remembered sud- 
 denly the wild beauty of a waterfall seen when 
 
64 THE PLANTER OF MALATA 
 
 hardly more than a boy, years ago, in Menado. 
 There was a legend of a governor-general of the 
 Dutch East Indies, on official tour, committing 
 suicide on that spot by leaping into the chasm. 
 It was supposed that a painful disease had made 
 him weary of life. But was there ever a visita- 
 tion like his own, at the same time binding one 
 to life and so cruelly mortal ! 
 
 The dinner was indeed quiet. Willie, given 
 half an hour's grace, failed to turn up, and his 
 chair remained vacant by the side of Miss 
 Moorsom. Renouard had the professor's sister 
 on his left, dressed in an expensive gown be- 
 coming her age. That maiden lady in her 
 
 onderful preservation reminded Renouard 
 somehow of a wax flower under glass. There 
 were no traces of the dust of life's battles on her 
 anywhere. She did not like him very much in 
 the afternoons, in his white drill suit and 
 planter's hat, which seemed to her an unduly 
 Bohemian costume for calling in a house where 
 there were ladies. But in the evening, lithe and 
 elegant in his dress clothes and with his pleasant, 
 slightly veiled voice, he always made her con- 
 quest afresh. He might have been anybody 
 distinguished — the son of a duke. Falling 
 under that charm probably (and also because 
 her brother had given her a hint) , she attempted 
 
THE PLANTER OF MALATA 65 
 
 to open her heart to Renouard, who was watch- 
 ing with all the power of his soul her niece across 
 the table. She spoke to him as frankly as 
 though that miserable mortal envelope, emptied 
 of everything but hopeless passion, were indeed 
 the son of a duke. 
 
 Inattentive, he heard her only in snatches, till 
 the final confidential burst : " . . . glad if you 
 would express an opinion. Look at her, so 
 charming, such a great favourite, so generally 
 admired! It would be too sad. We all hoped 
 she would make a brilliant marriage with some- 
 body very rich and of high position, have a house 
 in London and in the country, and entertain us 
 all splendidly. She's so eminently fitted for it. 
 She has such hosts of distinguished friends ! And 
 then — this instead! . . . My heart really 
 aches." 
 
 Her well-bred if anxious whisper was covered 
 by the voice of Professor Moorsom discoursing 
 subtly down the short length of the dinner table 
 on the Impermanency of the Measurable to his 
 venerable disciple. It might have been a 
 chapter in a new and popular book of Moorsom- 
 ian philosophy. Patriarchal and delighted, old 
 Dunster leaned forward a little, his eyes shining 
 youthfully, two spots of colour at the roots of his 
 white beard; and Renouard, glancing at the 
 
66 THE PLANTER OF MALATA 
 
 senile excitement, recalled the words heard on 
 those subtle lips, adopted their scorn for his own, 
 saw their truth before this man ready to be 
 amused by the side of the grave. Yes! In- 
 tellectual debauchery in the froth of existence! 
 Froth and fraud ! 
 
 On the same side of the table Miss Moorsom 
 never once looked toward her father, all her 
 grace as if frozen, her red lips compressed, the 
 faintest rosiness under her dazzling complexion, 
 her black eyes burning motionless, and the very 
 coppery gleams of light lying still on the waves 
 and undulation of her hair. Renouard fancied 
 himself overturning the table, smashing crystal 
 and china, treading fruit and flowers under foot, 
 seizing her in his arms, carrying her off in a 
 tumult of shrieks from all these people, a silent 
 frightened mortal, into some profound retreat as 
 in the age of Cavern men. Suddenly everybody 
 got up, and he hastened to rise too, finding him- 
 self out of breath and quite unsteady on his 
 feet. 
 
 On the terrace the philosopher, after lighting 
 a cigar, slipped his hand condescendingly under 
 his *'dear young friend's" arm. Renouard re- 
 garded him now with the profoundest mistrust. 
 But the great man seemed really to have a liking 
 for his young friend — one of those mysterious 
 
THE PLANTER OF MALATA 67 
 
 sympathies, disregarding the differences of age 
 and position, which in this case might have been 
 explained by the failure of philosophy to meet a 
 very real worry of a practical kind. 
 
 After a turn or two and some casual talk the 
 professor said suddenly: *'My late son was in 
 your school — do you know? I can imagine that 
 had he lived and you had ever met you would 
 have understood each other. He too was inclined 
 to action." 
 
 He sighed, then shaking off the mournful 
 thought and with a nod at the dusky part of the 
 terrace where the dress of his daughter made a 
 luminous stain: "I really wish you would drop in 
 that quarter a few sensible, discouraging words." 
 
 Renouard disengaged himself from that most 
 perfidious of men under the pretence of astonish- 
 ment, and stepping back a pace — 
 
 "Surely you are making fun of me. Professor 
 Moorsom," he said with a low laugh, which was 
 really a sound of rage. 
 
 "My dear young friend! It's no subject for 
 jokes, to me. . . . You don't seem to have any 
 notion of your prestige," he added, walking 
 away toward the chairs. 
 
 "Humbug! " thought Renouard, standing still 
 and looking after him. "And yet! And yet! 
 What if it were true? " 
 
68 THE PLANTER OF MALATA 
 
 He advanced then toward Miss Moorsom. 
 Posed on the seat on which they had first spoken 
 to each other, it was her turn to watch him 
 coming on. But many of the windows were not 
 lighted that evening. It was dark over there. 
 She appeared to him luminous in her clear dress, 
 a figure without shape, a face without features, 
 awaiting his approach, till he got quite near to 
 her, sat down, and they had exchanged a few in- 
 significant words. Gradually she came out like 
 a magic painting of charm, fascination, and 
 desire, glowing mysteriously on the dark back- 
 ground. Something imperceptible in the lines 
 of her attitude, in the modulations of her voice, 
 seemed to soften that suggestion of calm uncon- 
 scious pride which enveloped her always like a 
 mantle. He, sensitive like a bond slave to the 
 moods of the master, was moved by the subtle 
 relenting of her grace to an infinite tenderness. 
 He fought down the impulse to seize her by the 
 hand, lead her down into the garden away under 
 the big trees, and throw himself at her feet 
 uttering words of love. His emotion was so 
 strong that he had to cough slightly, and not 
 knowing what to talk to her about he began to 
 tell her of his mother and sisters. All the family 
 were coming to London to live there, for some 
 little time at least. 
 
THE PLANTER OF MALATA 69 
 
 "I hope you will go and tell them something 
 of me. Something seen," he said pressingly. 
 
 By this miserable subterfuge, like a man about 
 to part with his life, he hoped to make her re- 
 member him a little longer. 
 
 "Certainly," she said. "I'll be glad to call 
 when I get back. But that *when' may be a 
 long time." 
 
 He heard a light sigh. A cruel jealous curi- 
 osity made him ask — 
 
 "Are you growing weary. Miss Moorsom?" 
 
 A silence fell on his low-spoken question 
 
 "Do you mean heart weary .'^" sounded Miss 
 Moorsom's voice. " You don't know me, I see." 
 
 "Ah! Never despair," he muttered. 
 
 "This, Mr Renouard, is a work of reparation. 
 I stand for truth here. I can't think of myself." 
 
 He could have taken her by the throat for 
 every word seemed an insult to his passion; but 
 he only said — 
 
 "I never doubted the — the — nobility of your 
 purpose." 
 
 "And to hear the word weariness pronounced 
 in this connection surprises me. And from a 
 man too who, I understand, has never counted 
 the cost." 
 
 "You are pleased to tease me," he said di- 
 rectly he had recovered his voice and had 
 
70 THE PLANTER OF MALATA 
 
 mastered his anger. It was as if Professor Moor- 
 som had dropped poison in his ear which was 
 spreading now and tainting his passion, his very 
 jealousy. He mistrusted every word that came 
 from those Hps on which his hfe hung. "How 
 can you know anything of men who do not count 
 the cost?" he asked in his gentlest tones. 
 
 " From hearsay — a little." 
 
 "Well, I assure you they are like the others, 
 subject to suffering, victims of spells. . . ." 
 
 " One of them, at least, speaks very strangely." 
 
 She dismissed the subject after a short silence. 
 "Mr. Renouard, I had a disappointment this 
 morning. This mail brought me a letter from 
 the widow of the old butler — you know. I ex- 
 pected to learn that she had heard from — from 
 here. But no. No letter arrived home since we 
 left." 
 
 Her voice was calm. His jealousy couldn't 
 stand much more of this sort of talk; but he was 
 glad that nothing had turned up to help the 
 search; glad blindly, unreasonably — only be- 
 cause it would keep her longer in his sight — since 
 she wouldn't give up. 
 
 "I am too near her," he thought, moving a 
 little farther on the seat. He was afraid in the 
 revulsion of feeling of flinging himself on her 
 hands, which were lying on her lap, and covering 
 
THE PLANTER OF MALATA 71 
 
 them with kisses. He was afraid. Nothing, 
 nothing could shake that spell — not if she were 
 ever so false, stupid, or degraded. She was fate, 
 itself. The extent of his misfortune plunged 
 him in such a stupor that he failed at first to 
 hear the sound of voices and footsteps inside the 
 drawing-room. Willie had come home — and 
 the Editor was with him. 
 
 They burst out on the terrace babbling noisily, 
 and then pulling themselves together stood still, 
 surprising — and as if themselves surprised. 
 
VII 
 
 They had been feasting a poet from the bush, 
 the latest discovery of the Editor. Such dis- 
 coveries were the business, the vocation, the 
 pride and delight of the only apostle of letters in 
 the hemisphere, the solitary patron of culture, 
 the Slave of the Lamp — as he subscribed himself 
 at the bottom of the weekly literary page of his 
 paper. He had had no difficulty in persuading 
 the virtuous Willie (who had festive instincts) to 
 help in the good work, and now they had left the 
 poet lying asleep on the hearthrug of the edi- 
 torial room and had rushed to the Dunster man- 
 sion wildly. The Editor had another discovery 
 to announce. Swaying a little where he stood 
 he opened his mouth very wide to shout the one 
 word "Found!" Behind him Willie flung both 
 his hands above his head and let them fall dra- 
 matically. Renouard saw the four white-headed 
 people at the end of the terrace rise all together 
 from their chairs with an effect of sudden panic. 
 ' "I tell you — he — is — found," the patron of 
 letters shouted emphatically. 
 
 72 
 
THE PLANTER OF MALATA 73 
 
 "What is this!" exclaimed Renouard in a 
 choked voice. Miss Moorsom seized his wrist 
 suddenly, and at that contact fire ran through all 
 his veins, a hot stillness descended upon him in 
 which he heard the blood — or the fire — beating 
 in his ears. He made a movement as if to rise, 
 but was restrained by the convulsive pressure on 
 his wrist. 
 
 "No, no." Miss Moorsom's eyes stared black 
 as night, searching the space before her. Far 
 away the Editor strutted forward, Willie follow- 
 ing with his ostentatious manner of carrying his 
 bulky and oppressive carcass which, however, 
 did not remain exactly perpendicular for two 
 seconds together. 
 
 "The innocent Arthur . . . Yes. We've got 
 him." The Editor became very business-like. 
 "Yes, this letter has done it." 
 
 He plunged into an inside pocket for it, slapped 
 the scrap of paper with his open palm. "From 
 that old woman. William had it in his pocket 
 since this morning when Miss Moorsom gave it 
 to him to show me. Forgot all about it till an 
 hour ago. Thought it was of no importance. 
 Well, no ! Not till it was properly read." 
 
 Renouard and Miss Moorsom emerged from 
 the shadows side by side, a well-matched couple, 
 animated yet statuesque in their calmness and 
 
74 THE PLANTER OF MALATA 
 
 in their pallor. She had let go his wrist. On 
 catching sight of Renouard the Editor exclaimed: 
 ** What — you here ! " in a quite shrill voice. 
 
 There came a dead pause. All the faces had 
 in them something dismayed and cruel. 
 
 "He's the very man we want," continued the 
 Editor. " Excuse my excitement. You are the 
 very man, Renouard. Didn't you tell me that 
 your assistant called himself Walter? Yes.? 
 Thought so. But here's that old woman — the 
 butler's wife — listen to this. She writes: All I 
 can tell you. Miss, is that my poor husband 
 directed his letters to the name of H. Walter." 
 
 Renouard's violent but repressed exclamation 
 was lost in a general murmur and shuffle of feet. 
 The Editor made a step forward, bowed with 
 creditable steadiness. 
 
 "Miss Moorsom, allow me to congratulate 
 you from the bottom of my heart on the happy 
 — er — issue . . ." 
 
 "Wait," muttered Renouard irresolutely. 
 
 The Editor jumped on him in the manner of 
 their old friendship. "Ah, you! You are a 
 fine fellow too. With your solitary ways of life 
 you will end by having no more discrimination 
 than a savage. Fancy living with a gentleman 
 for months and never guessing. A man, I am cer- 
 ^'^tain, accomplished, remarkable, out of the com- 
 
THE PLANTER OF MALATA 75 
 
 mon, since he had been distinguished " (he bowed 
 again) *' by Miss Moorsom, whom we all admire." 
 
 She turned her back on him. 
 
 "I hope to goodness you haven't been leading 
 him a dog's life, Geoffrey," the Editor addressed 
 his friend in a whispered aside. 
 
 Renouard seized a chair violently, sat down, 
 and propping his elbow on his knee leaned 
 his head on his hand. Behind him the sister 
 of the professor looked up to heaven and wrung 
 her hands stealthily. Mrs. Dunster's hands 
 were clasped forcibly under her chin, but she, 
 dear soul, was looking sorrowfully at Willie. 
 The model nephew! In this strange state! 
 So very much flushed ! The careful disposition 
 of the thin hairs across Willie's bald spot was 
 deplorably disarranged, and the spot itself was 
 red and, as it were, steaming. 
 
 " What's the matter, Geoffrey? " The Editor 
 seemed disconcerted by the silent attitudes 
 round him, as though he had expected all these 
 people to shout and dance. "You have him 
 on the island — haven't you.^ " 
 
 "Oh, yes: I have him there," said Renouard, 
 without looking up. 
 
 " Well, then ! " The Editor looked helplessly 
 around as if begging for response of some sort. 
 But the only response that came was very un- 
 
76 THE PLANTER OF MALATA 
 
 expected. Annoyed at being left in the back- 
 ground, and also because very little drink made 
 him nasty, the emotional Willie turned malignant 
 all at once, and in a bibulous tone surprising in a 
 man able to keep his balance so well — 
 
 "Aha! But you haven't got him here — not 
 yet! " he sneered. "No! You haven't got him 
 
 yet." 
 
 This outrageous exhibition was to the Editor 
 like the lash to a jaded horse. He positively 
 jumped. 
 
 " What of that.? What do you mean.? We— 
 haven't — got — him — here. Of course he isn't 
 here! But Geoffrey's schooner is here. She 
 can be sent at dhce lo fetch him here. No! 
 Stay! There's a better plan. Why shouldn't 
 you all sail over to Malata, professor.? Save 
 time! I am sure Miss Moorsom would pre- 
 fer . . ." 
 
 With a gallant flourish of his arm he looked 
 for Miss Moorsom. She had disappeared. He 
 was taken aback somewhat. 
 
 "Ah! H'm. Yes. . . . Why not. A 
 pleasure cruise, delightful ship, delightful sea- 
 son, delightful errand, del . . . No ! There 
 are no objections. Geoffrey, I understand, 
 has indulged in a bungalow three sizes too large 
 for him. He can put you all up. It will be a 
 
THE PLANTER OF MALATA 77 
 
 pleasure for him. It will be the greatest priv- 
 ilege. Any man would be proud of being an 
 agent of this happy reunion. I am proud 
 of the little part I've played. He will consider 
 it the greatest honour. Geoff, my boy, you 
 had better be stirring to-morrow bright and 
 early about the preparations for the trip. It 
 would be criminal to lose a single day." 
 
 He was as flushed as Willie, the excitement 
 keeping up the effect of the festive dinner. For 
 a time Renouard, silent, as if he had not heard a 
 word of all that babble, did not stir. But when 
 he got up it was to advance toward the Editor 
 and give him such a hearty slap on the back 
 that the plump little man reeled in his tracks 
 and looked quite frightened for a moment. 
 
 " You are a heaven-born discoverer and a first- 
 rate manager. . . . He's right. It's the 
 only way. You can't resist the claim of senti- 
 ment, and you must even risk the voyage to 
 Malata. . . ." Renouard's voice sank. "A 
 lonely spot," he added, and fell into thought un- 
 der all these eyes converging on him in the sud- 
 den silence. His slow glance passed over all the 
 faces in succession, remaining arrested on Profes- 
 sor Moorsom, stony eyed, a smouldering cigar in 
 his fingers, and with his sister standing by his side. 
 
 "I shall be infinitely gratified if you consent 
 
78 THE PLANTER OF MALATA 
 
 to come. But, of course, you will. We shall 
 sail to-morrow evening then. And now let me 
 leave you to your happiness." 
 
 He bowed, very grave, pointed suddenly his 
 finger at Willie who was swaying about with a 
 sleepy frown. . . . "Look at him. He's 
 overcome with happiness. You had better 
 put him to bed . . ." and disappeared 
 while every head on the terrace was turned to 
 Willie with varied expressions. 
 
 Renouard ran through the house. Avoiding 
 the carriage road he fled down the steep short 
 cut to the shore, where his gig was waiting. At 
 his loud shout the sleeping Kanakas jumped up. 
 He leaped in. "Shove off. Give way!" and 
 the gig darted through the water. "Give way! 
 Give way!" She flew past the wool-clippers 
 sleeping at their anchors each with the open 
 unwinking eye of the lamp in the rigging; she 
 flew past the flagship of the Pacific squadron, 
 a great mass all dark and silent, heavy with the 
 slumbers of five hundred men, and where the 
 invisible sentries heard his urgent "Give way! 
 Give way!" in the night. The Kanakas, pant- 
 ing, rose off the thwarts at every stroke. Noth- 
 ing could be fast enough for him! And he ran 
 up the side of his schooner shaking the ladder 
 noisily with his rush. 
 
THE PLANTER OF MALATA 79 
 
 On deck he stumbled and stood still. 
 
 Wherefore this haste? To what end, since 
 he knew well before he started that he had a 
 pursuer from whom there was no escape? 
 
 As his foot touched the deck his will, his pur- 
 pose he had been hurrying to save, died out 
 within him. It had been nothing less than 
 getting the schooner under-way, letting her 
 vanish silently in the night from amongst these 
 sleeping ships. And now he was certain he 
 could not do it. It was impossible! And he 
 reflected that whether he lived or died such 
 an act would lay him under a dark suspicion 
 from which he shrank. No, there was nothing 
 to be done. 
 
 He went down into the cabin and, before 
 even unbuttoning his overcoat, took out of the 
 drawer the letter addressed to his assistant; that 
 letter which he had found in the pigeon-hole 
 labelled "Malata" in young Dunster's outer 
 office, where it had been waiting for three 
 months some occasion for being forwarded. 
 From the moment of dropping it in the drawer 
 he had utterly forgotten its existence — till 
 now, when the man's name had come out so 
 clamorously. He glanced at the common en- 
 velope, noted the shaky and laborious hand- 
 writing: H. Walter, Esqre. Undoubtedly the 
 
80 THE PLANTER OF MALATA 
 
 very last letter the old butler had posted before 
 his illness, and in answer clearly to one from 
 "Master Arthur" instructing him to address 
 in the future: "Care of Messrs. W. Dunster 
 and Co." Renouard made as if to open the 
 envelope, but paused, and, instead, tore the 
 letter deliberately in two, in four, in eight. 
 With his hand full of pieces of paper he returned 
 on deck and scattered them overboard on the 
 dark water, in which they vanished instantly. 
 
 He did it slowly, without hesitation or re- 
 morse. H. Walter, Esqre, in Malata. The 
 
 innocent Arthur What was his name? 
 
 The man sought for by that woman who as she 
 went by seemed to draw all the passion of the 
 earth to her without effort, not deigning to 
 notice, naturally, as other women breathed the 
 air. But Renouard was no longer jealous of 
 her very existence. Whatever its meaning 
 it was not for that man he had picked up casu- 
 ally on obscure impulse, to get rid of the tire- 
 some expostulations of a so-called friend; a man 
 of whom he really knew nothing — and now. a 
 ^ dead man. In Malata. Oh, yes! He was 
 there secure enough, untroubled in his grave. 
 In Malata. To bury him was* the last service 
 Renouard had rendered to his assistant before 
 leaving the island on this trip to town. 
 
THE PLANTER OF MALATA 81 
 
 Like many men ready enough for arduous 
 enterprises Renouard was inclined to evade the 
 small complications of existence. This trait of 
 his character was composed of a little indolence, 
 some disdain, and a shrinking from contests 
 with certain forms of vulgarity — like a man who 
 would face a lion and go out of his way to avoid 
 a toad. His intercourse with the meddlesome 
 journalist was that merely outward intimacy 
 without sympathy some young men get drawn 
 into easily. It had amused him rather to keep 
 that "friend" in the dark about the fate of his 
 assistant. Renouard had never needed other 
 company than his own, for there was in him 
 something of the sensitiveness of a dreamer who 
 is easily jarred. He had said to himself that 
 the all-knowing one would only preach again 
 about the evils of solitude and worry his head 
 off in favour of some forlornly useless protege of 
 his. Also the inquisitiveness of the Editor 
 had irritated him and had closed his lips in 
 sheer disgust. 
 
 And now he contemplated the noose of con- 
 sequences drawing tight around him. 
 
 It was the memory of that diplomatic reti- 
 cence which on the terrace had stifled his first 
 cry which would have told them all that the 
 man sought for was not to be met on earth any 
 
82 THE PLANTER OF MALATA 
 
 more. He shrank from the absurdity of hear- 
 ing the all-knowing one, and not very sober at 
 that, turning on him with righteous reproaches — 
 "You never told me. You gave me to under- 
 stand that your assistant was alive, and now you 
 say he's dead. Which is it.^ Were you lying 
 then or are you lying now.? " No ! the thought of 
 such a scene was not to be borne. He had sat 
 down appalled, thinking: "What shall I do 
 now.f^" 
 
 His courage had oozed out of him. Speaking 
 the truth meant the Moorsoms going away at 
 once — while it seemed to him that he would give 
 the last shred of his rectitude to secure a day 
 ,^more of her company. He sat on — silent. 
 Slowly, from confused sensations, from his talk 
 with the professor, the manner of the girl her- 
 self, the intoxicating familiarity of her sudden 
 hand-clasp, there had come to him a half glim- 
 mer of hope. The other man was dead. Then! 
 . Madness, of course — but he could not 
 give it up. He had listened to that confounded 
 busybody arranging everything — while all these 
 people stood around assenting, under the spell 
 of that dead romance. He had listened scornful 
 and silent. The glimmers of hope, of oppor- 
 tunity, passed before his eyes. He had only to 
 sit still and say nothing. That and no more. 
 
THE PLANTER OF MALATA 83 
 
 And what was truth to him in the face of that 
 great passion which had flung him prostrate in 
 spirit at her adored feet ! 
 
 And now it was done ! FataHty had willed it ! 
 With the eyes of a mortal struck by the madden- 
 ing thunderbolt of the gods, Renouard looked up 
 to the sky, an immense black pall dusted over 
 with gold, on which great shudders seemed to 
 pass from the breath of life aflSrming its sway. 
 
VIII 
 
 At last, one morning, in a clear spot of a glassy 
 horizon charged with heraldic masses of black 
 vapours, the island grew out from the sea, show- 
 ing here and there its naked members of basaltic 
 rock through the rents of heavy foliage. Later, 
 in the great spilling of all the riches of sunset, 
 Malata stood out green and rosy before turning 
 into a violet shadow in the autumnal light of the 
 expiring day. Then came the night. In the 
 faint airs the schooner crept on past a sturdy 
 squat headland, and it was pitch dark when her 
 head-sails ran down, she turned short on her heel, 
 and her anchor bit into the sandy bottom of the 
 edge of the outer reef; for it was too dangerous 
 then to attempt entering the little bay full of 
 shoals. After the last solemn flutter of the 
 mainsail the murmuring voices of the Moorsom 
 party lingered, very frail, in the black stillness. 
 They were sitting aft, on chairs, and nobody 
 made a move. Early in the day, when it had 
 become evident that the wind was failing, Re- 
 nouard, basing his advice on the shortcomings of 
 
 84 
 
THE PLANTER OF IVIALATA 85 
 
 his bachelor estabHshment, had urged on the 
 ladies the advisability of not going ashore in the 
 middle of the night. Now he approached them 
 in a constrained manner (it was astonishing the 
 constraint that had reigned between him and his 
 guests all through the passage) and renewed his 
 arguments. No one ashore would dream of his 
 bringing any visitors with him. Nobody would 
 even think of coming off. There was only one 
 old canoe on the plantation. And landing in the 
 schooner's boats would be awkward in the dark. 
 There was the risk of getting aground on some 
 shallow patches. It would be best to spend the 
 rest of the night on board. 
 
 There was really no opposition. The pro- 
 fessor smoking a pipe, and very comfortable in 
 an ulster buttoned over his tropical clothes, was 
 the first to speak from his long chair. 
 
 "Most excellent advice." 
 
 Next to him Miss Moorsom assented by a long 
 silence. Then in a voice as of one coming out of 
 a dream — 
 
 "And so this is Malata," she said. "I have 
 often wondered . . ." 
 
 A shiver passed through Renouard. She had 
 wondered! What about.? Malata was himself. 
 He and Malata were one. And she wondered! 
 She had . . . 
 
86 THE PLANTER OF MALATA 
 
 The professor's sister leaned over toward Re- 
 nouard. Through all these days at sea the man's 
 — the found man's — existence had not been 
 alluded to on board the schooner. That reticence 
 was part of the general constraint lying upon 
 them all. She, herself, certainly had not been 
 exactly elated by this finding — poor Arthur, 
 without money, without prospects. Bat she felt 
 moved by the sentiment and romance of the situ- 
 ation. 
 
 "Isn't it wonderful," she whispered out of her 
 white wrap, *'to think of poor Arthur sleeping 
 there, so near to our dear lovely Felicia, and not 
 knowing the immense joy in store for him to- 
 morrow." 
 
 There was such artificiality in the wax-flower 
 lady that nothing in this speech touched Re- 
 nouard. It was but the simple anxiety of his 
 heart that he was voicing when he muttered 
 gloomily — 
 
 "No one in the world knows what to-morrow 
 may hold in store." 
 
 The mature lady had a recoil as though he had 
 said something impolite. What a harsh thing to 
 say — instead of finding something nice and 
 appropriate. On board, where she never saw 
 him in evening clothes, Renouard's resemblance 
 to a duke's son was not so apparent to her. 
 
THE PLANTER OF MALATA 87 
 
 Nothing but his — ah — bohemianism remained. 
 She rose with a sort of ostentation. 
 
 "It's late — and since we are going to sleep on 
 board to-night . . ."she said. "But it does 
 seem so cruel." 
 
 The professor started up eagerly, knocking the 
 ashes out of his pipe. " Infinitely more sensible, 
 my dear Emma." 
 
 Renouard waited behind Miss Moorsom's 
 chair. 
 
 She got up slowly, moved one step forward, 
 and paused looking at the shore. The blackness 
 of the island blotted out the stars with its vague 
 mass like a low thundercloud brooding over the 
 waters and ready to burst into flame and crashes. 
 
 "And so — this is Malata," she repeated 
 dreamily, moving toward the cabin door. The 
 clear cloak hanging from her shoulders, the ivory 
 face — for the night had put out nothing of her 
 but the gleams of her hair — made her resemble a 
 shining dream woman uttering words of wistful 
 inquiry. She disappeared without a sign, leav- 
 ing Renouard penetrated to the very marrow by 
 the sounds that came from her body like a mys- 
 terious resonance of an exquisite instrument. 
 
 He stood stock still. What was this accidental 
 touch which had evoked the strange accent of 
 her voice .^ He dared not answer that question. 
 
88 THE PLANTER OF MALATA 
 
 But he had to answer the question of what was 
 to be done now. Had the moment of confession 
 come? The thought was enough to make one's 
 blood run cold. 
 
 It was as if those people had a premonition of 
 something. In the taciturn days of the passage 
 he had noticed their reserve even amongst them- 
 selves. The professor smoked his pipe moodily 
 in retired spots. Henouard had caught Miss 
 Moorsom's eyes resting on himself more than 
 once with a peculiar and grave expression. He 
 fancied that she avoided all opportunities of con- 
 versation. The maiden lady seemed to nurse a 
 grievance. And now what had he to do.f^ 
 
 The lights on the deck had gone out one after 
 the other. The schooner slept. 
 
 About an hour after Miss Moorsom had gone 
 below without a sign or a word for him, Re- 
 nouard got out of his hammock slung in the waist 
 under the midship awning — for he had given up 
 all the accommodation below to his guests. He 
 got out with a sudden swift movement, flung off 
 his sleeping jacket, rolled his pyjamas up his 
 thighs, and stole forward, unseen by the one 
 Kanaka of the anchor-watch. His white torso, 
 naked like a stripped athlete's, glimmered 
 ghostly in the deep shadows of the deck. Un- 
 noticed he got out of the ship over the knight- 
 
THE PLANTER OF MALATA 89 
 
 heads, ran along the back rope, and seizing the 
 dolphin-striker firmly with both hands, lowered 
 himself into the sea without a splash. 
 
 He swam away, noiseless like a fish, and then 
 struck boldly for the land, sustained, embraced 
 by the tepid water. The gentle, voluptuous 
 heave of its breast swung him up and down 
 slightly; sometimes a wavelet murmured in his 
 ears ; from time to time, lowering his feet, he felt 
 for the bottom on a shallow patch to rest and 
 correct his direction. He landed at the lower 
 end of the bungalow garden, into the dead still- 
 ness of the island. There were no lights. The 
 plantation seemed to sleep as profoundly as the 
 schooner. On the path a small shell cracked 
 under his naked heel. 
 
 The faithful half-caste foreman going his 
 rounds cocked his ears at the sharp sound. He 
 gave one enormous start of fear at the sight of 
 the swift white figure flying at him out of the 
 night. He crouched in terror, and then sprang 
 up and clicked his tongue in amazed recognition. 
 
 "Tse! Tse! The master!" 
 
 "Be quiet, Luiz, and listen to what I say." 
 
 Yes, it was the master, the strong master who 
 was never known to raise his voice, the man 
 blindly obeyed and never questioned. He talked 
 low and rapidly in the quiet night, as if every 
 
90 THE PLANTER OF MALATA 
 
 minute were precious. On learning that three 
 guests were coming to stay Luiz cHcked his 
 tongue rapidly. These clicks were the uniform, 
 stenographic symbols of his emotions, and he 
 could give them an infinite variety of meaning. 
 He listened to the rest in a deep silence hardly 
 affected by the low, "Yes, master," whenever 
 Renouard paused. 
 
 "You understand .f^ " the latter insisted. "No 
 preparations are to be made till we land in the 
 morning. And you are to say that Mr. Walter 
 has gone off in a trading schooner on a round of 
 the islands." 
 
 "Yes, master." 
 
 * ' No mistakes — mind ! " 
 
 "No, master." 
 
 Renouard walked back toward the sea. Luiz, 
 following him, proposed to call out half a dozen 
 boys and man the canoe. 
 
 "Imbecile!" 
 
 "Tse! Tse! Tse!" 
 
 "Don't you understand that you haven't seen 
 me?" 
 
 "Yes, master. But what a long swim. Sup- 
 pose you drown." 
 
 "Then you can say of me and of Mr. Walter 
 what you like. The dead don't mind." 
 
 Renouard entered the sea and heard a faint 
 
THE PLANTER OF MALATA 91 
 
 Tse! Tse! Tse! of concern from the half-caste, 
 who had already lost sight of the master's dark 
 head on the overshadowed water. 
 
 Renouard set his direction by a big star that, 
 dipping on the horizon, seemed to look curiously 
 into his face. On this swim back he felt the 
 mournful fatigue of all that length of the 
 traversed road, which brought him no nearer to 
 his desire. It was as if his love had sapped the 
 invisible supports of his strength. There came 
 a moment when it seemed to him that he must 
 have swum beyond the confines of life. He had 
 a sensation of eternity close at hand, demand- 
 ing no effort — offering its peace. It was easy 
 to swim like this beyond the confines of life 
 looking at a star. But the thought: "They 
 will think I dared not face them and committed 
 suicide," caused a revolt of his mind which 
 carried him on. He returned on board, as he 
 had left, unheard and unseen. He lay in his 
 hammock utterly exhausted and with a con- 
 fused feeling that he had been beyond the con- 
 fines of life, somewhere near a star, and that it 
 was very quiet there. 
 
IX 
 
 Sheltered by the squat headland from the first 
 morning sparkle of the sea the little bay breathed 
 a delicious freshness. The party from the 
 schooner landed at the bottom of the garden. 
 They exchanged insignificant words in studi- 
 ously casual tones. The professor's sister put 
 up a long-handled eyeglass as if to scan the 
 novel surroundings, but in reality searching for 
 poor Arthur anxiously. Having never seen 
 him otherwise than in his town clothes she had 
 no idea what he would look like. It had been 
 left to the professor to help his ladies out of the 
 boat because Renouard, as if intent on giving 
 directions, had stepped forward at once to 
 meet the half-caste Luiz hurrying down the 
 path. In the distance, in front of the dazzlingly 
 sunlit bungalow, a row of dark-faced house boys, 
 unequal in stature and varied in complexion, 
 preserved the immobility of a guard of honour. 
 
 Luiz had taken off his soft felt hat before 
 coming within earshot. Henouard bent his 
 head to his rapid talk of domestic arrangements 
 
 92 
 
THE PLANTER OF MALATA 93 
 
 he meant to make for the visitors; another bed 
 in the master's room for the ladies and a cot for 
 the gentleman to be hung in the room opposite 
 where — where Mr. Walter — here he gave a 
 scared look all round — Mr. Walter — had died. 
 
 "Very good," assented Renouard in an even 
 undertone. "And remember what you have to 
 say of him." 
 
 "Yes, master. Only" — he WT-iggled slightly 
 and put one bare foot on the other for a moment 
 in apologetic embarrassment — "only I — I — 
 don't like to say it." 
 
 Renouard looked at him without anger, 
 without any sort of expression. "Frightened 
 of the dead.? Eh.? Well— all right. I will 
 say it myself — I suppose once for all. . . ." 
 Immediately he raised his voice very much. 
 
 "Send the boys down to bring up the lug- 
 gage." 
 
 "Yes, master." 
 
 Renouard turned to his distinguished guests 
 who, like a personally conducted party of 
 tourists, had stopped and were looking about 
 them. 
 
 "I am sorry," he began with an impassive 
 face. *'My man has just told me that Mr. 
 Walter . . ." he managed to smile, but 
 didn't correct himself. . . "has gone in 
 
94 THE PLANTER OF MALATA 
 
 a trading schooner on a short tour of the islands, 
 to the westward." 
 
 This communication was received in pro- 
 found silence. 
 
 Renouard forgot himself in the thought: "It's 
 done!" But the sight of the string of boys 
 marching up to the house with suitcases and 
 dressing-bags rescued him from that appalling 
 abstraction. 
 
 "All I can do is to beg you to make yourselves 
 at home . . . with what patience you 
 may." 
 
 This was so obviously the only thing to do 
 that everybody moved on at once. The pro- 
 fessor walked alongside Renouard, behind the 
 two ladies. 
 
 "Rather unexpected — this absence." 
 
 "Not exactly," muttered Renouard. "A 
 trip has to be made every year to engage 
 labour." 
 
 "I see . . . And he . . . How vex- 
 ingly elusive the poor fellow has become! I'll 
 begin to think that some wicked fairy is favour- 
 ing this love tale with unpleasant attentions." 
 
 Renouard noticed that the party did not 
 seem weighed down by this new disappoint- 
 ment. On the contrary they moved with a 
 freer step. The professor's sister dropped her 
 
THE PLANTER OF MALATA 95 
 
 eyeglass to the end of its chain. Miss Moor- 
 som took the lead. The professor, his lips 
 unsealed, lingered in the open: but Renouard 
 did not listen to that man's talk. He looked 
 after that man's daughter — if indeed that 
 creature of irresistible seductions were a daughter 
 of mortals. The very intensity of his desire, 
 as if his soul were streaming after her through 
 his eyes, defeated his object of keeping hold of 
 her as long as possible with, at least, one of 
 his senses. Her moving outlines dissolved into 
 a misty coloured shimmer of a woman made of 
 flame and shadows crossing the threshold of his 
 house. 
 
 The days which followed were not exactly 
 such as Renouard had feared — yet they were 
 not better than his fears. They were accursed 
 in all the moods they brought him. But the 
 general aspect of things was quiet. The pro- 
 fessor smoked innumerable pipes with the air 
 of a worker on his holiday, always in movement 
 and looking at things with that mysteriously 
 sagacious aspect of men who are admittedly 
 wiser than the rest of the world. His white 
 head of hair — whiter than anything within 
 the horizon except the broken water on the 
 reefs — was glimpsed in every part of the planta- 
 tion always on the move under the white parasol. 
 
96 THE PLANTER OF MALATA 
 
 And once he climbed the headland and appeared 
 suddenly to those below, a white speck elevated 
 in the blue, with a diminutive but statuesque 
 effect. 
 
 Felicia Moorsom remained near the house. 
 Sometimes she could be seen with a despairing 
 expression scribbling rapidly in her lock-up 
 diary. But only for a moment. At the sound 
 of Renouard's footsteps she would turn toward 
 him her beautiful face, adorable in that calm 
 which was like a wilful, like a cruel ignoring of 
 her tremendous power. WTienever she sat 
 on the veranda, on a chair more specially 
 reserved for her use, Renouard would stroll 
 up and sit on the steps near her, mostly silent, 
 and often not trusting himself to turn his 
 glance on her. She, very still, with her eyes 
 half closed, looked down on his head — so that 
 to a beholder (such as Professor Moorsom, for 
 instance) she would appear to be turning over 
 in her mind profound thoughts about that man 
 sitting at her feet, his shoulders bowed a little, 
 his hands listless — as if vanquished. And, 
 indeed, the moral poison of falsehood has such 
 I sa decomposing power that Renouard felt his 
 V bold personality turn to dead dust. Often, in 
 ^ the evening, when they sat outside convers- 
 ing languidly in the dark, he felt that he 
 
THE PLANTER OF MALATA . 97 
 
 must rest his forehead on her feet and burst 
 into tears. 
 
 The professor's sister suffered from some little 
 strain caused by the unstabihty of her own 
 feelings toward Renouard. She could not tell 
 whether she really did dislike him or not. At 
 times he appeared to her most fascinating; and, 
 though he generally ended by saying something 
 shockingly crude, she could not resist her in- 
 clination to talk with him — at least not always. 
 One day when her niece had left them alone on 
 the veranda she leaned forward in her chair — 
 speckless, resplendent, and, in her way, almost 
 as striking a personality as her niece, who did 
 not resemble her in the least. "Dear Felicia 
 has inherited her hair and the greatest part of 
 her appearance from her mother," the maiden 
 lady used to tell people. 
 
 She leaned forward then, confidentially. 
 
 *'0h! Mr. Renouard! Haven't you some- 
 thing comforting to say .^ " 
 
 He looked up, as surprised as if a voice from 
 heaven had spoken with this perfect society 
 intonation, and by the puzzled profundity of 
 his blue eyes fluttered the wax flower of refined 
 womanhood. She continued. "For — I can 
 speak to you openly on this tiresome subject — 
 only think what a terrible strain this hope de- 
 
98 THE PLANTER OF MALATA 
 
 ferred must be for Felicia's heart — for her 
 nerves." 
 
 "WTiy speak to me about it," he muttered, 
 feeling half choked suddenly. 
 
 "Why! As a friend — a well-wisher — the 
 kindest of hosts. I am afraid we are really 
 eating you out of house and home." She 
 laughed a little. "Ah! When, when will this 
 suspense be relieved! That poor lost Arthur! 
 I confess that I am almost afraid of the great 
 moment. It will be like seeing a ghost." 
 
 "Have you ever seen a ghost .'^" asked Renou- 
 ard in a dull voice. 
 
 She shifted her hands a little. Her pose was 
 perfect in its ease and middle-aged grace. 
 
 "Not actually. Only in a photograph. But 
 we have many friends who had the experience of 
 apparitions." 
 
 "Ah! They see ghosts in London," mumbled 
 Renouard, not looking at her. 
 
 "Frequently — in a certain very interesting 
 set. But all sorts of people do. We have a 
 friend, a very famous author — his ghost is a 
 girl. One of my brother's intimates is a very 
 great man of science. He is friendly with a 
 ghost ... Of a girl too," she added in a 
 voice as if struck for the first time by the coin- 
 cidence. "It is the photograph of that ap- 
 
THE PLANTER OF MALATA 99 
 
 parition which I have seen. Very sweet. Most 
 interesting. A little cloudy naturally. . . . 
 Mr. Renouard! I hope you are not a sceptic. 
 It's so consoling to think . . ." 
 
 "Those plantation boys of mine see ghosts 
 too," said Renouard grimly. 
 
 The sister of the philosopher sat up stiffly. 
 What crudeness! It was always so with this 
 strange young man. -. 
 
 "Mr. Renouard! How can you compare the 
 superstitious fancies of your horrible savages 
 with the manifestations ..." '^ 
 
 Words failed her. She broke off with a very 
 faint primly angry smile. She was perhaps the 
 more offended with him because of that flutter 
 at the beginning of the conversation. And in a 
 moment, with perfect tact and dignity, she got 
 up from her chair and left him alone. 
 
 Renouard didn't even look up. It was not the 
 displeasure of the lady which deprived him of 
 his sleep that night. He was beginning to forget 
 what simple, honest sleep was like. His ham- 
 mock from the ship had been hung for him on a 
 side veranda, and he spent his nights in it on 
 his back, his hands folded on his chest, in a sort 
 of half-conscious, oppressed stupor. In the 
 morning he watched with unseeing eyes the 
 headland come out a shapeless inkblot against 
 
100 THE PLANTER OF MALATA 
 
 the thin Hght of the false dawn, pass through all 
 the stages of daybreak to the deep purple of its 
 outlined mass nimbed gloriously with the gold of 
 the rising sun. He listened to the vague sounds 
 of waking within the house: and suddenly he be- 
 came aware of Luiz standing by the hammock— 
 obviously troubled. 
 
 "What's the matter.^" 
 
 "Tse! Tse! Tse!" 
 
 "Well, what now.^ trouble with the boys.?" 
 
 "No, master. The gentleman when 1 take him 
 his bath water he speak to me. He ask me — he 
 ask — when, when I think Mr. Walter, he come 
 back." 
 
 The half-breed's teeth chattered slightly. 
 Renouard got out of the hammock. 
 
 "And he is here all the time — eh?" 
 
 Luiz nodded a scared affirmative, but at once 
 protested, "I no see him. I never. Not I! The 
 ignorant wild boys say they see . . . Some- 
 thing! Ough!" 
 
 He clapped his teeth on another short rattle, 
 and stood there, shrunk, blighted like a man in a 
 freezing blast. 
 
 "And what did you say to the gentleman .f^'* 
 
 "I say I don't know — and I clear out. I — I 
 don't like to speak of him." 
 
 "All right. We shall try to lay that poor 
 
THE PLANTER OF MALATA 101 
 
 ghost," said Renouard gloomily, going off to a 
 small hut near by to dress. He was saying to 
 himself : "This fellow will end by giving me away. 
 The last thing that I ... No! That mustn't 
 be." And feeling his hand being forced he dis- 
 covered the whole extent of his cowardice. 
 
That morning wandering about his plantation, 
 more like a frightened soul than its creator and 
 master, he dodged the white parasol bobbing up 
 here and there like a buoy adrift on a sea of dark- 
 green plants. The crop promised to be magnifi- 
 cent, and the fashionable philosopher of the age 
 took other than a merely scientific interest in the 
 experiment. His investments were judicious, 
 but he had always some little money lying by 
 for experiments. 
 
 After lunch, being left alone with Renouard, 
 he talked a little of cultivation and such matters. 
 Then suddenly : 
 
 "By the way, is it true what my sister tells me, 
 that your plantation boys have been disturbed 
 by a ghost .f^" 
 
 Renouard, who since the ladies had left the 
 table was not keeping such a strict watch on him- 
 self, came out of his abstraction with a start and 
 a stiff smile. 
 
 "My foreman had some trouble with them 
 
 102 
 
THE PLANTER OF MALATA 103 
 
 during my absence. They funk working in a 
 certain field on the slope of the hill." 
 
 "A ghost here!" exclaimed the amused pro- 
 fessor. *'Then our whole conception of the 
 psychology of ghosts must be revised. This 
 island has been uninhabited probably since the 
 dawn of ages. How did a ghost come here. By 
 air or water .^^ And why did it leave its native 
 haunts. Was it from misanthropy .^^ Was he ex- 
 pelled from some community of spirits.^" 
 
 Renouard essayed to respond in the same tone. 
 The words died on his lips. Was it a man or a 
 woman ghost, the professor inquired. 
 
 "I don't know." Renouard made an effort to 
 appear at ease. He had, he said, a couple of 
 Tahitians amongst his boys — a ghost-ridden 
 race. They had started the scare. They had 
 probably brought their ghost with them. 
 
 "Let us investigate the matter, Renouard," 
 proposed the professor half in earnest. "We 
 may make some interesting discoveries as to the 
 state of primitive minds, at any rate." 
 
 This was too much. Renouard jumped up and 
 leaving the room went out and walked about in 
 front of the house. He would allow no one to 
 force his hand. Presently the professor joined 
 him outside. He carried his parasol, but had 
 neither his book nor his pipe with him. Amiably 
 
104 THE PLANTER OF MALATA 
 
 serious he laid his hand on his "dear young 
 friend's" arm. 
 
 "We are all of us a little strung up," he said. 
 "For my part I have been like sister Anne in the 
 story. But I cannot see anything coming. Any- 
 thing that would be the least good for anybody 
 — I mean." 
 
 Renouard had recovered sufficiently to mur- 
 mur coldly his regret of this waste of time. For 
 that was what, he supposed, the professor had in 
 his mind. 
 
 "Time," mused Professor Moorsom. "I 
 don't know that time can be wasted. But I will 
 tell you, my dear friend, what this is: it is an 
 awful waste of life. I mean for all of us. Even 
 Y/' for my sister, who has got a headache and is gone 
 to lie down." 
 
 He shook gently Renouard's arm. *'Yes, for 
 all of us! One may meditate on life endlessly, 
 one may even have a poor opinion of it — but the 
 fact remains that we have only one life to live. 
 And it is short. Think of that, my young friend." 
 
 He released Renouard 's arm and stepped out 
 of the shade opening his parasol. It was clear 
 that there was something more in his mind than 
 mere anxiety about the date of his lectures for 
 fashionable audiences. What did the man mean 
 by his confounded platitudes.'^ To Renouard, 
 
THE PLANTER OF MALATA 105 
 
 scared by Luiz in the morning (for he felt that 
 nothing could be more fatal than to have his 
 deception unveiled otherwise than by personal 
 confession) this talk sounded like encourage- 
 ment or a warning from that man who seemed to 
 him to be very brazen and very subtle. It was 
 like being bullied by the dead and cajoled by the 
 living into a throw of dice for a supreme stake. 
 
 Renouard went away to some distance from 
 the house and threw himself down in the shade 
 of a tree. He lay there perfectly still with his 
 forehead resting on his folded arms, light headed 
 and thinking. It seemed to him that he must be 
 on fire, then that he had fallen into a cool whirl- 
 pool, a smooth funnel of water swirling about 
 with nauseating rapidity. And then (it must 
 have been a reminiscence of his boyhood) he 
 was walking on the dangerous thin ice of a river, 
 unable to turn back. , . . Suddenly it parted 
 from shore to shore with a loud crack like the 
 report of a gun. 
 
 With one leap he found himself on his feet. 
 All was peace, stillness, sunshine. He walked 
 away from there slowly. Had he been a gam- 
 bler he would have perhaps been supported in a 
 measure by the mere excitement. But he was 
 not a gambler. He had always disdained that 
 artificial manner of challenging the fates. The 
 
106 THE PLANTER OF MALATA 
 
 bungalow came into view, bright and pretty, and 
 all about everything was peace, stillness, sun- 
 shine. . . . 
 
 While he was plodding toward it he had a dis- 
 agreeable sense of the dead man's company at 
 his elbow. The ghost ! He seemed to be every- 
 where but in his grave. Could one ever shake 
 him off? he wondered. At that moment Miss 
 Moorsom came out on the veranda; and at 
 once, as if by a mystery of radiating waves, she 
 roused a great tumult in his heart, shook earth 
 and sky together — but he plodded on. Then 
 like a grave song-note in the storm her voice came 
 to him ominously. 
 
 "Ah! Mr. Renouard " He came 
 
 up and smiled calmly, but she was very serious. 
 "I can't keep still any longer. Is there time to 
 walk up this headland and back before dark.^^" 
 
 The shadows were lying lengthened on the 
 ground; all was stillness and peace. *'No," said 
 Renouard, feeling suddenly as steady as a rock. 
 **But I can show you a view from the central 
 hill which your father has not seen — a view of 
 reefs and of broken water without end, and of 
 great wheeling clouds of sea-birds." 
 
 She came down the veranda steps at once and 
 they moved off. *'You go first," he proposed, 
 "and I'll direct you. To the left." 
 
THE PLANTER OF MALATA 107 
 
 She was wearing a short nankin skirt, a musKn 
 blouse; he could see through the thin stuff the 
 skin of her shoulders, of her arms. The noble 
 delicacy of her neck cause him a sort of trans- 
 port. "The path begins where these three palms 
 are. The only palms on the island." 
 
 "I see." 
 
 She never turned her head. After a while she 
 observed: "This path looks as if it had been 
 made recently." 
 
 "Quite recently," he assented very low. 
 
 They went on climbing steadily without ex- 
 changing another word; and when they stood on 
 the top she gazed a long time before her. The 
 low evening mist veiled the further limit of the 
 reefs. Above the enormous and melancholy con- 
 fusion, as of a fleet of wrecked islands, the rest- 
 less myriads of sea-birds rolled and unrolled dark 
 ribbons on the sky, gathered in clouds, soared 
 and stooped like a play of shadows, for they were 
 too far for them to hear their cries. 
 
 Renouard broke the silence in low tones. 
 
 "They'll be settling for the night presently." 
 She made no sound. Round them all was peace 
 and declining sunshine. Near by the topmost 
 pinnacle of Malata, resembling the top of a 
 buried tower, rose a rock, weather-worn, grey, 
 weary of watching the monotonous centuries of 
 
108 THE PLANTER OF MALATA 
 
 the Pacific. Renouard leaned his shoulders 
 against it. Felicia Moorsom faced him suddenly, 
 her splendid black eyes full on his face as though 
 she had made up her mind at last to destroy his 
 wits once and for all. Dazzled, he lowered his 
 eyelids slowly. 
 
 "Mr. Renouard! There is something strange 
 in all this. Tell me where he is? " 
 
 He answered deliberately. 
 
 "On the other side of this rock. I buried him 
 there myself." 
 
 She pressed her hands to her breast, struggled 
 for her breath for a moment, then: "Ohhh! 
 . . . You buried him! . . . What sort 
 of man are you.f^ . . . You dared not tell! 
 . . He is another of your victims? . . . 
 You dared not confess that evening. . 
 You must have killed him. What could he 
 have done to you? . . . You fastened on him 
 some atrocious quarrel and . . ." 
 
 Her vengeful aspect, her poignant cries left 
 him as unmoved as the weary rock against 
 which he leaned. He only raised his eyelids to 
 look at her and lowered them slowly. Nothing 
 more. It silenced her. And as if ashamed she 
 made a gesture with her hand, putting away from 
 her that thought. He spoke, quietly ironic at first. 
 
 "Ha! the legendary Renouard of sensitive 
 
THE PLANTER OF MALATA 109 
 
 idiots — the ruthless adventurer — the ogre with 
 a future. That was a parrot cry, Miss Moor- 
 som. I don't think that the greatest fool of 
 them all ever dared hint such a stupid thing of 
 me that I killed men for nothing. No, I had 
 noticed this man in a hotel. He had come 
 from up country I was told, and was doing 
 nothing. I saw him sitting there lonely in a 
 corner like a sick crow, and I went over one 
 evening to talk to him. Just on impulse. He 
 wasn't impressive. He was pitiful. My worst 
 enemy could have told you he wasn't good 
 enough to be one of Renouard's victims. It 
 didn't take me long to judge that he was drug- 
 ging himself. Not drinking. Drugs." 
 
 "Ah ! It's now that you are trying to murder 
 him," she cried. 
 
 "Really. Always the Renouard of shop- 
 keepers' legend. Listen! I would never have 
 been jealous of him. And yet I am jealous of 
 the air you breathe, of the soil you tread on, of 
 the world that sees you — moving free — not 
 mine. But never mind. I rather liked him. 
 For a certain reason I proposed he should come 
 to be my assistant here. He said he believed 
 this would save him. It did not save him from 
 death. It came to him as it were from noth- 
 ing — just a fall. A mere slip and tumble of 
 
110 THE PLANTER OF MALATA 
 
 ten feet into a ravine. But it seems he had been 
 hurt before up country — by a horse. He ailed 
 and ailed. No, he was not a steel-tipped man. 
 And his poor soul seemed to have been damaged 
 too. It gave way very soon." 
 
 "This is tragic!" Felicia Moorsom whispered 
 with feeling. Renouard's lips twitched, but his 
 level voice continued mercilessly. 
 
 "That's the story. He rallied a little one 
 night and said he wanted to tell me something. 
 I, being a gentleman, he said, he could confide in 
 me. I told him that he was mistaken. That 
 there was a good deal of a plebeian in me, that 
 he couldn't know. He seemed disappointed. 
 He muttered something about his innocence 
 and something that sounded like a curse on 
 some woman, then turned to the wall and — 
 just grew cold." 
 
 "On a woman," cried Miss Moorsom in- 
 dignantly. " \Miat woman .^ " 
 
 "I wonder!" said Renouard, raising his eyes 
 and noting the crimson of her ear-lobes against 
 the live whiteness of her complexion, the sombre, 
 as if secret, night splendour of her eyes under 
 the writhing flames of her hair. "Some woman 
 who wouldn't believe in that poor innocence 
 of his. . . . Yes. You probably. And now 
 you will not believe in me — not even in me 
 
THE PLANTER OF MALATA 111 
 
 who must in truth be what I am — even to 
 death. No! You won't. And yet, FeKcia, 
 a woman Hke you and a man hke me do not 
 often come together on this earth." 
 
 The flame of her glorious head scorched his 
 face. He flung his hat far away, and his sud- 
 denly lowered eyelids brought out startlingly 
 his resemblance to antique bronze, the profile of 
 Pallas, stiU, austere, bowed a little in the shadow 
 of the rock. *'0h! If you could only under- 
 stand the truth that is in me!" he added. 
 
 She waited, as if too astounded to speak, till 
 he looked up again, and then with unnatural 
 force as if defending herself from some unspoken 
 aspersion: "It's I who stand for truth here! 
 Believe in you! In you, who by a heartless 
 falsehood — and nothing else, nothing else, do 
 you hear.f^ — have brought me here, deceived, 
 cheated, as in some abominable farce ! " She sat 
 down on a boulder, rested her chin in her hands, 
 in the pose of simple grief — mourning for herself. 
 
 *'It only wanted this. Why! Oh! Why is 
 it that ugliness, ridicule, and baseness must fall 
 across my path." 
 
 On that height, alone with the sky, they spoke 
 to each other as if the earth had fallen away 
 from under their feet. 
 
 "Are you grieving for your dignity.'^ He was 
 
112 THE PLANTER OF MALATA 
 
 a mediocre soul and could have given you but an 
 unworthy existence." 
 
 She did not even smile at those words, but, 
 superb, as if lifting a corner of the veil, she 
 turned on him slowly. 
 
 "And do you imagine I would have devoted 
 myself to him for such a purpose! Don't you 
 know that reparation was due to him from me? 
 A sacred debt — a fine duty. To redeem him 
 would not have been in my power — I know it. 
 But he was blameless, and it was for me to 
 come forward. Don't you see that in the eyes 
 of the world nothing could have rehabilitated 
 him so completely as his marriage with me? 
 No word of evil could be whimpered of him after 
 I had given him my hand. /As to giving myself 
 up to anything less than the shaping of a man's 
 destiny — if I thought I could do it I would 
 abhor myself. . . ." She spoke with au- 
 thority in her deep, fascinating, unemotional 
 voice. Renouard meditated, gloomy, as if over 
 some sinister riddle of a beautiful sphinx met 
 on the wild road of his life. 
 
 "Yes. Your father was right. You are one 
 of these aristocrats . . ." 
 
 She drew herself up haughtily. 
 
 "What do you say.^ My father! ... I 
 an aristocrat." 
 
THE PLANTER OF JVIALATA 113 
 
 "Oh! I don't mean that you are like the 
 men and women of the time of armours, castles, 
 and great deeds. Oh, no! They stood on the 
 naked soil, had traditions to be faithful to, had 
 their feet on this earth of passions and death 
 which is not a hothouse. They would have been 
 too plebeian for you since they had to lead, to 
 suffer with, to understand the commonest 
 humanity. No, you are merely of the topmost 
 layer, disdainful and superior, the mere pure 
 froth and bubble on the inscrutable depths 
 which some day will toss you out of existence. 
 But you are you! You are you! You are the 
 eternal love itself — only, O Divinity, it isn't 
 your body, it is your soul that is made of foam." 
 
 She listened as if in a dream. He had suc- 
 ceeded so well in his effort to drive back the 
 flood of his passion that his life itself seemed to 
 run with it out of his body. At that moment 
 he felt as one dead speaking. But the headlong 
 w^ave returning with tenfold force flung him 
 on her suddenly, with open arms and blazing 
 eyes. She found herself like a feather in his 
 grasp, helpless, unable to struggle, with her 
 feet off the ground. But this contact with her, 
 maddening like too much felicity, destroyed its 
 own end. Fire ran through his veins, turned 
 his passion to ashes, burnt him out and left 
 
114 THE PLANTER OF MALATA 
 
 him empty, without force — almost without 
 desire. He let her go before she could cry out. 
 And she was so used to the forms of repression 
 enveloping, softening the crude impulses of old 
 humanity that she no longer believedlh their 
 existence as if it were an exploded legend. 
 She did not recognise what had happened to 
 her. She came safe out of his arms without a 
 struggle, not even having felt afraid. 
 
 "What's the meaning of this.f^" she said, 
 outraged but calm in a scornful way. 
 
 He got down on his knees in silence, bent low 
 to her very feet, while she looked down at him, a 
 little surprised, without animosity, as if merely 
 curious to see what he would do. Then, while 
 he remained bowed to the ground pressing the 
 hem of her skirt to his lips, she made a slight 
 movement. He got up. 
 
 "No," he said. "Were you ever so much 
 mine what could I do with you without your 
 consent .f^ No. You don't conquer a wraith, 
 cold mist, stuff of dreams, illusion. It must 
 come to you and cling to your breast. And 
 then! Oh! And then!" 
 
 All ecstasy, all expression went out of his face. 
 
 "Mr. Renouard," she said, "though you can 
 have no claim on my consideration after having 
 decoyed me here for the vile purpose, apparently. 
 
THE PLANTER OF MALATA 115 
 
 of gloating over me as your possible prey, I will 
 tell you that I am not perhaps the extraordinary 
 being you think I am. You may believe me. 
 Here I stand for truth itself." 
 
 *' What's that to me what you are?" he an- 
 swered. "At a sign from you I would climb up 
 to the seventh heaven to bring you down to 
 earth for my own — and if I saw you steeped to 
 the lips in vice, in crime, in mud, I would go 
 after you, take you to my arms — wear you for 
 an incomparable jewel on my breast. And 
 that's love — true love — the gift and the curse 
 of the gods. There is no other." 
 
 The truth vibrating in his voice made her 
 recoil slightly, for she was not fit to hear it — 
 not even a little — not even one single time in her 
 life. It was revolting to her; and in her trouble, 
 perhaps prompted by the suggestion of his 
 name or to soften the harshness of expression, 
 for she was obscurely moved, she spoke to him 
 in French. 
 
 ^'Assez ! J'ai horreur de tout cela,^^ she said. 
 
 He was white to his very lips, but he was 
 trembling no more. The dice had been cast, 
 and not even violence could alter the throw. 
 She passed by him unbendingly, and he followed 
 her down the path. After a time she heard him 
 saying: 
 
116 THE PLANTER OF MALATA 
 
 "And your dream is to influence a human 
 destiny?" 
 
 "Yes!" she answered curtly, unabashed, with 
 a woman's complete assurance. 
 
 "Then you may rest content. You have 
 done it." 
 
 She shrugged her shoulders slightly. But 
 just before reaching the end of the path she 
 relented, stopped, and went back to him. 
 
 "I don't suppose you are very anxious for 
 people to know how near you came to absolute 
 turpitude. You may rest easy on that point. 
 I shall speak to my father, of course, and we 
 will agree to say that he has died — nothing 
 more." 
 
 "Yes," said Renouard in a lifeless voice. 
 *'He is dead. His very ghost shall be done 
 with presently." 
 
 She went on, but he remained standing stock 
 still in the dusk. She had already reached the 
 three palms when she heard behind her a loud 
 peal of laughter, cynical and joyless, such as 
 is heard in smoking-rooms at the end of a 
 scandalous story. It made her feel positively 
 faint for a moment. 
 
XI 
 
 Slowly a complete darkness enveloped Geoffrey 
 Renoiiard. His resolution had failed him'. In- 
 stead of following Felicia into the house, he had 
 stopped under the three palms, and leaning 
 against a smooth trunk had abandoned himself 
 to a sense of an immense deception and the feel- 
 ing of extreme fatigue. This walk up the hill and 
 down again was like the supreme effort of an 
 explorer trying to penetrate the interior of an un- 
 known country, the secret of which is too well de- 
 fended by its cruel and barren nature. Decoyed 
 by a mirage, he had gone too far — so far that 
 there was no going back. His strength was at an 
 end. For the first time in his life he had to give 
 up, and with a sort of despairing self-possession 
 he tried to understand the cause of the defeat. 
 He did not ascribe it to that absurd dead man. 
 
 The hesitating shadow of Luiz approached 
 him unnoticed till it spoke timidly. Renouard 
 started. 
 
 "Eh? What.^ Dinner waiting? You must say 
 I beg to be excused. I can't come. But I shall 
 
 117 
 
118 THE PLANTER OF MALATA 
 
 see them to-morrow morning, at the landing 
 place. Take your orders from the professor as 
 to the sailing of the schooner. Go now." 
 
 Luiz, dumbfounded, retreated into the dark- 
 ness. Renouard did not move, but hours after- 
 ward, like the bitter fruit of his immobility, the 
 words: "I had nothing to offer to her vanity," 
 came from his lips in the silence of the island. 
 And it was then only that he stirred, only to 
 wear the night out in restless tramping up and 
 down the various paths of the plantation. Luiz, 
 whose sleep was made light by the consciousness 
 of some impending change, heard footsteps pass- 
 ing by his hut, the firm tread of the master; and 
 turning on his mats emitted a faint Tse! Tse! 
 Tse! of deep concern. 
 
 Lights had been burning in the bungalow al- 
 most all through the night; and with the first 
 sign of day began the bustle of departure. House 
 boys walked processionally carrying suitcases 
 and dressing-bags down to the schooner's boat, 
 which came to the landing place at the bottom of 
 the garden. Just as the rising sun threw its 
 golden nimbus around the purple shape of the 
 headland, the Planter of Malata was perceived 
 pacing bareheaded the curve of the little bay. 
 He exchanged a few words with the sailing- 
 master of the schooner, then remained by the 
 
THE PLANTER OF MALATA 119 
 
 boat, standing very upright, his eyes on the 
 ground, waiting. 
 
 He had not long to wait. Into the cool, over- 
 shadowed garden the professor descended first, 
 and came jauntily down the path in a lively 
 cracking of small shells. With his closed par- 
 asol hooked on his forearm, and a book in his 
 hand, he resembled a banal tourist more than 
 was permissible to a man of his unique distinc- 
 tion. He waved the disengaged arm from a dis- 
 tance, but at close quarters, arrested before 
 Renouard's immobility, he made no offer to 
 shake hands. He seemed to appraise the aspect 
 of the man with a sharp glance, and made up his 
 mind. 
 
 "We are going back by Suez," he began al- 
 most boisterously. " I have been looking up the 
 sailing lists. If the zephyrs of your Pacific are 
 only moderately propitious I think we are sure 
 to catch the mail boat due in Marseilles on the 
 18th of March. This will suit me excellently 
 . . . ." He lowered his tone. "My dear 
 young friend, I'm deeply grateful to you." 
 
 Renouard's set lips moved. 
 
 "Why are you grateful to me? " 
 
 "Ah? Why? In the first place you might 
 have made us miss the next boat, mightn't you? 
 . . . I don't thank you for your hospitality. 
 
120 THE PLANTER OF MALATA 
 
 You can't be angry with me for saying that I am 
 truly thankful to escape from it. But I am grate- 
 ful to you for what you have done, and — for 
 being what you are." 
 
 It was difficult to define the flavour of that 
 speech, but Renouard received it with an 
 austerely equivocal smile. The professor step- 
 ping into the boat opened his parasol and sat 
 down in the stern-sheets waiting for the ladies. 
 No sound of human voice broke the fresh silence 
 of the morning while they walked the broad 
 path, Miss Moorsom a little in advance of her 
 aunt. 
 
 When she came abreast of him Renouard 
 raised his head. 
 
 "Good-bye, Mr. Renouard," she said in a low 
 voice, meaning to pass on; but there was such a 
 look of entreaty in the blue gleam of his sunken 
 eyes that after an imperceptible hesitation she 
 Uid her hand, which was ungloved, in his ex- 
 tended palm. 
 
 "Will you condescend to remember me.^^" he 
 asked, while an emotion with which she was 
 angry made her pale cheeks flush and her black 
 eyes sparkle. 
 
 "This is a strange request for you to make," 
 she said, exaggerating the coldness of her tone. 
 
 " Is it? Impudent, perhaps. Yet I am not so 
 
THE PLANTER OF MALATA 121 
 
 guilty as you think; and bear in mind that to me 
 you can never make reparation." 
 
 "Reparation? To you! It is you who can 
 offer me no reparation for the offence against my 
 feehngs — and my person; for what reparation 
 can be adequate for your odious and ridiculous 
 plot so scornful in its implication, so humiliating 
 to my pride. No! I don't want to remember 
 you." 
 
 Unexpectedly, with a tightening grip, he pulled 
 her nearer to him, and looking into her eyes with 
 fearless despair — 
 
 "You'll have to. . . . I shall haunt you," 
 he said firmly. 
 
 Her hand was wrenched out of his grasp be- 
 fore he had time to release it. Felicia Moorsom 
 stepped into the boat, sat down by the side of 
 her father, and breathed tenderly on her crushed 
 fingers. 
 
 The professor gave her a sidelong look — noth- 
 ing more. But the professor's sister, yet on 
 shore, had put up her long-handle double eye- 
 glass to look at the scene. She dropped it with a 
 faint rattle. 
 
 "I've never in my life heard anything so crude 
 said to a lady," she murmured, passing before 
 Renouard with a perfectly erect head. When, a 
 moment afterward, softening suddenly, she 
 
122 THE PLANTER OF MALATA 
 
 turned to throw a good-bye to that young man, 
 she saw only his back in the distance moving 
 toward the bungalow. She watched him go in 
 — amazed — before she too left the soil of Malata. 
 
 Nobody disturbed Renouard in that room 
 where he had shut himself in to breathe the 
 evanescent perfume of her who for him was no 
 more, till late in the afternoon when the half- 
 caste was heard on the other side of the door. 
 
 He wanted the master to know that the 
 trader Janet was just entering the cove. 
 
 Renouard' s strong voice on his side of the 
 door gave him most unexpected instructions. 
 He was to pay off the boys with the cash in the 
 office and arrange with the captain of the Janet 
 to take every worker away from Malata, re- 
 turning them to their respective homes. An 
 order on the Dunster firm would be given to him 
 in payment. 
 
 And again the silence of the bungalow re- 
 mained unbroken till, next morning, the half- 
 caste came to report that everything was done. 
 The plantation boys were embarking now. 
 
 Through a crack in the door a hand thrust at 
 him a piece of paper, and the door slammed to so 
 sharply that Luiz stepped back. Then approach- 
 ing cringingly the keyhole, in a propitiatory tone 
 he asked : 
 
THE PLANTER OF MALATA 123 
 
 "Do I go too, master?" 
 
 *'Yes. You too. Everybody." 
 
 "Master stop here alone .'^" 
 
 Silence. And the half-caste's eyes grew wide 
 with wonder. But he also, like those " ignorant 
 savages," the plantation boys, was only too glad 
 to leave an island haunted by the ghost of a 
 white man. He backed away noiselessly from 
 the mysterious silence in that closed room, and 
 only in the very doorway of the bungalow 
 allowed himself to give vent to his feelings by a 
 deprecatory and pained — 
 
 "Tse! Tse! Tse!" 
 
XII 
 
 The Moorsoms did manage to catch the home- 
 ward mail boat all right, but had only twenty- 
 four hours in town. Thus the sentimental Willie 
 could not see very much of them. This did not 
 prevent him afterward from relating at great 
 length, with manly tears in his eyes, how poor 
 Miss Moorsom — the fashionable and clever 
 beauty — found her betrothed in Malata only to 
 see him die in her arms. Most people were 
 deeply touched by the sad story. It was the talk 
 of a good many days. 
 
 But the all-knowing Editor, Renouard's only 
 friend and crony, wanted to know more than the 
 rest of the world. From professional inconti- 
 nence, perhaps, he thirsted for a full cup of 
 harrowing detail. And when he noticed Re- 
 nouard's schooner lying in port day after day he 
 sought the sailing master to learn the reason. 
 The man told him that such were his instruc- 
 tions. He had been ordered to lie there a month 
 before returning to Malata. And the month 
 
 124 
 
THE PLANTER OF MALATA 125 
 
 was nearly up. "I will ask you to give me a 
 passage," said the Editor. 
 
 He landed in the morning at the bottom of 
 the garden and found peace, stillness, sunshine 
 reigning everywhere, the doors and windows of 
 the bungalow standing wide open, no sight of a 
 human being anywhere, the plants growing rank 
 and tall in the deserted fields. For hours the 
 Editor and the schooner's crew, excited by the 
 mystery, roamed over the island shouting Re- 
 nouard's name; and at last set themselves in 
 grim silence to explore systematically the un- 
 cleared bush and the deeper ravines in search of 
 his corpse. What had happened .^^ Had he been,^ 
 murdered by the boys ? Or had he simply, capri- 
 cious and secretive, abandoned his plantation 
 taking the people with him. It was impossible 
 to tell what had happened. At last, toward the 
 decline of the day, the Editor and the sailing 
 master discovered a track of sandals crossing 
 a strip of sandy beach on the north shore of 
 the bay. Following this track fearfully, they 
 passed round the spur of the headland, and 
 there on a large stone found the sandals, Re- 
 nouard's white jacket, and the Malay sarong 
 of chequered pattern which the planter of 
 Malata was well known to wear when going 
 to bathe. These things made a little heap. 
 
126 THE PLANTER OF MALATA 
 
 and the sailor remarked, after gazing at it in 
 silence — 
 
 "Birds have been hovering over this for many 
 a day." 
 
 *'He's gone bathing and got drowned," cried 
 the Editor in dismay. 
 
 "I doubt it, sir. If he had been drowned 
 anywhere within a mile from the shore the body 
 would have been washed out on the reefs. And 
 our boats have found nothing so far." 
 
 Nothing was ever found — and Renouard's 
 disappearance remained in the main inexpli- 
 cable. For to whom could it have occurred that 
 a man would set out calmly to swim beyond the 
 confines of life — with a steady stroke — his 
 eyes fixed on a star! 
 
 Next evening, from the receding schooner, 
 the Editor looked back for the last time at the 
 deserted island. A black cloud hung listlessly 
 over the high rock on the middle hill ; and under 
 the mysterious silence of that shadow Malata 
 lay mournful, with an air of anguish in the wild 
 sunset, as if remembering the heart that was 
 broken there. 
 
 Dec, 1913. 
 
THE PARTNER 
 
THE PARTNER 
 
 "And that be hanged for a silly yarn. The 
 boatmen here in Westport have been telling 
 this lie to the summer visitors for years. The 
 sort that gets taken out for a row at a shilling 
 a head — and asks foolish questions — must be 
 told something to pass the time away. D'ye 
 know anything more silly than being pulled in 
 a boat along a beach .^^ . . . It's like drink- 
 ing weak lemonade when you aren't thirsty. 
 I don't know why they do it! They don't 
 even get sick." 
 
 A forgotten glass of beer stood at his elbow; 
 the locality was a small respectable smoking- 
 room of a small respectable hotel, and a taste 
 for forming chance acquaintances accounts 
 for my sitting up late with him. His great, 
 flat, furrowed cheeks were shaven; a thick, 
 square wisp of white hairs hung from his chin; 
 its waggling gave additional point to his deep 
 utterance; and his general contempt for man- 
 kind with its activities and moralities was ex- 
 pressed in the rakish set of his big soft hat of 
 
130 THE PARTNER 
 
 black felt with a large rim, which he kept al- 
 ways on his head. 
 
 His appearance was that of an old adventurer, 
 retired after many unholy experienceO?)Cfcii6 
 darkest parts of the earth; but I had every 
 reason to believe that he had never been outside 
 England. From a casual remark somebody 
 dropped I gathered that in his early days he 
 must have been somehow connected with ship- 
 ping — with ships in docks. Of individuality 
 he had plenty. And it was this which attracted 
 my attention at first. But he was not easy to 
 classify, and before the end of the week I gave 
 him up with the vague definition, "an imposing 
 old ruffian." 
 
 One rainy afternoon, oppressed by infinite 
 boredom, I went into the smoking-room. He 
 was sitting there in absolute immobility, which 
 was really fakir-like and impressive. I began 
 to wonder what could be the associations of 
 that sort of man, his "milieu," his private con- 
 nections, his views, his morality, his friends, and 
 even his wife — when to my surprise he opened 
 a conversation in a deep, muttering voice. 
 
 I must say that since he had learned from 
 somebody that I was a writer of stories he had 
 been acknowledging my existence by means of 
 some vague growls in the morning. 
 
THE PARTNER 131 
 
 He was essentially a taciturn man. There was 
 an effect of rudeness in his fragmentary sen- 
 tences. It was some time before I discovered that 
 what he would be at was the process by which 
 stories — stories for periodicals — were produced. 
 
 What could one say to a fellow like that? 
 But I was bored to death; the weather continued 
 Impossible; and I resolved to be amiable. 
 
 "And so you make these tales up on your 
 own. How do they ever come into your head? " 
 he rumbled. 
 
 I explained that one generally got a hint for 
 a tale. 
 
 "What sort of hint?" 
 
 "Well, for instance," I said, "I got myself 
 rowed out to the rocks the other day. My boat- 
 man told me of the wreck on these rocks nearly 
 twenty years ago. That could be used as a hint 
 for a mainly descriptive bit of story with some 
 such title as *In the Channel,' for instance." 
 
 It was then that he flew out at the boatmen 
 and the summer visitors who listen to their 
 tales. Without moving a muscle of his face 
 he emitted a powerful "Rot," from somewhere 
 out of the depths of his chest, and went on in 
 his hoarse, fragmentary mumble. "Stare at 
 the silly rocks — nod their silly heads [the visitors 
 I presume]. What do they think a man is — 
 
132 THE PARTNER 
 
 blown-out paper bag or what? — go off pop 
 
 like that when he's hit Damn silly yarn 
 
 Hint indeed! . . . A lie?" 
 
 You must imagine this statuesque ruffian 
 enhaloed in the black rim of his hat, letting all 
 this out as an old dog growls sometimes, with 
 his head up and staring-away eyes. 
 
 "Indeed!" I exclaimed. "Well, but even if 
 untrue it is a hint, enabling me to see these 
 rocks, this gale they speak of, the heavy seas, 
 etc., etc., in relation to mankind. The struggle 
 against natural forces and the effect of the issue 
 on at least one, say, exalted " 
 
 He interrupted me by an aggressive — 
 
 " Would truth be any good to you? " 
 
 "I shouldn't like to say," I answered cau- 
 tiously. "It's said that truth is stranger than 
 fiction." 
 
 "Who says that?" he mouthed. 
 
 "Oh! Nobody in particular." 
 
 I turned to the window; for the contemptuous 
 beggar was oppressive to look at, with his 
 immovable arm on the table. I suppose my 
 unceremonious manner provoked him to a 
 comparatively long speech. 
 
 "Did you ever see such a silly lot of rocks? 
 Like plums in a slice of cold pudding." 
 
 I was looking at them — an acre or more of 
 
THE PARTNER 133 
 
 black dots scattered on the steel-grey shades of 
 the level sea, under the uniform gossamer grey 
 mist, with a formless brighter patch in one place 
 — the veiled whiteness of the cliff coming through 
 like a diffused, mysterious radiance. It was 
 a delicate and wonderful picture, something ex- 
 pressive, suggestive, and desolate, a symphony 
 in grey and black — a Whistler. But the next 
 thing said by the voice behind me made me turn 
 round. It growled out contempt for all asso- 
 ciated notions of roaring seas with concise 
 energy, then went on — 
 
 "I — no such foolishness — looking at the rocks 
 out there — more likely call to mind an office — I 
 used to look in sometimes at one time — office 
 in London — one of them small streets behind 
 Cannon Street Station. . . ." 
 
 He was very deliberate; not jerky, only frag- 
 mentary; at times profane. 
 
 "That's a rather remote connection," I ob- 
 served, approaching him. 
 
 "Connection? To Hades with your connec- 
 tions. It was an accident.'* 
 
 "Still," I said, "an accident has its backward 
 and forward connections, which, if they could 
 be set forth " 
 
 Without moving he seemed to lend an atten- 
 tive ear. 
 
134 THE PARTNER 
 
 **Aye! Set forth. That's perhaps what you 
 could do. Couldn't you now? There's no sea 
 life in this connection. But you can put it in 
 out of your head — if you like." 
 
 "Yes. I could, if necessary," I said. "Some- 
 times it pays to put in a lot out of one's head, 
 and sometimes it doesn't. I mean that the 
 story isn't worth it. Everything's in that." 
 
 It amused me to talk to him like this. He re- 
 flected audibly that he guessed story-writers 
 were out after money like the rest of the world 
 which had to live by its wits: and that it was 
 extraordinary how far people who were out after 
 money would go. . . . Some of them. 
 
 Then he made a sally against sea life. Silly 
 sort of life, he called it. No opportunities, no 
 experience, no variety, nothing. Some fine 
 men came out of it — he admitted — but no more 
 chance in the world if put to it than fly. Kids. 
 So Captain Harry Dunbar. Good sailor. Great 
 name as a skipper. Big man; short side- whiskers 
 going grey, fine face, loud voice. A good fel- 
 low, but no more up to people's tricks than a 
 baby. 
 
 "That's the captain of the Sagamore you're 
 talking about," I said confidently. 
 
 After a low, scornful "Of course," he seemed 
 now to hold on the wall with his fixed stare the 
 
THE PARTNER 135 
 
 vision of that city office, "at the back of Can- 
 non Street Station," while he growled and 
 mouthed a fragmentary description, jerking his 
 chin up now and then, as if angry. 
 
 It was, according to his account, a modest 
 place of business, not shady in any sense, but 
 out of the way, in a small street now rebuilt 
 from end to end. " Seven doors from the Chesh- 
 ire Cat public house under the railway bridge. 
 I used to take my lunch there when my business 
 called me to the city. Cloete would come in 
 to have his chop and make the girl laugh. No 
 need to talk much, either, for that. Nothing 
 but the way he would twinkle his spectacles on 
 you and give a twitch of his thick mouth was 
 enough to start you off before he began one of 
 his little tales. Funny fellow, Cloete. C-l-o- 
 e-t-e — Cloete." 
 
 "What was he — a Dutchman.^" I asked, not 
 seeing the least what all this had to do with 
 the Westport boatmen and the Westport sum- 
 mer visitors and this extraordinary old fellow's 
 irritable view of them as liars and fools. "Devil 
 knows'" he grunted, his eyes on the wall as if 
 not to miss a single movement of a cinemato- 
 graph picture. "Spoke nothing but English, 
 anyway. First I saw him — comes off a ship 
 in dock from the States — passenger. Asks 
 
136 THE PARTNER 
 
 me for a small hotel near by. Wanted to be 
 quiet and have a look round for a few days. I 
 took him to a place — friend of mine. . . . 
 Next time — in the City — Hallo! You're very 
 obliging — have a drink. Talks plenty about 
 himself. Been years in the States. All sorts 
 of business all over the place. With some 
 patent medicine people, too. Travels. Writes 
 advertisements and all that. Tells me funny 
 stories. Tall, loose-limbed fellow. Black hair 
 up on end, like a brush; long face, long legs, 
 long arms, twinkle in his specs, jocular way of 
 speaking — in a low voice. . . . See that?" 
 
 I nodded, but he was not looking at me. 
 
 "Never laughed so much in my life. The 
 beggar — would make you laugh telling you how 
 he skinned his own father. He was up to that, 
 too. A man who's been in the patent-medicine 
 trade will be up to anything from pitch-and-toss 
 to wilful murder. And that's a bit of hard truth 
 for you. Don't mind what they do — think they 
 can carry off anything and talk themselves out of 
 anything — all the world's a fool to them. Busi- 
 ness man, too, Cloete. Came over with a few 
 hundred pounds. Looking for something to do 
 — in a quiet way. Nothing like the old country, 
 after all, says he. . . . And so we part — I with 
 more drinks in me than I was used to. After a 
 
THE PARTNER 137 
 
 time, perhaps six months or so, I run up against 
 him again in Mr. George Dunbar's office. Yes, 
 that office. It wasn't often that I . . . How- 
 ever, there was a bit of his cargo in a ship in dock 
 that I wanted to ask Mr. George about. In 
 comes Cloete out of the room at the back with 
 some papers in his hand. Partner. You under- 
 stand.?^" 
 
 "Aha!" I said. "The few hundred pounds." 
 
 "And that tongue of his," he grow^led. "Don't 
 forget that tongue. Some of his tales must have 
 opened George Dunbar's eyes a bit as to what 
 business means." 
 
 "A plausible fellow," I suggested. 
 
 "H'm! You must have it in your own way — 
 of course. Well. Partner. George Dunbar puts 
 his top-hat on and tells me to wait a moment. 
 . . . George always looked as though he 
 were making a few thousands a year — a city 
 swell. . . . Come along, old man ! And he 
 and Captain Harry go out together — some busi- 
 ness with a solicitor round the corner. Captain 
 Harry, when he was in England, used to turn up 
 in his brother's office regularly about twelve. 
 Sat in a corner like a good boy, reading the paper 
 and smoking his pipe. So they go out. . . . 
 Model brothers, says Cloete — two love-birds — I 
 am looking after the tinned-fruit side of this cozy 
 
138 THE PARTNER 
 
 little show. . . . Gives me that sort of talk. 
 Then by-and-by: What sort of old thing is that 
 Sagamore y Finest ship out — eh? I dare say all 
 ships are fine to you. You live by them. I tell 
 you what; I would just as soon put my money 
 into an old stocking. Sooner!" 
 
 He drew a breath, and I noticed his hand, 
 lying loosely on the table, close slowly into a fist. 
 In that immovable man it was startling, omi- 
 nous, like the famed nod of the Commander. 
 
 "So, already at that time — note — already," 
 he growled. 
 
 "But hold on," I interrupted. "The Saga- 
 more belonged to Mundy and Rogers, I've been 
 told." 
 
 He snorted contemptuously. "Damn boat- 
 men — know no better. Flew the firm's house-flag. 
 That's another thing. Favour. It was like this : 
 When old man Dunbar died, Captain Harry was 
 already in command with the firm. George 
 chucked the bank he was clerking in — to go on 
 his own with what there was to share after the 
 old chap. George was a smart man. Started 
 warehousing; then two or three things at a time: 
 wood-pulp, preserved-fruit trade, and so on. 
 And Captain Harry let him have his share to 
 work with. . . . I am provided for in my ship, 
 
THE PARTNER 139 
 
 he says. . . . But by-and-by Mundy and 
 Rogers began to sell out to foreigners all their 
 ships — go into steam right away. Captain 
 Harry gets very upset — lose command, part 
 with the ship he was fond of — very wretched. 
 Just then, so it happened, the brothers came in 
 for some money — an old woman died or some- 
 thing. Quite a tidy bit. Then young George 
 says : There's enough between us two to buy the 
 
 Sagamore with But you'll need more 
 
 money for your business, cries Captain Harry — 
 and the other laughs at him: My business is 
 going on all right. Why, I can go out and make 
 a handful of sovereigns while you are trying to 
 get your pipe to draw, old man. . . . Mundy 
 and Rogers very friendly about it: Certainly, 
 Captain. And we will manage her for you, if you 
 like, as if she were still our own. . . . Why, 
 with a connection like that it was a good invest- 
 ment to buy that ship. Good! Aye, at the 
 time." 
 
 The turning of his head slightly toward me at 
 this point was like a sign of strong feeling in any 
 other man. 
 
 "You'll mind that this was long before Cloete 
 came into it at all," he muttered warningly. 
 
 "Yes. I will mind," I said. "We generally 
 say : some years passed. That's soon done." 
 
140 THE PARTNER 
 
 He eyed me for a while silently in an unseeing 
 way, as if engrossed in the thought of the years 
 so easily dealt with; his own years, too, they 
 were, the years before and the years (not so 
 many) after Cloete came upon the scene. When 
 he began to speak again, I discerned his inten- 
 tion to point out to me, in his obscure and graphic 
 manner, the influence on George Dunbar of 
 long association with Cloete's easy moral stand- 
 ards, unscrupulously persuasive gift of humour 
 (funny fellow), and adventurously reckless dis- 
 position. He desired me anxiously to elaborate 
 this view, and I assured him it was quite within 
 my powers. He wished me also to understand 
 that George's business had its ups and downs 
 (the other brother was meantime sailing to and 
 fro serenely); that he got into low water at 
 times, which worried him rather, because he had 
 married a young wife with expensive tastes. 
 He was having a pretty anxious time of it gen- 
 erally; and just then Cloete ran up in the city 
 somewhere against a man working a patent 
 medicine (the fellow's old trade) with some 
 success, but which, with capital, capital to the 
 tune of thousands to be spent with both hands on 
 advertising, could be turned into a great thing — 
 infinitely better-paying than a gold-mine. Cloete 
 became excited at the possibilities of that sort of 
 
THE PARTNER 141 
 
 business, in which he was an expert. I under- 
 stood that George's partner was all on fire from 
 the contact with this unique opportunity. 
 
 "So he goes in every day into George's room 
 about eleven, and sings that tune till George 
 gnashes his teeth with rage. Do shut up. 
 What's the good.^ No money. Hardly any to 
 go on with, let alone pouring thousands into 
 advertising. Never dare propose to his brother 
 Harry to sell the ship. Couldn't think of it. 
 Worry him to death. It would be like the end 
 of the world coming. And certainly not for a 
 business of that kind! ... Do you think 
 it would be a swindle? asks Cloete, twitching his 
 mouth. . . . George owns up : No — would be 
 no better than a squeamish ass if he thought 
 that, after all these years in business. 
 
 " Cloete looks at him hard— Never thought 
 of selling the ship. Expected the blamed old 
 thing wouldn't fetch half her insured value by 
 this time. Then George flies out at him. What's 
 the meaning, then, of these silly jeers at ship- 
 owning for the last three weeks? Had enough 
 of them, anyhow. 
 
 "Angry at having his mouth made to water, 
 see. Cloete don't get excited. ... I am no 
 squeamish ass, either, says he, very slowly. 
 "Tisn't selling your old Sagamore wants. The 
 
142 THE PARTNER 
 
 blamed thing wants tomahawking (seems the 
 name Sagamore means an Indian chief or some- 
 thing. The figure-head was a half -naked savage 
 with a feather over one ear and a hatchet in his 
 belt). Tomahawking, says he. 
 
 "What do you mean.f^ asks George. 
 Wrecking — it could be managed with perfect 
 safety, goes on Cloete — your brother would then 
 put in his share of insurance money. Needn't 
 tell him exactly what for. He thinks you're the 
 smartest business man that ever lived. Make 
 his fortune, too. . . . George grips the desk 
 with both hands in his rage. . . . You 
 think my brother's a man to cast away his ship 
 on purpose. I wouldn't even dare think of such 
 a thing in the same room with him — the finest 
 fellow that ever lived. . . . Don't make such 
 noise; they'll hear you outside, says Cloete; and 
 he tells him that his brother is the salted pattern 
 of all virtues, but all that's necessary is to induce 
 him to stay ashore for a voyage — for a holiday — 
 take a rest — why not.^ ... In fact, I have 
 in view somebody up to that sort of game — 
 Cloete whispers. 
 
 *' George nearly chokes. . . . So you think I 
 am of that sort — you think me capable — What 
 do you take me for? . . . He almost loses his 
 head, while Cloete keeps cool, only gets white 
 
THE PARTNER 143 
 
 about the gills. ... I take you for a man who 
 will be most cursedly hard up before long. . . . 
 He goes to the door and sends away the clerks — 
 there were only two — to take their lunch hour. 
 Comes back. . . . What are you indignant 
 about .^ Do I want you to rob the widow and 
 orphan.^ Why, man! Lloyd's a corporation, it 
 hasn't got a body to starve. There's forty or 
 more of them perhaps who underwrote the lines 
 on that silly ship of yours. Not one human 
 being would go hungry or cold for it. They take 
 every risk into consideration. Everything I tell 
 you. . . . That sort of talk. H'm! George 
 too upset to speak — only gurgles and waves his 
 arms; so sudden, you see. The other, warming 
 his back at the fire, goes on. Wood-pulp busi- 
 ness next door to a failure. Tinned-fruit trade 
 nearly played out. . . . You're frightened, he 
 says ; but the law is only meant to frighten fools 
 away. . . . And he shows how safe casting 
 away that ship would be. Premiums paid for so 
 many, many years. No shadow of suspicion 
 could arise. And, dash it all! a ship must meet 
 her end some day. . . . 
 
 "I am not frightened. I am indignant, says 
 George Dunbar. 
 
 " Cloete boiling with rage inside. Chance of a 
 lifetime — his chance ! And he says kindly : Your 
 
144 THE PARTNER 
 
 wife'll be much more indignant when you ask her 
 to get out of that pretty house of yours and pile 
 in into a two-pair back — with kids perhaps, 
 too. . . . 
 
 ''George had no children. Married a couple 
 of years; looked forward to a kid or two very 
 much. Feels more upset than ever. Talks about 
 an honest man for father, and so on. Cloete 
 grins: You be quick before they come, and they'll 
 have a rich man for father, and no one the worse 
 for it. That's the beauty of the thing. 
 
 " George nearly cries. I believe he did cry at 
 odd times. This went on for weeks. He 
 couldn't quarrel with Cloete. Couldn't pay off 
 his few hundreds; and besides, he was used to 
 have him about. Weak fellow, George. Cloete 
 generous, too. . . . Don't think of my little 
 pile, says he. Of course it's gone when we have 
 to shut up. But I don't care, he says. 
 And then there was George's new wife. When 
 Cloete dines there, the beggar puts on a dress 
 suit; little woman liked it; . . . Mr. Cloete, 
 my husband's partner; such a clever man, man 
 of the world, so amusing! . . . When he 
 dines there and they are alone: Oh, Mr. Cloete, 
 I wish George would do something to improve 
 our prospects. Our position is really so medi- 
 ocre. . . . And Cloete smiles, but isn't sur- 
 
THE PARTNER 145 
 
 prised, because he had put all these notions him- 
 self into her empty head. . . . What your 
 husband wants is enterprise, a little audacity. 
 You can encourage him best, Mrs. Dunbar. 
 . . . She was a silly, extravagant little fool. 
 Had made George take a house in Norwood. 
 Live up to a lot of people better off than them- 
 selves. I saw her once; silk dress, pretty boots, 
 all feathers and scent, pink face. More like the 
 Promenade at the Alhambra than a decent home, 
 it looked to me. But some women do get a devil 
 of a hold on a man." 
 
 "Yes, some do," I assented. "Even when the 
 man is the husband." 
 
 "My missis," he addressed me unexpectedly, 
 in a solemn, surprisingly hollow tone, "could 
 wind me round her little finger. I didn't find 
 out till she was gone. Aye. But she was a 
 woman of sense, while that piece of goods ought 
 to have been walking the streets, and that's all I 
 can say. . . . You must make her up out of 
 your head. You will know the sort." 
 
 "Leave all that to me," I said. 
 
 "H'm!" he grunted, doubtfully, then going 
 back to his scornful tone: "A month or so after- 
 ward the Sagamore arrives home. All very jolly 
 at first. . . . Hallo, George boy! Hallo, 
 Harry, old man! . . . But by and by Cap- 
 
146 THE PARTNER 
 
 tain Harry thinks his clever brother is not look- 
 ing very well. And George begins to look worse. 
 He can't get rid of Cloete's notion. It has stuck 
 in his head. . . . There's nothing wrong — 
 quite well. . . . Captain Harry still anxious. 
 Business going all right, eh.^^ Quite right. Lots 
 of business. Good business. ... Of course 
 Captain Harry believes that easily. Starts 
 chaffing his brother in his jolly way about rolling 
 in money. George's shirt sticks to his back with 
 perspiration, and he feels quite angry with the 
 captain. . . . The fool, he says to himself. 
 Rolling in money, indeed ! And then he thinks 
 suddenly: Why not.^ . . . Because Cloete's 
 notion has got hold of his mind. 
 
 "But next day he weakens and says to Cloete 
 . . . Perhaps it would be best to sell. Couldn't 
 you talk to my brother.^ and Cloete explains to 
 him over again for the twentieth time why selling 
 wouldn't do, anyhow. No! The Sagamore must 
 be tomahawked — as he would call it; to spare 
 George's feelings, maybe. But every time he 
 says the word, George shudders. . . . I've got 
 a man at hand competent for the job, who will do 
 the trick for five hundred, and only too pleased 
 at the chance, says Cloete. . . . George shuts 
 his eyes tight at that sort of talk — but. at the 
 same time he thinks : Humbug ! There can be no 
 
THE PARTNER 147 
 
 such man. And yet if there was such a man it 
 would be safe enough — perhaps. 
 
 "And Cloete always funny about it. He 
 couldn't talk about anything without it seeming 
 there was a great joke in it somewhere. . . . 
 Now, says he, I know you are a moral citizen, 
 George. Morality is mostly funk, and I think 
 you're the funkiest man I ever came across in my 
 travels. ^Miy, you are afraid to speak to your 
 brother. Afraid to open your mouth to him with 
 a fortune for us all in sight. . . . George flares 
 up at this: no, he ain't afraid; he will speak; 
 bangs fist on the desk. And Cloete pats him on 
 the back. . . . We'll be made men presently, 
 he says. 
 
 "But the first time George attempts to speak 
 to Captain Harry his heart slides down into 
 his boots. Captain Harry only laughs at the 
 notion of staying ashore. He wants no holiday, 
 not he. But Jane thinks of remaining in Eng- 
 land this trip. Go about a bit and see some of 
 her people. Jane was the Captain's wife; round- 
 faced, pleasant lady. George gives up that time; 
 but Cloete won't let him rest. So he tries again ; 
 and the Captain frowns. He frowns because he's 
 puzzled. He can't make it out. He has no 
 notion of living away from his Sagamore. . . ." 
 
 "Ah!" I cried. "Now I understand." 
 
148 THE PARTNER 
 
 "No, you don't," he growled, his black, con- 
 temptuous stare turning on me crushingly. 
 
 "I beg your pardon," I murmured. 
 
 " H'm ! Very well, then. Captain Harry looks 
 very stern, and George crumples all up inside. 
 . . . He sees through me, he thinks. . . . 
 Of course it could not be; but George, by that 
 time, was scared at his own shadow. He is 
 shirking it with Cloete, too. Gives his partner to 
 understand that his brother has half a mind to try 
 a spell on shore, and so on. Cloete waits, gnawing 
 his fingers ; so anxious. Cloete really had found a 
 man for the job. Believe it or not, he had found 
 him inside the very boarding-house he lodged in 
 — somewhere about Tottenham Court Road. He 
 had noticed down-stairs a fellow — a boarder and 
 not a boarder — hanging about the dark part of 
 the passage mostly; sort of 'man of the house,' 
 a slinking chap. Black eyes. White face. The 
 woman of the house — a widow lady, she called 
 herself— very full of Mr. Stafford; Mr. Stafford 
 this and Mr. Stafford that. . . . Anyhow, 
 Cloete one evening takes him out to have a 
 drink. Cloete mostly passed away his evenings 
 in saloon bars. No drunkard, though, Cloete; 
 for company; liked to talk to all sorts there; just 
 habit; American fashion. 
 
 "So Cloete takes that chap out more than 
 
THE PARTNER 149 
 
 once. Not very good company, though. Lit- 
 tle to say for himself. Sits quiet and drinks 
 what's given to him, eyes always half closed, 
 speaks sort of demure. . . . I've had mis- 
 fortunes, he says. The truth was they had 
 kicked him out of a big steamship company for 
 disgraceful conduct; nothing to affect his 
 certificate, you understand; and he had gone 
 dow^n quite easily. Liked itj I expect. Any- 
 thing's better than work. Lived on the widow 
 lady who kept that boarding-house." 
 
 "That's almost incredible," I ventured to 
 interrupt. "A man with a master's certificate, y^ 
 do you mean.^" 
 
 *'I do; I've known them 'bus cads," he 
 growled, contemptuously. "Yes. Swing on the 
 tail-board by the strap and yell, ' tuppence all the 
 way.' Through drink. But this Stafford was 
 of another kind. Hell's full of such Staff ords; 
 Cloete would make fun of him, and then there 
 would be a nasty gleam in the fellow's half-shut 
 eye. But Cloete was generally kind to him. Clo- 
 ete was a fellow that w^ould be kind to a mangy 
 dog. Anyhow, he used to stand drinks to that 
 object, and now and then gave him half a crown 
 — because the widow lady kept Mr. Stafford 
 short of pocket-money. They had rows almost 
 every day down in the basement. . . . 
 
150 THE PARTNER 
 
 "It was the fellow being a sailor that put into 
 Cloete's mind the first notion of doing away 
 with the Sagamore. He studies him a bit, 
 thinks there's enough devil in him yet to be 
 tempted, and one evening he says to him . . . 
 I suppose you wouldn't mind going to sea 
 again, for a spell? . . . The other never 
 raises his eyes; says it's scarcely worth one's 
 while for the miserable salary one gets. . . . 
 Well, but what do you say to captain's wages 
 for a time, and a couple of hundred extra if you 
 are compelled to come home without the ship. 
 Accidents will happen, says Cloete. . . . 
 Oh! sure to, says that Stafford; and goes on 
 taking sips of his drink as if he had no interest 
 in the matter. 
 
 "Cloete presses him a bit; but the other 
 observes, impudent and languid like: You 
 see, there's no future in a thing like that — is 
 there? . . . Oh! no, says Cloete. Cer- 
 tainly not. I don't mean this to have any 
 future — as far as you are concerned. It's a 
 'once for all' transaction. Well, what do you 
 estimate your future at? he asks. . . . The 
 fellow more listless than ever — nearly asleep. 
 I believe the skunk was really too lazy to care. 
 Small cheating at cards, wheedling or bullying 
 his living out of some woman or other, was more 
 
THE PARTNER 151 
 
 his style. Cloete swears at him in whispers 
 something awful. All this in the saloon bar 
 of the Horse Shoe, Tottenham Court Road. 
 Finally they agree, over the second sixpenny- 
 worth of Scotch hot, on five hundred pounds as 
 the price of tomahawking the Sagamore. And 
 Cloete waits to see what George can do. 
 
 "A week or two goes by. The other fellow 
 loafs about the house as if there had been noth- 
 ing, and Cloete begins to doubt whether he 
 really means ever to tackle that job. But one 
 day he stops Cloete at the door, with his down- 
 cast eyes: What about that employment you 
 wished to give me? he asks. . . . You 
 see, he had played some more than usual dirty 
 trick on the woman and expected awful ruc- 
 tions presently; and to be fired out for sure. 
 Cloete very pleased. George had been pre- 
 varicating to him such a lot that he really 
 thought the thing was as well as settled. And 
 he says: Yes. It's time I introduced you to 
 my friend. Just get your hat and we will go 
 now. . . . 
 
 "The two come into the office, and George 
 at his desk sits up in a sudden panic — staring. 
 Sees a tallish fellow, sort of nasty-handsome 
 face, heavy eyes, half shut; short drab overcoat, 
 shabby bowler hat, very careful-like in his 
 
152 THE PARTNER 
 
 movements. And he thinks to himself, Is 
 that how such a man looks! No, the thing's 
 impossible. . . . Cloete does the intro- 
 duction, and the fellow turns round to look 
 behind him at the chair before he sits down. 
 . . . A thoroughly competent man, Cloete 
 goes on. . . . The man says nothing, sits 
 perfectly quiet. And George can't speak, 
 throat too dry. Then he makes an effort: H'm! 
 H'm! Oh, yes — unfortunately — sorry to dis- 
 appoint — my brother — made other arrange- 
 ments — going himself. 
 
 "The fellow gets up, never raising his eyes off 
 the ground, like a modest girl, and goes out 
 softly, right out of the office without a sound. 
 Cloete sticks his chin in his hand and bites all 
 his fingers at once. George's heart slows down 
 and he speaks to Cloete. . . . This can't 
 be done. How can it be? Directly the ship 
 is lost Harry would see through it. You know 
 he is a man to go to the underwriters himself 
 with his suspicions. And he would break his 
 heart over me. How can I play that on him? 
 There's only two of us in the world belonging 
 to each other. . . . 
 
 "Cloete lets out a horrid cuss-word, jumps 
 up, bolts away into his room, and George hears 
 him there banging things around. After a 
 
THE PARTNER 153 
 
 while he goes to the door and says in a trem- 
 bling voice: You ask me for an impossibil- 
 ity. . . . Cloete inside ready to fly out 
 like a tiger and rend him, but he opens the 
 door a little way and says softly: Talking of 
 hearts, yours is no bigger than a mouse's, 
 let me tell you. . . . But George doesn't 
 care — load off the heart, anyhow. And just 
 then Captain Harry comes in. . . . Hallo, 
 George boy. I am a little late. What about a 
 chop at the Cheshire, now.^^ . . . Right you 
 are, old man. . . . And off they go to 
 lunch together. Cloete has nothing to eat that 
 day. 
 
 " George feels a new man for a time; but all of 
 a sudden that fellow Stafford begins to hang 
 about the street, in sight of the house door. 
 The first time George sees him he thinks he 
 made a mistake. But no; next time he has to 
 go out, there is the very fellow skulking on the 
 other side of the road. It makes George ner- 
 vous; but he must go out on business, and when 
 the fellow cuts across the roadway he dodges 
 him. He dodges him once, twice, three times; 
 but at last he gets nabbed in his very doorway. 
 . . . What do you want.? he says, trying to 
 look fierce. 
 
 "It seems that ructions had come in the base- 
 
154 THE PARTNER 
 
 ment of that boarding-house, and the widow 
 lady had turned on him (being jealous mad), to 
 the extent of talking of the police. That Mr. 
 Stafford couldn't stand; so he cleared out like a 
 scared stag, and there he was, chucked into the 
 streets, so to speak. Cloete looked so savage 
 as he went to and fro that he hadn't the spunk 
 to tackle him; but George seemed a softer kind 
 to his eye. He would have been glad of half 
 a quid, anything. . . . I've had misfor- 
 tunes, he says softly, in his demure way, which 
 frightens George more than a row would have 
 done. . . . Consider the severity of my 
 disappointment, he says. . . . 
 
 *' George, instead of telling him to go to the 
 devil, loses his head. ... I don't know 
 you. What do you want.? he cries, and bolts 
 up-stairs to Cloete. . . . Look what's come 
 of it, he gasps; now we are at the mercy of that 
 horrid fellow. . . . Cloete tries to show 
 him that the fellow can do nothing; but George 
 thinks that some sort of scandal may be forced 
 on, anyhow. Says that he can't live with that 
 horror haunting him. Cloete would laugh if 
 \y/ he weren't too weary of it all. Then a thought 
 strikes him and he changes his tune. . . . 
 Well, perhaps! I will go down-stairs and send 
 him away to begin with. , . . He comes 
 
THE PARTNER 155 
 
 back. . . . He's gone. But perhaps you 
 are right. The fellow's hard up, and that's 
 what makes people desperate. The best thmg 
 would be to get him out of the country for a 
 time. Look here, the poor devil is really in 
 want of employment. I won't ask you much 
 this time: only to hold your tongue; and I 
 shall try to get your brother to take him as 
 chief officer. At this George lays his arms and 
 his head on his desk, so that Cloete feels sorry 
 for him. But altogether Cloete feels more 
 cheerful because he has shaken the ghost a bit 
 into that Stafford. That very afternoon he 
 buys him a suit of blue clothes, and tells him 
 that he will have to turn to and work for his 
 living now. Go to sea as mate of the Sagamore. 
 The skunk w^asn't very willing, but what with 
 having nothing to eat and no place to sleep in, 
 and the woman having frightened him with the 
 talk of some prosecution or other, he had no 
 choice, properly speaking. Cloete takes care 
 of him for a couple of days. . . . Our 
 arrangement still stands, says he. Here's the 
 ship bound for Port Elizabeth; not a safe 
 anchorage at all. Should she by chance part 
 from her anchors in a north-east gale and get 
 lost on the beach, as many of them do, why, it's 
 five hundred in your pocket — and a quick 
 
156 THE PARTNER 
 
 return home. You are up to the job, ain't 
 you? 
 
 "Our Mr. Stafford takes it all in with down- 
 cast eyes. ... I am a competent seaman, 
 he says, with his sly, modest air. A ship's 
 chief mate has no doubt many opportunities to 
 manipulate the chains and anchors to some pur- 
 pose. ... At this Cloete thumps him on 
 the back: You'll do, my noble sailor. Go in 
 and win. . . . 
 
 "Next thing George knows, his brother tells 
 him that he had occasion to oblige his partner. 
 And glad of it, too. Likes the partner no end. 
 Took a friend of his as mate. Man had his 
 troubles, been ashore a year nursing a dying 
 wife, it seems. Down on his luck. . . . 
 George protests earnestly that he knows noth- 
 ing of the person. Saw him once. Not very 
 attractive to look at. . . . And Captain 
 Harry says in his hearty way. That's so, but 
 must give the poor devil a chance. . - . 
 
 "So Mr. Stafford joins in dock. And it 
 seems that he did manage to monkey with one 
 of the cables — keeping his mind on Port Eliza- 
 beth. The riggers had all the cable ranged on 
 deck to clean lockers. The new mate watches 
 them go ashore — dinner hour — and sends the 
 ship-keeper out of the ship to fetch him a bottle 
 
THE PARTNER 157 
 
 of beer. Then he goes to work whittling away 
 the forelock of the forty-five-fathoni shackle- 
 pin, gives it a tap or two with a hammer just 
 to make it loose, and of course that cable wasn't 
 safe any more. Riggers come back — you know 
 what riggers are: come day, go day, and God 
 send Sunday. Down goes the chain into the 
 locker without their foreman looking at the 
 shackles at all. What does he care? He ain't 
 going in the ship. And two days later the ship 
 goes to sea. . . ." 
 
 At this point I was incautious enough to 
 breathe out another "I see," which gave offence 
 again, and brought on me a rude "No, you 
 don't" — as before. But in the pause he re- 
 membered the glass of beer at his elbow. He 
 drank half of it, wiped his mustaches, and re- 
 marked grimly — 
 
 "Don't you think that there will be any sea 
 life in this, because there ain't. If you're 
 going to put in any out of your own head, now's 
 your chance. I suppose you know what ten 
 days of bad weather in the Channel are like.? 
 I don't. Anyway, ten whole days go by. 
 One Monday Cloete comes to the office a little 
 late — hears a woman's voice in George's room 
 and looks in. Newspapers on the desk, on the 
 
158 THE PARTNER 
 
 floor; Captain Harry's wife sitting with red 
 eyes and a bag on the chair near her. . . 
 Look at this, says George, in great excitement, 
 showing him a paper. Cloete's heart gives a 
 jump. Ha! Wreck in Westport Bay. The 
 Sagamore gone ashore early hours of Sunday, 
 and so the newspaper men had time to put in 
 some of their work. Columns of it. Lifeboat 
 out twice. Captain and crew remain by the 
 ship. Tugs summoned to assist. If the wea- 
 ther improves, this well-known fine ship may 
 yet be saved. . . . You know the way these 
 chaps put it. . . . Mrs. Harry there on 
 her way to catch a train from Cannon Street. 
 Got an hour to wait. 
 
 "Cloete takes George aside and whispers: 
 Ship saved yet! Oh, damn! That must never 
 be; you hear.^ But George looks at him dazed, 
 and Mrs. Harry keeps on sobbing quietly: 
 . . . I ought to have been with him. But 
 I am going to him. . . . We are all going 
 together, cries Cloete, all of a sudden. He 
 rushes out, sends the woman a cup of hot bovril 
 from the shop across the road, buys a rug for 
 her, thinks of everything; and in the train 
 tucks her in and keeps on talking, thirteen to 
 the dozen, all the way, to keep her spirits up, 
 as it were; but really because he can't hold his 
 
THE PARTNER 159 
 
 peace for very joy. Here's the thing done all at 
 once, and nothing to pay. Done. Actually 
 done. His head swims now and again when he 
 thinks of it. What enormous luck! It almost 
 frightens him. He would like to yell and sing. 
 Meantime George Dunbar sits in his corner, 
 looking so deadly miserable that at last poor 
 Mrs. Harry tries to comfort him, and so cheers 
 herseK up at the same time by talking about 
 how her Harry is a prudent man; not likely to 
 risk his crew's life or his own unnecessarily — 
 and so on. 
 
 "First thing they hear at Westport station 
 is that the life-boat has been out to the ship 
 again, and has brought off the second officer, 
 who had hurt himself, and a few sailors. Cap- 
 tain and the rest of the crew, about fifteen in 
 all, are still on board. Tugs expected to arrive 
 every moment. 
 
 "They take Mrs. Harry to the inn, nearly 
 opposite the rocks; she bolts straight up-stairs 
 to look out of the window, and she lets out a 
 great cry when she sees the wreck. She won't 
 rest till she gets on board to her Harry. Cloete 
 soothes her all he can. . . . All right; you 
 try to eat a mouthful, and we will go to make 
 inquiries. 
 
 "He draws George out of the room: Look 
 
160 THE PARTNER 
 
 here, she can't go on board, but I shall. I'll 
 see to it that he doesn't stop in the ship too 
 long. Let's go and find the coxswain of the 
 life-boat. . . . George follows him, shiver- 
 ing from time to time. The waves are washing 
 over the old pier; not much wind, a wdld, gloomy 
 sky over the bay. In the whole world only one tug 
 away off, heading to the seas, tossed in and out 
 of sight every minute as regular as clockwork. 
 
 "They meet the coxswain and he tells them: 
 Yes! He's going out again. No, they ain't in 
 danger on board — not yet! But the ship's 
 chance is very poor. Still, if the wind doesn't 
 pipe up again and the sea goes down something 
 might be tried. After some talk he agrees to 
 take Cloete on board; supposed to be with an 
 urgent message from the owners to the captain. 
 
 *' Whenever Cloete looks at the sky he feels 
 comforted; it looks so threatening. George 
 Dunbar follows him about with a white face 
 and saying nothing. Cloete takes him to have 
 a drink or two, and by and by he begins to pick 
 up. . . . That's better, says Cloete; dash 
 me if it wasn't like walking about with a dead 
 man before. You ought to be throwing up your 
 cap, man. I feel as if I wanted to stand in the 
 street and cheer. Your brother is safe, the 
 ship is lost, and we are made men. 
 
THE PARTNER 161 
 
 "Are you certain she's lost? asks George. It 
 would be an awful blow after all the agonies I 
 have gone through in my mind, since you first 
 spoke to me, if she were to be got off — and — 
 and — all this temptation to begin over again. 
 . . . For we had nothing to do with this; 
 had we.^ 
 
 "Of course not, says Cloete. Wasn't your 
 brother himself in charge.^ It's providential. 
 . . . Oh! cries George, shocked. . . . 
 Well, say it's the devil, says Cloete, cheerfully. 
 I don't mind! You had nothing to do with it 
 any more than a baby unborn, you great softy, 
 you. . . . Cloete has got so that he almost 
 loved George Dunbar. Well. Yes. That was 
 so. I don't mean he respected him. He was 
 just fond of his partner. 
 
 "They go back, you may say fairly skipping, 
 to the hotel, and find the wife of the captain 
 at the open window, with her eyes on the ship 
 as if she wanted to fly across the bay over 
 there. . . . Now then, Mrs. Dunbar, cries 
 Cloete, you can't go, but I am going. Any mes- 
 sages.? Don't be shy. I'll deliver every word 
 faithfully. And if you would like to give me a 
 kiss for him, I'll deliver that too, dash me if I 
 don't. 
 
 "He makes Mrs. Harry laugh with his pat- 
 
162 THE PARTNER 
 
 ter. . . . Oh, dear Mr. Cloete, you are a 
 calm, reasonable man. Make him behave 
 sensibly. He's a bit obstinate, you know, and 
 he's so fond of the ship, too. Tell him I am 
 here — looking on. . . . Trust me, Mrs. 
 Dunbar. Only shut that window, that's a 
 good girl. You will be sure to catch cold if 
 you don't, and the Captain won't be pleased 
 coming off the wreck to find you coughing and 
 sneezing so that you can't tell him how happy 
 you are. And now if you can get me a bit of 
 tape to fasten my glasses on good to my ears, 
 I will be going. 
 
 "How he gets on board I don't know. All 
 wet and shaken and excited and out of breath, 
 he does get on board. Ship lying over, smoth- 
 ered in sprays, but not moving very much; just 
 enough to jag one's nerve a bit. He finds them 
 all crowded on the deck-house forward, in their 
 shiny oilskins, with faces like sick men. Cap- 
 tain Harry can't believe his eyes. What! Mr. 
 Cloete! What are you doing here, in God's 
 name? . . . Your wife's ashore there, look- 
 ing, on, gasps out Cloete; and after they had 
 talked a bit. Captain Harry thinks it's uncom- 
 monly plucky and kind of his brother's partner 
 to come off to him like this. Man glad to 
 have somebody to talk to. . . . It's a 
 
THE PARTNER 163 
 
 bad business, Mr. Cloete, he says. And Cloete 
 rejoices to hear that. Captain Harry thinks he 
 had done his best, but the cable had parted 
 when he tried to anchor her. It was a great 
 trial to lose the ship. Well, he would have to 
 face it. He fetches a deep sigh now and then. 
 Cloete almost sorry he had come on board, 
 because to be on that wreck keeps his chest 
 in a tight band all the time. They crouch 
 out of the wind under the port boat, a little 
 apart from the men. The life-boat had gone 
 away after putting Cloete on board, but was 
 coming back next high water to take off the 
 crew if no attempt at getting the ship afloat 
 could be made. Dusk was falHng; winter's 
 day; black sky; wind rising. Captain Harry 
 felt melancholy. God's will be done. If she 
 must be left on the rocks — why, she must. A 
 man should take what God sends him standing 
 up. . . . Suddenly his voice breaks, and 
 he squeezes Cloete's arm: It seems as if I 
 couldn't leave her, he whispers. Cloete looks 
 round at the men like a lot of huddled sheep and 
 thinks to himself: They won't stay. . . . 
 Suddenly the ship lifts a little and sets dowTi with 
 a thump. Tide rising. Everybody beginning 
 to look out for the life-boat. Some of the men 
 made her out far away and also two more tugs. 
 
164 THE PARTNER 
 
 But the gale has come on again, and everybody 
 knows that no tug will ever dare come near the 
 ship. 
 
 "That's the end, Captain Harry says, very 
 low. . . . Cloete thinks he never felt so 
 cold in all his life. . . . And I feel as if I 
 \^ didn't care to live on just now, mutters Captain 
 Harry. . . . Your wife's ashore, looking 
 on, says Cloete. . . . Yes. Yes. It must 
 be awful for her to look at the poor old ship 
 lying here done for. Why, that's our home. 
 
 "Cloete thinks that as long as the Sagamore's 
 done for he doesn't care, and only wishes himself 
 somewhere else. The slightest movement of 
 the ship cuts his breath like a blow. And he 
 feels excited by the danger, too. The captain 
 takes him aside. . . . The life-boat can't 
 come near us for more than an hour. Look 
 here, Cloete, since you are here, and such a 
 plucky one — do something for me. 
 He tells him then that down in his cabin aft in 
 a certain drawer there is a bundle of important 
 papers and some sixty sovereigns in a small 
 canvas bag. Asks Cloete to go and get these 
 things out. He hasn't been below since the 
 ship struck, and it seems to him that if he were 
 to take his eyes off her she would fall to pieces. 
 And then the men — a scared lot by this time^ 
 
THE PARTNER 165 
 
 if he were to leave them by themselves they 
 would attempt to launch one of the ship's boats 
 in a panic at some heavier thump — and then 
 some of them bound to get drowned. . . 
 There are two or three boxes of matches about 
 my shelves in my cabin if you want a light, 
 says Captain Harry. Only w^ipe your wet hands 
 before you begin to feel for them. 
 
 "Cloete doesn't like the job, but doesn't like 
 to show funk, either — and he goes. Lots of 
 water on the main-deck, and he splashes along; 
 it was getting dark, too. All at once, by the 
 mainmast, somebody catches him by the arm. 
 Stafford. He wasn't thinking of Stafford at all. 
 Captain Harry had said something as to the 
 mate not being quite satisfactory, but it wasn't 
 much. Cloete doesn't recognise him in his 
 oilskins at first. He sees a white face with big 
 eyes peering at him. . . . Are you pleased, 
 Mr. Cloete . . . ? 
 
 "Cloete is moved to laugh at the whine, and 
 shakes him off. But the fellow scrambles on 
 after him on the poop and follows him down into 
 the cabin of that wrecked ship. And there 
 they are, the two of them; can hardly see each 
 other. . . . You don't mean to make me 
 believe you have had anything to do with this, 
 says Cloete. . . . 
 
166 THE PARTNER 
 
 *'They both shiver, nearly out of their wits 
 with the excitement of being on board that ship. 
 She thumps and lurches, and they stagger to- 
 gether, feeling sick. Cloete again bursts out 
 laughing at that wretched creature Stafford 
 pretending to have been up to something so 
 desperate. ... Is that how you think you 
 can treat me now? yells the other man all of a 
 sudden. . . . 
 
 "A sea strikes the stem, the ship trembles 
 and groans all round them, there's the noise of 
 the seas about and overhead, confusing Cloete, 
 and he hears the other screaming as if crazy. 
 . . . Ah, you don't believe me! Go and 
 look at the port chain. Parted? Eh? Go and 
 see if it's parted. Go and find the broken link. 
 You can't. There's no broken link. That 
 means a thousand pounds for me. No less. 
 A thousand the day after we get ashore — 
 prompt. I won't wait till she breaks up, Mr. 
 Cloete. To the underwriters I go if I've to 
 walk to London on my bare feet. Port cable! 
 Look at her port cable, I will say to them. I 
 doctored it — for the owners — tempted by a low 
 rascal called Cloete. 
 
 "Cloete does not understand what it means 
 exactly. All he sees is that the fellow means to 
 make mischief. He sees trouble ahead. . . . 
 
THE PARTNER 167 
 
 Do you think you can scare me? he asks — you 
 poor miserable skunk. . . . And Stafford 
 faces him out — both holding on to the cabin 
 table : No, damn you, you are only a dirty vaga- 
 bond; but I can scare the other, the chap in the 
 black coat. . . . 
 
 "Meaning George Dunbar. Cloete's brain 
 reels at the thought. He doesn't imagine the 
 fellow can do any real harm, but he knows what 
 George is; give the show away; upset the whole 
 business he had set his heart on. He says 
 nothing; he hears the other, what with the funk 
 and strain and excitement, panting like a dog — 
 and then a snarl. ... A thousand down, 
 twenty -four hours after we get ashore; day 
 after to-morrow. That's my last word, Mr. 
 Cloete. ... A thousand pounds, day after 
 to-morrow, says Cloete. Oh, yes. And to-day 
 take this, you dirty cur. . . . He hits 
 straight from the shoulder in sheer rage, noth- 
 ing else. Stafford goes away spinning along the 
 bulkhead. Seeing this, Cloete steps out and 
 lands him another one somewhere about the 
 jaw. The fellow staggers backward right into 
 the captain's cabin through the open door. 
 Cloete, following him up, hears him fall down 
 heavily and roll to leeward, then slams the door 
 to and turns the key. . . . There! says he 
 
168 THE PARTNER 
 
 to himself, that will stop you from making 
 trouble." 
 
 " By Jove ! " I murmured. 
 
 The old fellow departed from his impressive 
 immobility to turn his rakishly hatted head and 
 look at me with his old, black, lack-lustre 
 eyes. 
 
 "He did leave him there," he uttered, weight- 
 ily, returning to the contemplation of the wall. 
 "Cloete didn't mean to allow anybody, let 
 alone a thing like Stafford, to stand in the way 
 of his great notion of making George and him- 
 self, and Captain Harry, too, for that matter, 
 rich men. And he didn't think much of con- 
 sequences. These patent-medicine chaps don't 
 care what they say or what they do. They 
 think the world's bound to swallow any story 
 they like to tell. . . . He stands listening 
 for a bit. And it gives him quite a turn to hear 
 a thump at the door and a sort of muffled raving 
 screech inside the captain's room. He thinks 
 he hears his own name, too, through the awful 
 crash as the old Sagamore rises and falls to a sea. 
 That noise and that awful shock make him clear 
 out of the cabin. He collects his senses on the 
 poop. But his heart sinks a little at the black 
 wildness of the night. Chances that he will 
 get drowned himself before long. Puts his head 
 
THE PARTNER 169 
 
 down the companion. Through the wind and 
 breaking seas he can hear the noise of Stafford's 
 beating against the door and cursing. He 
 hstens and says to himself: No. Can't trust 
 him now. 
 
 "When he gets back to the top of the deck- 
 house he says to Captain Harry, who asks him 
 if he got the things, that he is very sorry. There 
 was something wrong with the door. Couldn't 
 open it. And to tell you the truth, says he, 
 I didn't like to stop any longer in that cabin. 
 There are noises there as if the ship were going 
 to pieces. . . . Captain Harry thinks: 
 Nervous; can't be anything wrong with the 
 door. But he says: Thanks — never mind, 
 never mind. ... All hands looking out 
 now for the life-boat. Everybody thinking 
 of himself rather. Cloete asks himself, will 
 they miss him.^ But the fact is that Mr. Staf- 
 ford had made such poor show at sea that after 
 the ship struck nobody ever paid any attention 
 to him. Nobody cared what he did or where 
 he was. Pitch dark, too — no counting of heads. 
 The light of the tug with the life-boat in tow 
 is seen making for the ship, and Captain Harry 
 asks: Are we all there .^^ . . . Somebody 
 answers: All here, sir. . . . Stand by to 
 leave the ship, then, says Captain Harry; and 
 
170 THE PARTNER 
 
 two of you help the gentleman over first. . . . 
 xAye, aye, sir. . . . Cloete was moved to 
 ask Captain Harry to let him stay till last, but 
 the life-boat drops on a grapnel abreast the 
 fore-rigging, two chaps lay hold of him, watch 
 their chance, and drop him into her, all safe. 
 
 "He's nearly exhausted; not used to that sort 
 of thing, you see. He sits in the stern-sheets with 
 his eyes shut. Don't want to look at the white 
 water boiling all around. The men drop into 
 the boat one after another. Then he hears 
 Captain Harry's voice shouting in the wind to 
 the coxswain, to hold on a moment, and some 
 other words he can't catch, and the coxswain 
 yelling back: Don't be long, sir. . . . What is 
 it.^ Cloete asks, feeling faint. . . . Something 
 about the ship's papers, says the coxswain, very 
 anxious. It's no time to be fooling about along- 
 side, you understand. They haul the boat off a 
 little and wait. The water flies over her in sheets. 
 Cloete' s senses almost leave him. He thinks of 
 nothing. He's numb all over, till there's a shout : 
 Here he is ! . . . They see a figure in the fore- 
 rigging waiting — they slack away on the grapnel- 
 line and get him in the boat quite easy. There is 
 a little shouting — it's all mixed up with the noise 
 of the sea. Cloete fancies that Stafford's voice 
 is talking away quite close to his ear. There's a 
 
THE PARTNER 171 
 
 lull in the wind, and Stafford's voice seems to be 
 speaking very fast to the coxswain; he tells him 
 that of course he was near his skipper, was all the 
 time near him, till the old man said at the last 
 moment that he must go and get the ship's 
 papers from aft; would insist on going himself; 
 told him, Stafford, to get into the life-boat. 
 . . . He had meant to wait for his skipper, 
 only there came this smooth of the seas, and he 
 thought he would take his chance at once. 
 
 "Cloete opens his eyes. Yes. There's Staf- 
 ford sitting close by him in that crowded life- 
 boat. The coxswain stoops over Cloete and 
 cries: Did you hear what the mate said, sir.^ 
 Cloete's face feels as if it were set in 
 plaster, lips and all. Yes, I did, he forces him- 
 self to answer. The coxswain waits a moment, 
 then says: I don't like it. . . . And he turns 
 to the mate, telling him it was a pity he did not 
 try to run along the deck and hurry up the cap- 
 tain when the lull came. Stafford answers at 
 once that he did think of it, only he was afraid of 
 missing him on the deck in the dark. For, says 
 he, the captain might have got over at once, 
 thinking I was already in the life-boat, and you 
 would have hauled off perhaps, leaving me be- 
 hind. . . . True enough, says the coxswain. 
 A minute or so passes. This won't do, mutters the 
 
172 THE PARTNER 
 
 coxswain. Suddenly Stafford speaks up in a sort 
 of hollow voice: I was by when he told Mr. Cloete 
 here that he didn't know how he would ever have 
 the courage to leave the old ship; didn't he, now? 
 . . . And Cloete feels his arm being gripped 
 quietly in the dark. . . . Didn't he now? 
 We were standing together just before you went 
 over, Mr. Cloete? . . . 
 
 "Just then the coxswain cries out: I'm going 
 on board to see. . . . Cloete tears his arm 
 away: I am going with you. . . . 
 
 "When they get aboard, the coxswain tells 
 Cloete to go aft along one side of the ship and he 
 would go along on the other so as not to miss the 
 captain. . . . And feel about with your hands, 
 too, says he; he might have fallen and be lying in- 
 sensible somewhere on the deck. . . . When 
 Cloete gets at last to the cabin companion on the 
 poop the coxswain is already there, peering down 
 and sniffing. I detect the smell of smoke down 
 there, says he. And he yells: Are you there, sir? 
 . . . This is not a case for shouting, says 
 Cloete, feeling his heart go stony, as it were. 
 . . . Down they go. Pitch dark; the incli- 
 nation so sharp that the coxswain, groping his 
 way into the captain's room, slips and goes 
 tumbling down. Cloete hears him cry out as 
 though he had hurt himself, and asks what's the 
 
THE PARTNER 173 
 
 matter. And the coxswain answers quietly 
 that he had fallen on the captain, lying there in- 
 sensible. Cloete without a word begins to grope 
 all over the shelves for a box of matches, finds 
 one, strikes a light. He sees the coxswain in his 
 cork jacket kneeling over Captain Harry. . . . 
 Blood, says the coxswain, looking up, and the 
 match goes out. . . . 
 
 "Wait a bit, says Cloete; I'll make paper 
 spills. ... He had felt the back of books 
 on the shelves. And so he stands lighting one 
 spill from another while the coxswain turns poor 
 Captain Harry over. Dead, he says. Shot 
 through the heart. Here's the revolver. . . . 
 He hands it up to Cloete, who looks at it before 
 putting it in his pocket, and sees a plate on the 
 butt with H. Dunbar on it. . . . His own, he 
 mutters. . . . Wliose else revolver did you 
 expect to find? snaps the coxswain. And look, 
 he took off his long oilskin in the cabin before he 
 went in. But what's this lot of burnt paper.^ 
 what could he want to burn the ship's papers 
 for.? . . . 
 
 " Cloete sees all the little drawers drawn out, 
 and asks the coxswain to look well into them. 
 . . . There's nothing, says the man. Cleaned 
 out. Seems to have pulled out all he could lay 
 his hands on and set fire to the lot. Mad — 
 
174 THE PARTNER 
 
 that's what it is — went mad. And now he's 
 dead. You'll have to break it to his wife. . . . 
 
 "I feel as if I were going mad myself, says 
 Cloete, suddenly, and the coxswain begs him for 
 God's sake to pull himself together, and drags 
 him away from the cabin. They had to leave 
 the body, and as it was they were just in time be- 
 fore a furious squall came on. Cloete is dragged 
 into the life-boat and the coxswain tumbles in. 
 Haul away on the grapnel, he shouts; the captain 
 has shot himself. . . . 
 
 " Cloete was like a dead man — didn't care for 
 anything. He let that Stafford pinch his arm 
 twice without making a sign. Most of West- 
 port was on the old pier to see the men out of the 
 life-boat, and at first there was a sort of confused 
 cheery uproar when she came alongside; but 
 after the coxswain has shouted something the 
 voices die out, and everybody is very quiet. As 
 soon as Cloete has set foot on something firm he 
 becomes himself again. The coxswain shakes 
 hands with him: Poor woman, poor woman, I'd 
 rather you had the job than I. . . . 
 
 "Where's the mate.^ asks Cloete. He's the 
 last man who spoke to the master. . . . 
 Somebody ran along — the crew were being taken 
 to the Mission Hall, where there was a fire and 
 shake-downs ready for them — somebody ran 
 
THE PARTNER 175 
 
 along the pier and caught up with Stafford. 
 . . . Here! The owner's agent wants you. 
 . . . Cloete tucks the fellow's arm under his 
 own and walks away with him to the left, where 
 the fishing harbour is. . . .1 suppose I haven't 
 misunderstood you. You wish me to look after 
 you a bit, says he. The other hangs on him 
 rather limp, but gives a nasty little laugh: You 
 had better, he mumbles; but mind, no tricks; no 
 tricks, Mr. Cloete; we are on land now. 
 
 "There's a police office within fifty yards from 
 here, says Cloete. He turns into a little public 
 house, pushes Stafford along the passage. The 
 landlord runs out of the bar. . . . This is the 
 mate of the ship on the rocks, Cloete explains; I 
 wish you would take care of him a bit to-night. 
 . Wiat's the matter with him? asks the 
 man. Stafford leans against the wall in the 
 passage, looking ghastly. And Cloete says it's 
 nothing — done up, of course. ... I will be 
 responsible for the expense; I am the owner's 
 agent. I'll be round in an hour or two to see him. 
 
 "And Cloete gets back to the hotel. The 
 news had travelled there already, and the first 
 thing he sees is George outside the door as white 
 as a sheet waiting for him. Cloete just gives him 
 a nod and they go in. Mrs. Harry stands at the 
 head of the stairs, and, when she sees only these 
 
176 THE PARTNER 
 
 two coming up, flings her arms above her head 
 and runs into her room. Nobody had dared tell 
 her, but not seeing her husband was enough. 
 Cloete hears an awful shriek. . . . Go to 
 her, he says to George. 
 
 "While he's alone in the private parlour 
 Cloete drinks a glass of brandy and thinks it all 
 out. Then George comes in. . . . The land- 
 lady's with her, he says. And he begins to walk 
 up and down the room, flinging his arms about 
 and talking, disconnected like, his face set hard 
 as Cloete has never seen it before. . . . What 
 must be, must be. Dead — only brother. Well, 
 dead — his troubles over. But we are living, he 
 says to Cloete; and I suppose, says he, glaring at 
 him with hot, dry eyes, that you won't forget to 
 wire in the morning to your friend that we are 
 coming in for certain. 
 
 " Meaning the patent-medicine fellow. . . . 
 Death is death and business is business, George 
 goes on; and look — my hands are clean, he says, 
 showing them to Cloete. Cloete thinks: He's 
 going crazy. He catches hold of him by the 
 shoulders and begins to shake him : Damn you — 
 if you had had the sense to know what to say to 
 your brother, if you had had the spunk to speak 
 to him at all, you moral creature you, he would 
 be alive now, he shouts. 
 
THE PARTNER 177 
 
 "At this George stares, then bursts out weep- 
 ing with a great bellow. He throws himself on 
 the couch, buries his face in a cushion, and howls 
 like a kid. . . . That's better, thinks Cloete, 
 and he leaves him, telling the landlord that he 
 must go out, as he has some little business to 
 attend to that night. The landlord's wife, weep- 
 ing herself, catches him on the stairs: Oh, sir, 
 that poor lady will go out of her mind. . . . 
 
 *' Cloete shakes her off thinking to himself: 
 Oh, no ! She won't. She will get over it. No- 
 body will go mad about this affair unless I do. 
 It isn't sorrow that makes people go mad, but 
 worry. 
 
 "There Cloete was wrong. What affected 
 Mrs. Harry was that her husband should take 
 his own life, with her, as it were, looking on. 
 She brooded over it so that in less than a year 
 they had to put her in a Home. She was very, 
 very quiet; just gentle melancholy. She lived 
 for quite a long time. 
 
 "Well, Cloete splashes along in the wind and 
 rain. Nobody in the streets — all the excitement 
 over. The publican runs out to meet him in the 
 passage and says to him: Not this way. He 
 isn't in his room. We couldn't get him to go to 
 bed nohow. He's in the Httle parlour there. 
 We've lighted him a fire. . . . You have been 
 
178 THE PARTNER 
 
 giving him drinks too, says Cloete; I never said I 
 would be responsible for drinks. How many? 
 . . . Two, says the other. It's all right. I 
 don't mind doing that much for a ship- 
 wrecked sailor. . . . Cloete smiles his 
 funny smile: Eh? Come. He paid for them. 
 
 The publican just blinks. 
 Gave you gold, didn't he? Speak up! 
 What of that! cries the man. What are you 
 after, anyway? He had the right change for 
 his sovereign. 
 
 "Just so, says Cloete. He walks into the 
 parlour, and there he sees our Stafford; hair all 
 up on end, landlord's shirt and pants on, bare 
 feet in slippers, sitting by the fire. When he 
 sees Cloete he casts his eyes down. 
 
 "You didn't mean us ever to meet again, 
 Mr. Cloete, Stafford says, demurely. 
 That fellow, when he had the drink he wanted — 
 he wasn't a drunkard — would put on this sort 
 of sly, modest air. . . . But since the cap- 
 tain committed suicide, he says, I have been 
 sitting here thinking it out. All sorts of things 
 happen. Conspiracy to lose the ship — at- 
 tempted murder — and this suicide. For if it 
 was not suicide, Mr. Cloete, then I know of 
 a victim of the most cruel, cold-blooded attempt 
 at murder; somebody who has suffered a thou- 
 
THE PARTNER 179 
 
 sand deaths. And that makes the thousand 
 pounds of which we spoke once a quite insignifi- 
 cant sum. Look how very convenient this sui- 
 cide is. . . . 
 
 "He looks up at Cloete then, who smiles at 
 him and comes quite close to the table. 
 
 "You killed Harry Dunbar, he whispers. . . . 
 The fellow glares at him and shows his teeth: 
 Of course I did! I had been in that cabin for 
 an hour and a half like a rat in a trap. . . . 
 Shut up and left to drown in that wreck. Let 
 flesh and blood judge. Of course I shot him! 
 I thought it was you, you murdering scoundrel, 
 come back to settle me. He opens the door 
 flying and tumbles right down upon me; I had, 
 a revolver in my hand, and I shot him. I was 
 crazy. Men have gone crazy for less. 
 
 " Cloete looks at him without flinching. Aha ! 
 That's your story, is it? . . . And he 
 shakes the table a little in his passion as he 
 speaks. . . . Now listen to mine. What's 
 this conspiracy? Who's going to prove it? 
 You were there to rob. You were rifling his 
 cabin; he came upon you unawares with your 
 hands in the drawer; and you shot him with 
 his own revolver. You killed to steal — to steal ! 
 His brother and the clerks in the office know 
 that he took sixty pounds with him to sea. 
 
180 THE PARTNER 
 
 Sixty pounds in gold in a canvas bag. He told 
 me where they were. The coxswain of the 
 life-boat can swear to it that the drawers were 
 all empty. And you are such a fool that before 
 you're half an hour ashore you change a sov- 
 ereign to pay for a drink. Listen to me. If 
 you don't turn up day after to-morrow at 
 George Dunbar's solicitors, to make the proper 
 deposition as to the loss of the ship, I shall set 
 the police on your track. Day after to-mor- 
 row. . . . 
 
 "And then what do you think? That Staf- 
 ford begins to tear his hair. Just so. Tugs 
 at it with both hands without saying anything. 
 Cloete gives a push to the table which nearly 
 sends the fellow off his chair, tumbling inside 
 the fender; so that he has got to catch hold of it 
 to save himself. . 
 
 "You know the sort of man I am, Cloete says, 
 fiercely. I've got to a point that I don't care 
 what happens to me. I would shoot you now 
 for tuppence. 
 
 "At this the cur dodges under the table. 
 Then Cloete goes out, and as he turns in the 
 street — you know, little fishermen's cottages, 
 all dark; raining in torrents, too — the other 
 opens the window of the parlour and speaks in a 
 sort of crying voice — 
 
THE PARTNER 181 
 
 "You low Yankee fiend — I'll pay you off 
 some day. 
 
 "Cloete passes by with a damn bitter laugh, 
 because he thinks that the fellow in a way has 
 paid him off already, if he only knew it." 
 
 My impressive ruffian drank what remained of 
 his beer, while his black, sunken eyes looked at 
 me over the rim. 
 
 "I don't quite understand this," I said. "In 
 what way.^" 
 
 He unbent a little and explained without too 
 much scorn that Captain Harry being dead, his 
 half of the insurance money went to his wife, 
 and her trustees of course bought consols with 
 it. Enough to keep her comfortable. George 
 Dunbar's half, as Cloete feared from the first, 
 did not prove sufficient to launch the medicine 
 well; other moneyed men stepped in, and these 
 two had to go out of that business, pretty nearly 
 shorn of everything. 
 
 "I am curious," I said, "to learn what the 
 motive force of this tragic affair was — I mean 
 the patent medicine. Do you know.^^ " 
 
 He named it, and I whistled respectfully. 
 Nothing less than Parker's Lively Lum- 
 bago Pills. Enormous property! You know 
 it; all the world knows it. Every second 
 
 Au ^-^\ 
 
182 THE PARTNER 
 
 man, at least, on this globe of ours has tried 
 it. 
 
 "Why!" I cried, "they missed an immense 
 fortune." 
 
 "Yes," he mumbled, "by the price of a re- 
 volver-shot." 
 
 He told me also that eventually Cloete re- 
 turned to the States, passenger in a cargo-boat 
 from Albert Dock. The night before he sailed 
 he met him wandering about the quays, and 
 took him home for a drink. "Funny chap, 
 Cloete. We sat all night drinking grogs, till 
 it was time for him to go on board." 
 
 It was then that Cloete, unembittered but 
 weary, told him this story, with that utterly 
 unconscious frankness of a patent-medicine 
 man stranger to all moral standards. Cloete 
 concluded by remarking that he had "had 
 enough of the old country." George Dunbar 
 had turned on him, too, in the end. Cloete 
 was clearly somewhat disillusioned. 
 
 As to Stafford, he died, professed loafer, in 
 some East End hospital or other, and on his last 
 day clamoured "for a parson," because his 
 conscience worried him for killing an innocent 
 man. "Wanted somebody to tell him it was 
 all right," growled my old ruffian, contemptu- 
 ously. "He told the parson that I knew this 
 
THE PARTNER 188 
 
 Cloete who had tried to murder him, and so the 
 parson (he worked among the dock labourers) 
 once spoke to me about it. That skunk of a 
 fellow finding himself trapped yelled for mercy. 
 . . . Promised to be good and so on. . . . 
 Then he went crazy . . . screamed and threw 
 himself about, beat his head against the bulk- 
 heads . . . you can guess all that — eh? 
 till he was exhausted. Gave up. 
 Threw himself down, shut his eyes, and wanted 
 to pray. So he says. Tried to think of some 
 prayer for a quick death — he was that terrified. 
 Thought that if he had a knife or something he 
 would cut his throat, and be done with it. Then 
 he thinks: No! Would try to cut away the 
 wood about the lock. . . . He had no knife 
 in his pocket. . . . He was weeping and 
 calling on God to send him a tool of some 
 kind when suddenly he thinks: Axe! In 
 most ships there is a spare emergency axe 
 kept in the master's room in some locker or 
 other. . . . Up he jumps. . . . Pitch 
 dark. Pulls at the drawers to find matches 
 and, groping for them, the first thing he comes 
 upon — Captain Harry's revolver. Loaded 
 too. He goes perfectly quiet all over. Can 
 shoot the lock to pieces. See? Saved! God's 
 providence! There are boxes of matches too. 
 
184 THE PARTNER 
 
 Thinks he: I may just as well see what I am 
 about. 
 
 "Strikes a light and sees the little canvas bag 
 tucked away at the back of the drawer. Knew 
 at once what that was. Rams it into his pocket 
 quick. Aha! says he to himself: this requires 
 more light. So he pitches a lot of paper on the 
 floor, set fire to it, and starts in a hurry rum- 
 maging for more valuables. Did you ever? 
 He told that East-End parson that the devil 
 tempted him. First God's mercy — then devil's 
 work. Turn and turn about. . . . 
 
 "Any squirming skunk can talk like that. 
 He was so busy with the drawers that the first 
 thing he heard was a shout. Great Heavens. 
 He looks up and there was the door open (Cloete 
 had left the key in the lock) and Captain Harry 
 holding on, well above him, very fierce in the 
 light of the burning papers. His eyes were 
 starting out of his head. Thieving, he thunders 
 at him. A sailor! An officer! No! A wretch 
 like you deserves no better than to be left here 
 to drown. 
 
 "This Stafford — on his death-bed — told the 
 parson that when he heard these words he went 
 crazy again. He snatched his hand with the 
 revolver in it out of the drawer, and fired with- 
 out aiming. Captain Harry fell right in with a 
 
THE PARTNER 185 
 
 crash like a stone on top of the burning papers, 
 putting the blaze out. All dark. Not a sound. 
 He listened for a bit then dropped the revolver 
 and scrambled out on deck like mad." 
 
 The old fellow struck the table with his 
 ponderous fist. 
 
 "What makes me sick is to hear these silly 
 boatmen telling people the captain committed 
 suicide. Pah ! Captain Harry was a man that 
 could face his Maker any time up there, and 
 here below, too. He wasn't the sort to slink 
 out of life. Not he! He was a good man down 
 to the ground. He gave me my first job as 
 stevedore only three days after I got mar- 
 ried." 
 
 As the vindication of Captain Harry from the 
 charge of suicide seemed to be his only object, 
 I did not thank him very effusively for his 
 material. And then it was not worth many 
 thanks in any case. 
 
 For it is too startling even to think of such 
 things happening in our respectable Channel in 
 full view, so to speak, of the luxurious conti- 
 nental traffic to Switzerland and Monte Carlo. 
 This story to be acceptable should have been 
 transposed to somewhere in the South Seas, 
 But it would have been too much trouble to 
 cook it for the consumption of magazine readers. 
 
186 THE PARTNER 
 
 So here it is raw, so to speak — just as it was told 
 to me — but unfortunately robbed of the striking 
 effect of the narrator; the most imposing old 
 ruffian that ever followed the unromantic trade 
 of master stevedore in the port of London. 
 
 Oct, 1910. 
 
THE INN OF THE TWO WITCHES 
 A FIND 
 
 |1/^ ' 
 
THE INN OF THE TWO WITCHES 
 
 A FIND 
 
 This tale, episode, experience — call it how you 
 will — was related in the fifties of the last century 
 by a man who, by his own confession, was sixty 
 years old at the time. Sixty is not a bad age — 
 unless in perspective, when no doubt it is con- 
 templated by the majority of us with mixed 
 feelings. It is a calm age; the game is practi- 
 cally over by then; and standing aside one be- 
 gins to remember with a certain vividness what 
 a fine fellow one used to be. I have observed 
 that, by an amiable attention of Providence, 
 most people at sixty begin to take a romantic 
 view of themselves. Their very failures exhale 
 a charm of peculiar potency. And indeed the 
 hopes of the future are a fine company to live 
 with, exquisite forms, fascinating if you like, but 
 — so to speak — naked, stripped for a run. The 
 robes of glamour are luckily the property of the 
 immovable past which, without them, would sit, 
 a shivery sort of thing, under the gathering 
 shadows. 
 
190 THE INN OF THE TWO WITCHES 
 
 I suppose it was the romanticism of growing 
 age which set our man to relate his experience for 
 his own satisfaction or for the wonder of his 
 posterity. It could not have been for his glory, 
 because the experience was simply that of an 
 abominable fright — terror he calls it. You 
 would have guessed that the relation alluded to 
 in the very first lines was in writing. 
 
 This writing constitutes the Find declared in 
 the sub-title. The title itself is my own con- 
 trivance (can't call it invention), and has the 
 merit of veracity. We will be concerned with 
 an inn here. As to the witches that's merely a 
 conventional expression, and we must take our 
 man's word for it that it fits the case. 
 
 The Find was made in a box of books bought 
 in London, in a street which no longer exists, 
 from a second-hand bookseller in the last stage 
 of decay. As to the books themselves they were 
 at least twentieth-hand, and on inspection 
 turned out not worth the very small sum of 
 money I disbursed. It might have been some 
 premonition of the fact which made me say : " But 
 I must have the box too." The decayed book- 
 seller assented by the careless, tragic gesture of a 
 man already doomed to extinction. 
 
 A litter of loose pages at the bottom of the box 
 excited my curiosity but faintly. The close. 
 
THE INN OF THE TWO WITCHES 191 
 
 neat, regular handwriting was not attractive at 
 first sight. But in one place the statement that 
 in A. D. 1813 the writer was twenty-two years old 
 caught my; eye. Two and twenty is an interest- 
 ing age in which one is easily reckless and easily 
 frightened; the faculty of reflection being weak 
 and the power of imagination strong. 
 
 In another place the phrase: "At night we 
 stood in again," arrested my languid attention, 
 because it was a sea phrase. "Let's see what it 
 is all about," I thought, without excitement. 
 
 Oh! but it was a dull-faced MS., each line re- 
 sembling every other line in their close-set and 
 regular order. It was like the drone of a monoto- 
 nous voice. A treatise on sugar-refining (the 
 dreariest subject I can think of) could have been 
 given a more lively appearance. " In a. d. 1813 
 I was twenty-two years old," he begins earnestly, 
 and goes on with every appearance of calm, 
 horrible industry. Don't imagine, however, 
 that there is anything archaic in my find. Dia- 
 bolic ingenuity in invention though as old as the 
 world is by no means a lost art. Look at the 
 telephones for shattering the little peace of mind 
 given to us in this world, or at the machine guns 
 for letting with dispatch life out of our bodies. 
 Now-a-days any blear-eyed old witch if only 
 strong enough to turn an insignificant little 
 
192 THE INN OF THE TWO WITCHES 
 
 handle could lay low a hundred young men of 
 twenty in the twinkling of an eye. 
 
 If this isn't progress ! . . . Why immense ! 
 We have moved on, and so you must expect to 
 meet here a certain naiveness of contrivance and 
 simplicity of aim appertaining to the remote 
 epoch. And of course no motoring tourist can 
 hope to find such an inn anywhere, now. This 
 one, the one of the title, was situated in Spain. 
 That much I discovered only from internal 
 evidence, because a good many pages of that re- 
 lation were missing — perhaps not a great mis- 
 fortune after all. The writer seemed to have 
 entered into a most elaborate detail of the why 
 and wherefore of his presence on that coast — 
 presumably the north coast of Spain. His ex- 
 perience has nothing to do with the sea, though. 
 As far as I can make it out, he was an officer on 
 board a sloop-of-war. There's nothing strange 
 in that. At all stages of the long Peninsular 
 campaign many of our men-of-war of the smaller 
 kind were cruising off the north coast of Spain — 
 as risky and disagreeable a station as can well be 
 imagined. 
 
 It looks as though that ship of his had had 
 some special service to perform. A careful ex- 
 planation of all the circumstances was to be ex- 
 pected from our man, only, as I've said, some of 
 
THE INN OF THE TWO WITCHES 193 
 
 his pages (good tough paper too) were missing: 
 gone in covers for jampots or in wadding for the 
 fowHng-pieces of his irreverent posterity. But 
 it is to be seen clearly that communication with 
 the shore and even the sending of messages in- 
 land was part of her service, either to obtain in- 
 telligence from or to transmit orders or advice to 
 patriotic Spaniards, guerilleros or secret juntas 
 of the province. Something of the sort. All 
 this can be only inferred from the preserved 
 scraps of his conscientious writing. 
 
 Next we come upon the panegyric of a very 
 fine sailor, a member of the ship's company, 
 having the rating of the captain's coxswain. He 
 was known on board as Cuba Tom; not because 
 he was Cuban however; he was indeed the best 
 type of a genuine British tar of that time, and a 
 man-of-war's man for years. He came by the 
 name on account of some wonderful adventures 
 he had in that island in his young days, adven- 
 tures which were the favourite subject of the 
 yarns he was in the habit of spinning to his ship- 
 mates of an evening on the forecastle head. He 
 was intelligent, very strong, and of proved 
 courage. Incidentally we are told, so exact is 
 our narrator, that Tom had the finest pigtail for 
 thickness and length of any man in the Navy. 
 This appendage, much cared for and sheathed 
 
194 THE INN OF THE TWO WITCHES 
 
 tightly in a porpoise skin, hung half way down 
 his broad back to the great admiration of all be- 
 holders and to the great envy of some. 
 
 Our young oflficer dwells on the manly quali- 
 ties of Cuba Tom with something like affection. 
 This sort of relation between officer and man was 
 not then very rare. A youngster on joining the 
 service was put under the charge of a trust- 
 worthy seaman, who slung his first hammock for 
 him and often later on became a sort of humble 
 friend to the junior officer. The narrator on 
 joining the sloop had found this man on board 
 after some years of separation. There is some- 
 thing touching in the warm pleasure he remem- 
 bers and records at this meeting with the pro- 
 fessional mentor of his boyhood. 
 
 We discover then that, no Spaniard being 
 forthcoming for the service, this worthy seaman 
 with the unique pigtail and a very high char- 
 acter for courage and steadiness had been 
 selected as messenger for one of these missions 
 inland which have been mentioned. His prepa- 
 rations were not elaborate. One gloomy autumn 
 morning the sloop ran close to a shallow cove 
 where a landing could be made on that iron- 
 bound shore. A boat was lowered, and pulled 
 in with Tom Corbin (Cuba Tom) perched in the 
 bow, and our young man (Mr. Edgar Byrne was^ 
 
THE INN OF THE TWO WITCHES 195 
 
 his name on this earth which knows him no more) 
 sitting in the stern sheets. 
 
 A few inhabitants of a hamlet, whose grey 
 stone houses could be seen a hundred yards or so 
 up a deep ravine, had come down to the shore 
 and watched the approach of the boat. The two 
 Englishmen leaped ashore. Either from dullness 
 or astonishment the peasants gave no greeting, 
 and only fell back in silence. 
 
 Mr. Byrne had made up his mind to see Tom 
 Corbin started fairly on his way. He looked 
 round at the heavy surprised faces. 
 
 "There isn't much to get out of them," he 
 said. *'Let us walk up to the village. There 
 will be a wine shop for sure where we may find 
 somebody more promising to talk to and get 
 some information from." 
 
 "Aye, aye, sir," said Tom, falling into step be- 
 hind his officer. "A bit of palaver as to courses 
 and distances can do no harm; I crossed the 
 broadest part of Cuba by the help of my tongue 
 tho* knowing far less Spanish than I do now. As 
 they say it themselves it was ' four words and no 
 more ' with me, that time when I got left behind 
 on shore by the Blanche, frigate." 
 
 He made light of what was before him, which 
 was but a day's journey into the mountains. It 
 is true that there was a full day's journey before 
 
196 THE INN OF THE TWO WITCHES 
 
 striking the mountain path, but that was noth- 
 ing for a man who had crossed the island of 
 Cuba on his two legs, and with no more than 
 four words of the language to begin with. 
 
 The oflBcer and the man were walking now on 
 a thick sodden bed of dead leaves, which the 
 peasants thereabouts accumulate in the streets of 
 their villages to rot during the winter for field 
 manure. Turning his head Mr. Byrne perceived 
 that the whole male population of the hamlet 
 was following them on the noiseless springy 
 carpet. Women stared from the doors of the 
 houses and the children had apparently gone 
 into hiding. The village knew the ship by sight, 
 afar off, but no stranger had landed on that spot 
 perhaps for a hundred years or more. The 
 I cocked hat of Mr. Byrne, the bushy whiskers 
 \ and the enormous pigtail of the sailor, filled them 
 with mute wonder. They pressed behind the 
 two Englishmen staring like those islanders dis- 
 covered by Captain Cook in the South Seas. 
 
 It was then that Byrne had his first glimpse of 
 the little cloaked man in a yellow hat. Faded 
 and dingy as it was, this covering for his head 
 made him noticeable. 
 
 The entrance to the wine shop was like a 
 rough hole in a wall of flints. The owner was 
 the only person who was not in the street, for 
 
THE INN OF THE TWO WITCHES 197 
 
 he came out from the darkness at the back where 
 the inflated forms of wine skins hung on nails 
 could be vaguely distinguished. He was a 
 tall, one-eyed Asturian with scrubby, hollow 
 cheeks; a grave expression of countenance con- 
 trasted enigmatically with the roaming restless- 
 ness of his solitary eye. On learning that the 
 matter in hand was the sending on his way of 
 that English mariner toward a certain Gonzales 
 in the mountains, he closed his good eye for a 
 moment as if in meditation. Then opened it, 
 very lively again. 
 
 "Possibly, possibly. It could be done." 
 A friendly murmur arose in the group in the 
 doorway at the name of Gonzales, the local 
 leader against the French. Inquiring as to the 
 safety of the road Byrne was glad to learn that 
 no troops of that nation had been seen in the 
 neighbourhood for months. Not the smallest 
 little detachment of these impious polizones. 
 While giving these answers the owner of the 
 wine-shop busied himself in drawing into an 
 earthenware jug some wine which he set before 
 the heretic English, pocketing with grave ab- 
 straction the small piece of money the oflficer 
 threw upon the table in recognition of the un- 
 written law that none may enter a wine-shop 
 without buying drink. His eye was in con- 
 
198 THE INN OF THE TWO WITCHES 
 
 stant motion as if it were trying to do the work 
 of the two; but when Byrne made inquiries as 
 to the possibiKty of hiring a mule, it became 
 immovably fixed in the direction of the door 
 which was closely besieged by the curious. 
 In front of them, just within the threshold, the 
 little man in the large cloak and yellow hat had 
 taken his stand. He was a diminutive person, 
 a mere homunculus, Byrne describes him, in a 
 ridiculously mysterious, yet assertive attitude, 
 a corner of his cloak thrown cavalierly over his 
 left shoulder, muffling his chin and mouth; 
 while the broad-brimmed yellow hat hung on a 
 corner of his square little head. He stood there 
 taking snuff, repeatedly. 
 
 "A mule," repeated the wine-seller, his eyes 
 fixed on that quaint and snuffy figure. . . . 
 "No, senor officer! Decidedly no mule is to 
 be got in this poor place." 
 
 The coxswain, who stood by with the true 
 sailor's air of unconcern in strange surround- 
 ings, struck in quietly — 
 
 "If your honour will believe me Shank's 
 pony's the best for this job. I would have to 
 leave the beast somewhere, anyhow, since the 
 captain has told me that half my way will be 
 along paths fit only for goats." 
 
 The diminutive man made a step forward, and 
 
THE INN OF THE TWO WITCHES 199 
 
 speaking through the folds of the cloak which 
 seemed to muffle a sarcastic intention — 
 
 " Si, senor. They are too honest in this vil- 
 lage to have a single mule amongst them for 
 your worship's service. To that I can bear 
 testimony. In these times it's only rogues or 
 very clever men who can manage to have mules 
 or any other four-footed beasts and the where- 
 withal to keep them. But what this valiant 
 mariner wants is a guide; and here, senor, be- 
 hold my brother-in-law, Bernardino, wine-seller, 
 and alcade of this most Christian and hospitable 
 village, who will find you one." 
 
 This, Mr. Byrne says in his relation, was the 
 only thing to do. A youth in a ragged coat 
 and goatskin breeches was produced after some 
 more talk. The English officer stood treat to 
 the whole village, and while the peasants drank 
 he and Cuba Tom took their departure accom- 
 panied by the guide. The diminutive man in 
 the cloak had disappeared. 
 
 Byrne went along with the coxswain out of 
 the village. He wanted to see him fairly on his 
 way; and he would have gone a greater distance, 
 if the seaman had not suggested respectfully 
 the advisability of return so as not to keep the 
 ship a moment longer than necessary so close 
 in with the shore on such an unpromising look- 
 
200 THE INN OF THE TWO WITCHES 
 
 ing morning. A wild gloomy sky hung over 
 their heads when they took leave of each other, 
 and their surroundings of rank bushes and 
 stony fields were dreary. 
 
 "In four days' time," were Byrne's last words, 
 "the ship will stand in and send a boat on shore 
 if the weather permits. If not you'll have to 
 make it out on shore the best you can till we 
 come along to take you off." 
 
 "Right you are, sir," answered Tom, and 
 strode on. Byrne watched him step out on a 
 narrow path. In a thick pea-jacket with a 
 pair of pistols in his belt, a cutlass by his side, 
 and a stout cudgel in his hand, he looked a 
 sturdy figure and well able to take care of him- 
 self. He turned round for a moment to wave 
 his hand, giving to Byrne one more view of his 
 honest bronzed face with bushy whiskers. The 
 lad in goatskin breeches looking, Byrne says, 
 like a faun or a young satyr leaping ahead, 
 stopped to wait for him, and then went off at a 
 bound. Both disappeared. 
 
 Byrne turned back. The hamlet was hidden 
 in a fold of the ground, and the spot seemed the 
 most lonely corner of the earth and as if accursed 
 in its uninhabited desolate barrenness. Before 
 he had walked many yards, there appeared very 
 suddenly from behind a bush the muffled up 
 
THE INN OF THE TWO WITCHES 201 
 
 diminutive Spaniard. Naturally Byrne stopped 
 short. 
 
 The other made a mysterious gesture with a 
 tiny hand peeping from under his cloak. His 
 hat hung very much at the side of his head. 
 *'Senor," he said without any preliminaries. 
 "Caution! It is a positive fact that one-eyed 
 Bernardino, my brother-in-law, has at this mo- 
 ment a mule in his stable. And why he who is 
 not clever has a mule there .^ Because he is a 
 rogue; a man without conscience. Because 
 I had to give up the macho to him to secure for 
 myself a roof to sleep under and a mouthful of 
 olla to keep my soul in this insignificant body of 
 mine. Yet, seiior, it contains a heart many 
 times bigger than the mean thing which beats 
 in the breast of that brute connection of mine 
 of which I am ashamed, though I opposed that 
 marriage with all my power. Well, the mis- 
 guided woman suffered enough. She had her 
 purgatory on this earth — God rest her soul." 
 
 Byrne says he was so astonished by the sudden 
 appearance of that sprite-like being, and by the 
 sardonic bitterness of the speech, that he was 
 unable to disentangle the significant fact from 
 what seemed but a piece of family history 
 fired out at him without rhyme or reason. Not 
 at first. He was confounded and at the same 
 
202 THE INN OF THE TWO WITCHES 
 
 time he was impressed by the rapid forcible 
 delivery, quite different from the frothy excited 
 loquacity of an Italian. So he stared while the 
 homunculus, letting his cloak fall about him, 
 aspired an immense quantity of snuff out of the 
 hollow of his palm. 
 
 "A mule," exclaimed Byrne, seizing at last 
 the real aspect of the discourse. "You say he 
 has got a mule.? That's queer! Why did he 
 refuse to let me have it.^^ " 
 
 The diminutive Spaniard muffled himself up 
 again with great dignity. 
 
 ''Quien sabe,'' he said coldly, with a shrug of 
 his draped shoulders. "He is a great 'politico in 
 everything he does. But one thing your wor- 
 ship may be certain of — that his intentions are 
 always rascally. This husband of my defunta 
 sister ought to have been married a long time 
 ago to the widow with the wooden legs."^ 
 
 "I see. But remember that, whatever your 
 motives, your worship countenanced him in this 
 lie." 
 
 The bright unhappy eyes on each side of a pred- 
 atory nose confronted Byrne without wincing, 
 while with that testiness which lurks so often at 
 the bottom of Spanish dignity — 
 
 ^The gallows, supposed to be widowed of the last executed 
 criminal and waiting for another. 
 
THE INN OF THE TWO WITCHES 203 
 
 **No doubt the senor officer would not lose an 
 ounce of blood if I were stuck under the fifth 
 rib," he retorted. "But what of this poor 
 sinner here? " Then changing his tone. "Seiior, 
 b^:_4he necessities of the times I live here in 
 ^ exile^a Castilian and an old Christian, existing 
 miserably in the midst of these brute Asturians, 
 and dependent on the worst of them all, who 
 has less conscience and scruples than a wolf. 
 And being a man of intelligence I govern myself 
 accordingly. Yet I can hardly contain my 
 scorn. You have heard the way I spoke. A 
 caballero of jmrts like your worship might have 
 guessed that there was a cat in there." 
 
 "WTiat cat.^" said Byrne uneasily. "Oh, I 
 see. Something suspicious. No, senor. I 
 guessed nothing. My nation are not good 
 guessers at that sort of thing; and, therefore, I 
 ask you plainly whether that wine-seller has 
 spoken the truth in other particulars.^ " 
 
 "There are certainly no Frenchmen any- 
 where about," said the little man with a return 
 to his. indifferent manner. 
 
 "Or robbers — ladrones P " 
 
 ''Ladrones en grande — no! Assuredly not," 
 was the answer in a cold philosophical tone. 
 "WTiat is there left for them to do after the 
 French.^ And nobody travels in these times. 
 
204 THE INN OF THE TWO WITCHES 
 
 But who can say! Opportunity makes the 
 robber. Still that mariner of yours has a fierce 
 aspect, and with the son of a cat rats will have 
 no play. But there is a saying, too, that where 
 honey is there will soon be flies." 
 
 This oracular discourse exasperated Byrne. 
 "In the name of God," he cried, "tell me plainly 
 if you think my man is reasonably safe on his 
 journey." 
 
 The homunculus, undergoing one of his rapid 
 changes, seized the officer's arm. The grip of 
 his little hand was astonishing. 
 
 "Senor! Bernardino had taken notice of 
 him. What more do you want? And listen 
 — men have disappeared on this road — on a 
 certain portion of this road, when Bernardino 
 kept a meson, an inn, and I, his brother-in-law, 
 had coaches and mules for hire. Now there 
 are no travellers, no coaches. The French have 
 ruined me. Bernardino has retired here for 
 reasons of his own after my sister died. They 
 were three to torment the life out of her, he 
 and Erminia and Lucilla, two aunts of his 
 — all affiliated to the devil. And now he has 
 robbed me of my last mule. You are an armed 
 man. Demand the macho from him, with a 
 pistol to his head, senor — it is not his, I tell 
 you — and ride after your man who is so pre- 
 
THE INN OF THE TWO WITCHES 205 
 
 cious to you. And then you shall both be safe, 
 for no two travellers have been ever known to 
 disappear together in those days. As to the 
 beast, I, its owner, I confide it to your honour." 
 
 They were staring hard at each other, and 
 Byrne nearly burst into a laugh at the ingenuity 
 and transparency of the little man's plot to re- 
 gain possession of his mule. But he had no 
 difficulty to keep a straight face because he felt 
 deep within himself a strange inclination to do 
 that very extraordinary thing. He did not 
 laugh, but his lip quivered at which the dimin- 
 utive Spaniard, detaching his black glittering 
 eyes from Byrne's face, turned his back on him 
 brusquely with a gesture and a fling of the cloak 
 which somehow expressed contempt, bitterness, 
 and discouragement all at once. He turned 
 away and stood still, his hat aslant, muffled up 
 to the ears. But he was not offended to the 
 point of refusing the silver duro which Byrne 
 offered him with a non-committal speech as if 
 nothing extraordinary had passed between them. 
 
 "I must make haste on board now," said 
 Byrne, then. 
 
 ''Vaya usted con Dios'' muttered the gnome. 
 And this interview ended with a sarcastic low 
 sweep of the hat which was replaced at the same 
 perilous angle as before. 
 
206 THE INN OF THE TWO WITCHES 
 
 Directly the boat had been hoisted the ship's 
 sails were filled on the off-shore tack, and Byrne 
 imparted the whole story to his captain, who was 
 but a very few years older than himself. There 
 was some amused indignation at it — but while 
 they laughed they looked gravely at each other. 
 A Spanish dwarf trying to beguile an oflficer of his 
 majesty's navy into stealing a mule for him — 
 that was too funny, too ridiculous, too incredible. 
 Those were the exclamations of the captain . He 
 couldn't get over the grotesqueness of it. 
 
 "Incredible. That's just it," murmured 
 Byrne at last in a significant tone. 
 
 They exchanged a long stare. "It's as clear 
 as daylight," affirmed the captain impatiently, 
 because in his heart he was not certain. And 
 Tom the best seaman in the ship for one, the 
 good-humouredly deferential friend of his boy- 
 hood for the other, was becoming endowed with 
 ^a compelling fascination, like a symbolic figure 
 of loyalty appealing to their feelings and their 
 conscience, so that they could not detach their 
 thoughts from his safety. Several times they 
 went up on deck, only to look at the coast, as if 
 it could tell them something of his fate. It 
 stretched away, lengthening in the distance, 
 mute, naked, and savage, veiled now and then by 
 the slanting cold shafts of rain. The westerly 
 
THE INN OF THE TWO WITCHES 207 
 
 swell rolled its interminable angry lines of foam 
 and big dark clouds flew over the ship in a sin- 
 ister procession. 
 
 "I wish to goodness you had done what your 
 little friend in the yellow hat wanted you to do," 
 said the commander of the sloop late in the 
 afternoon with visible exasperation. 
 
 **Do you, sir.^" answered Byrne, bitter with 
 positive anguish. "I wonder what you would 
 have said afterward ? Why ! I might have been 
 kicked out of the service for looting a mule from 
 a nation in alliance with His Majesty. Or I 
 might have been battered to a pulp with flails 
 and pitchforks — a pretty tale to get abroad 
 about one of your officers — while trying to steal 
 a mule. Or chased ignominiously to the boat — 
 for you would not have expected me to shoot 
 down unoffending people for the sake of a mangy 
 mule. . . . And yet," he added in a low voice, 
 "I almost wished myself I had done it." 
 
 Before dark those two young men had worked 
 themselves up into a highly complex psycho- 
 logical state of scornful scepticism and alarmed 
 credulity. It tormented them exceedingly; and 
 the thought that it would have to last for six 
 days at least, and possibly be prolonged further 
 for an indefinite time, was not to be borne. The 
 ship was therefore put on the inshore tack at 
 
208 THE INN OF THE TWO WITCHES 
 
 dark. All through the gusty dark night she 
 went toward the land to look for her man, at 
 times lying over in the heavy puffs, at others 
 rolling idle in the swell, nearly stationary, as if 
 she too had a mind of her own to swing perplexed 
 between cool reason and warm impulse. 
 
 Then just at daybreak a boat put off from her 
 and went on tossed by the seas toward the 
 shallow cove where, with considerable difficulty, 
 an officer in a thick coat and a round hat man- 
 aged to land on a strip of shingle. 
 
 "It was my wish," writes Mr. Byrne, "a wish 
 of which my captain approved, to land secretly 
 if possible. I did not want to be seen either by 
 my aggrieved friend in the yellow hat, whose 
 motives were not clear, or by the one-eyed wine- 
 seller, who may or may not have been affiliated 
 to the devil, or indeed by any other dweller in 
 that primitive v illage. But unfortunately the 
 cove was the only possible landing place for 
 miles; and from the steepness of the ravine I 
 couldn't make a circuit to avoid the houses." 
 
 "Fortunately," he goes on, "all the people 
 were yet in their beds. It was barely daylight 
 when I found myself walking on the thick layer 
 of sodden leaves filling the only street. No soul 
 was stirring abroad, no dog barked. The si- 
 lence was profound, and I had concluded with 
 
THE INN OF THE TWO WITCHES 209 
 
 some wonder that apparently no dogs were kept 
 in the hamlet, when I heard a low snarl, and from 
 a noisome alley between two hovels emerged a 
 vile cur with its tail between its legs. He slunk 
 off silently showing me his teeth as he ran before 
 me, and he disappeared so suddenly that he might ^ 
 have been the unclean incarnation of the Evil ""' 
 One. There was, too, something so weird in the 
 manner of its coming and vanishing, that my 
 spirits, already by no means very high, became 
 further depressed by the revolting sight of this 
 creature as if by an unlucky presage." 
 
 He got away from the coast unobserved, as far 
 as he knew, then struggled manfully to the west 
 against wind and rain, on a barren dark upland, 
 under a sky of ashes. Far away the harsh and 
 desolate mountains raising their scarped and 
 denuded ridges seemed to wait for him menac- 
 ingly. The evening found him fairly near to 
 them, but, in sailor language, uncertain of his 
 position, hungry, wet, and tired out by a day of 
 steady tramping over broken ground during 
 which he had seen very few people, and had been 
 unable to obtain the slightest intelligence of Tom 
 Corbin's passage. "On! on! I must push on," 
 he had been saying to himself through the hours 
 of solitary effort, spurred more by incertitude 
 than by any definite fear or definite hope. 
 
210 THE INN OF THE TWO WITCHES 
 
 The lowering daylight died out quickly, leav- 
 ing him faced by a broken bridge. He de- 
 scended into the ravine, forded a narrow stream 
 by the last gleam of rapid water, and clambering 
 out on the other side was met by the night which 
 fell like a bandage over his eyes. The wind 
 sweeping in the darkness the broadside of the 
 sierra worried his ears by a continuous roaring 
 noise as of a maddened sea. He suspected 
 that he had lost the road. Even in daylight, 
 with its ruts and mudholes and ledges of out- 
 cropping stone, it was difficult to distinguish 
 from the dreary waste of the moor interspersed 
 with boulders and clumps of naked bushes. But, 
 as he says, "he steered his course by the feel of 
 the wind," his hat rammed low on his brow, his 
 head down, stopping now and again from mere 
 weariness of mind rather than of body — as if not 
 his strength but his resolution were being over- 
 taxed by the strain of endeavour half suspected 
 to be vain, and by the unrest of his feelings. 
 
 In one of these pauses borne in the wind 
 faintly as if from very far away he heard a sound 
 of knocking, iust^]3i)cking-on^wood . He noticed 
 that the wind had lulled suddenly. 
 
 His heart started beating tumultuously be- 
 cause in himself he carried the impression of the 
 desert solitudes he had been traversing for the 
 
THE INN OF THE TWO WITCHES 211 
 
 last six hours — the oppressive sense of an unin- 
 habited world. When he raised his head a 
 gleam of light, illusory as it often happens in 
 dense darkness, swam before his eyes. W^hile he 
 peered, the sound of feeble knocking was re- 
 peated — and suddenly he felt rather than saw 
 the existence of a massive obstacle in his path. 
 What was it.^ The spur of a hill.? Or was it a 
 house! Yes. It was a house right close, as 
 though it had risen from the ground or had come 
 gliding to meet him, dumb and pallid, from some 
 dark recess of the night. It towered loftily. He 
 had come up under its lee; another three steps 
 and he could have touched the wall with his 
 hand. It was no doubt a posada and some other 
 traveller was trying for admittance. He heard 
 again the sound of cautious knocking. 
 
 Next moment a broad band of light fell into 
 the night through the opened door. Byrne 
 stepped eagerly into it, whereupon the person 
 outside leaped with a stifled cry away into the 
 night. An exclamation of surprise was heard 
 too, from within. Byrne, flinging himself against 
 the half-closed door, forced his way in against 
 some considerable resistance. 
 
 A miserable candle, a mere rushlight, burned 
 at the end of a long deal table. And in its light 
 Byrne saw, staggering yet, the girl he had driver 
 
212 THE INN OF THE TWO WITCHES 
 
 from the door. She had a short black skirt, an 
 orange shawl, a dark complexion — and the 
 escaped single hairs from the mass, sombre and 
 thick like a forest and held up by a comb, made a 
 black mist about her low forehead. A shrill 
 lamentable howl of: " Misericordia ! " came in 
 two voices from the further end of the long room, 
 where the fire-light of an open hearth played be- 
 tween heavy shadows. The girl recovering her- 
 self drew a hissing breath through her set teeth. 
 
 It is unnecessary to report the long process of 
 questions and answers by which he soothed the 
 fears of two old women who sat on each side of 
 the fire, on which stood a large earthenware pot. 
 .^yrne thought at once of two witches watching 
 the brewing of some deadly potion. But all the 
 same, when one of them raising forward painfully 
 her broken form lifted the cover of the pot, the 
 escaping steam had an appetizing smell. The 
 other did not budge, but sat hunched up, her 
 head trembling all the time. 
 
 They were horrible. There was something 
 grotesque in their decrepitude. Their toothless 
 mouths, their hooked noses, the meagreness of 
 the active one, and the hanging yellow cheeks of 
 the other (the still one, whose head trembled) 
 would have been laughable if the sight of their 
 dreadful physical degradation had not been 
 
THE INN OF THE TWO WITCHES 213 
 
 appalling to one's eyes, had not gripped one's 
 heart with poignant amazement at the unspeak- 
 able misery of age, at the awful persistency of life 
 becoming at last an object of disgust and dread. 
 
 To get over it Byrne began to talk, saying that 
 he was an Englishman, and that he was in 
 search of a countryman who ought to have 
 passed this way. Directly he had spoken the 
 recollection of his parting with Tom came up in 
 his mind with amazing vividness: the silent 
 villagers, the angry gnome, the one-eyed wine- 
 seller, Bernardino. \Yhy! These two un- 
 speakable frights must be that man's aunts — 
 affiliated to the devil. 
 
 W^hatever they had been once it w^as impos- 
 sible to imagine what use such feeble creatures 
 could be to the devil, now, in the world of the 
 living. W'hich was Lucilla and w^hich w^as , 
 Erminia? They w^ere now things without a t/^ 
 name. A moment of suspended animation 
 followed Byrne's words. The sorceress w4th 
 the spoon ceased stirring the mess in the iron 
 pot, the very trembling of the other's head 
 stopped for the space of breath. In this in- 
 finitesimal fraction of a second Byrne had the 
 sense of being really on his quest, of having 
 reached the turn of the path, almost within hail 
 of Tom. 
 
214 THE INN OF THE TWO WITCHES 
 
 "They have seen him," he thought with con- 
 viction. Here was at last somebody who had 
 seen him. He made sure they would deny all 
 knowledge of the Ingles; but on the contrary 
 they were eager to tell him that he had eaten 
 and slept the night in the house. They both 
 started talking together, describing his appear- 
 ance and behaviour. An excitement quite fierce 
 in its feebleness possessed them. The doubled- 
 up sorceress flourished aloft her wooden spoon, 
 the puffy monster got off her stool and screeched, 
 stepping from one foot to the other, while the 
 trembling of her head was accelerated to posi- 
 tive vibration. Byrne was quite disconcerted 
 by their excited behaviour. . . . Yes ! The 
 big, fierce Ingles went away in the morning, after 
 eating a piece of bread and drinking some wine. 
 And if the caballero wished to follow the same 
 path nothing could be easier — in the morning. 
 
 "You will give me somebody to show me the 
 way.f^" said Byrne. 
 
 "Si, senor. A proper youth. The man the 
 caballero saw going out." 
 
 "But he was knocking at the door," protested 
 Byrne. " He only bolted when he saw me. He 
 1/was coming in." 
 
 " No ! No ! " the two horrid witches screamed 
 out together. "Going out. Going out!" 
 
THE INN OF THE TWO WITCHES 215 
 
 After all it may have been true. The sound 
 of knocking had been faint, elusive, reflected 
 Byrne. Perhaps only the effect of his fancy. 
 He asked — 
 
 *'Whoisthatman?" 
 
 "Her novio.'' They screamed pointing to the 
 girl. "He is gone home to a village far away 
 from here. But he will return in the morning. 
 Her novio ! And she is an orphan — the child 
 of poor Christian people. She lives with us for 
 the love of God, for the love of God." 
 
 The orphan crouching on the corner of the 
 hearth had been looking at Byrne. He thought 
 that she was more like a child of Satan kept 
 there by these two weird harridans for the love 
 of the Devil. Her eyes were a little oblique, 
 her mouth rather thick, but admirably formed; 
 her dark face had a ^rild beauty, volugt^ous and i^ 
 untamed. As to the character of her steadfast 
 gaze attached upon him with a sensuously 
 savage attention, "to know what it was like," 
 says Mr. Byrne, "you have only to observe a 
 hungry cat watching a bird in a cage or a mouse 
 inside a trap." 
 
 It was she who served him the food, of which 
 he was glad; though with those big slanting 
 black eyes examining him at close range, as if 
 he had something curious written on his face, 
 
216 THE INN OF THE TWO WITCHES 
 
 she gave him an uncomfortable sensation. But 
 anything was better than being approached by 
 these blear-eyed nightmarish witches. His ap- 
 prehensions somehow had been soothed; per- 
 haps by the sensation of warmth after severe 
 exposure and the ease of resting after the ex- 
 ertion of fighting the gale inch by inch all the 
 way. He had no doubt of Tom's safety. He 
 was now sleeping in the mountain camp having 
 been met by Gonzales' men. 
 
 Byrne rose, filled a tin goblet with wine out 
 of a skin hanging on the wall, and sat down 
 again. The witch with the mummy face began 
 to talk to him, ramblingly of old times; she 
 boasted of the inn's fame in those better days. 
 Great people in their own coaches stopped there. 
 An archbishop slept once in the casa, a long, 
 long time ago. 
 
 The witch with the puffy face |eemed to be 
 listening from her stool, motionless, except for 
 the trembling of her head. The girl (Byrne 
 was certain she was a casual gipsy ai4mitted 
 there for some reason or other) sat on the b^arth 
 stone in the glow of the embers. She hummed 
 a tune to herself, rattling a pair of castanets 
 slightly now and then. At the mention of the 
 archbishop she chuckled impiously and turned 
 her head to look at Byrne, so that the red glow 
 
THE INN OF THE TWO WITCHES 217 
 
 of the fire flashed in her black eyes and on her 
 white teeth under the dark cowl of the enormous 
 overmantel. And he smiled at her. 
 
 He rested now in the_ ease of security. His 
 advent not having been expected there could be 
 no plot against him in existence. Drowsiness 
 stole upon his senses. He enjoyed it, but keep- 
 ing a hold, so he thought at least, on his wits; 
 but he must have been gone further than he 
 thought because he was startled beyond measure 
 by a fiendish uproar. He had never heard any- 
 thing so pitilessly strident in his life. The 
 witches had started a fierce quarrel about some- 
 thing or other. Whatever its origin they were 
 now only abusing each other violently, without 
 arguments; their senile screams expressed noth- 
 ing but wricked anger and ferocious dismay. 
 The gipsy girl's black eyes flew from one to the 
 other. Never before had Byrne felt himself so y 
 removed from fellowship with human beings. ^ 
 Before he had really time to understand the 
 subject of the quarrel, the girl jumped up rat- 
 thng her castanets loudly. A silence fefl. She 
 came up to the table and bending over, her eyes 
 in his — 
 
 "Senor," she said with decision, "You shall 
 sleep in the archbishop's room." 
 
 Neithei: of the witches objected. The dried- 
 
v*: 
 
 218 THE INN OF THE TWO WITCHES 
 
 up one bent double was propped on a stick. The 
 puffy faced one had now a crutch. 
 
 Byrne got up, walked to the door, and turn- 
 ing the key in the enormous lock put it coolly 
 in his pocket. This was clearly the only en- 
 trance, and he did not mean to be taken un- 
 awares by whatever danger there might have 
 been lurking outside. When he turned from 
 the door he saw the two witches "affiliated to 
 the Devil" and the Satanic girl looking at him 
 in silence. He wondered if Tom Corbin took 
 the same precaution last night. And thinking 
 of him he had again that queer impression of 
 is nearness. The world was perfectly dumb. 
 And in this stillness he heard the blood beating 
 in his ears with a confused rushing noise, in 
 which there seemed to be a voice uttering the 
 words: "Mr. Byrne, look out, sir." Tom's 
 voice. He shuddered; for the delusions of the 
 senses of hearing are the most vivid of all, and 
 from their nature have a compelling character. 
 
 It seemed impossible that Tom should not be 
 there. Again a slight chill as of stealthy draught 
 penetrated through his very clothes and passed 
 over all his body. He shook off the impression 
 with an effort. 
 
 It was the girl who preceded him upstairs 
 carrying an iron lamp from the naked flame of 
 
THE INN OF THE TWO WITCHES 219 
 
 which ascended a thin thread of smoke. Her 
 soiled white stockings were full of holes. 
 
 With the same quiet resolution w^ith which he 
 had locked the door below, Byrne threw open 
 one after another the doors in the corridor. AH 
 the rooms were empty except for some non- 
 descript lumber in one or two. And the girl 
 seeing what he would be at stopped every time, 
 raising the smoky light in each doorway pa- 
 tiently. Meantime she observed him with sus- 
 tained attention. The last door of all she threw 
 open herself. 
 
 "You sleep here, senor," she murmured in a 
 voice light like a child's breath, offering him the 
 lamp. 
 
 '* Buenos noches, senorita,'' he said politely, 
 taking it from her. 
 
 She didn't return the wish audibly, though 
 her lips did move a little, while her gaze black 
 like a starless night never for a moment wavered 
 before him. He stepped in, and as he turned to 
 close the door she was still there motionless and 
 disturbing, with her voluptuous mouth and 
 slanting eyes, with the expression of expectant 
 sensual ferocity of a baffled cat. He hesitated 
 for a moment, and in the dumb house he heard 
 again the blood pulsating ponderously in his 
 ears, while once more the illusion of Tom's voice 
 
220 THE INN OF THE TWO WITCHES 
 
 speaking earnestly somewhere near by was spe- 
 cially terrifying, because this time he could not 
 make out the words. 
 
 He slammed the door in the girl's face at last, 
 leaving her in the dark; and he opened it again 
 almost on the instant. Nobody. She had van- 
 ished without the slightest sound. He closed 
 the door quickly and bolted it with two heavy 
 bolts. 
 
 A profound mistrust possessed him suddenly. 
 Why did the witches quarrel about letting him 
 sleep here.^ And what meant that stare of the 
 girl as if she wanted to impress his features for 
 ever in her mind.^ His own nervousness alarmed 
 him. He seemed to himself to be removed very 
 far from mankind. 
 
 He examined his room. It was not very high, 
 just high enough to take the bed which stood 
 under an enormous baldaquin-like canopy from 
 which fell heavy curtains at foot and head; a 
 bed certainly worthy of an archbishop. There 
 was a heavy table carved all round the edges, 
 some arm-chairs of enormous weight like the 
 spoils of a grandee's palace; a tall shallow ward- 
 robe placed against the wall and with double 
 doors. He tried them. Locked. A suspicion 
 came into his mind, and he snatched the lamp 
 to make a closer examination. No, it was not 
 
THE INN OF THE TWO WITCHES 221 
 
 a disguised entrance. That heavy, tall piece of 
 furniture stood clear of the wall by quite an 
 inch. He glanced at the bolts of his room door. 
 No! No one could get at him treacherously 
 while he slept. But would he be able to sleep? 
 he asked himself anxiously. If only he had 
 Tom there — the trusty seaman who had fought 
 at his right hand in a cutting out affair or two, 
 and had always preached to him the necessity 
 to take care of himself. "For it's no great 
 trick," he used to say, "to get yourself killed in 
 a hot fight. Any fool can do that. The proper 
 pastime is to fight the Frenchies and then live 
 to fight another day." 
 
 Byrne found it a hard matter not to fall into 
 listening to the silence. Somehow he had the 
 conviction that nothing would break it unless he 
 heard again the haunting sound of Tom's voice. 
 He had heard it twice before. Odd! And yet 
 no wonder, he argued with himself reasonably, 
 since he had been thinking of the man for over 
 thirty hours continuously and, what's more, in- 
 conclusively. For his anxiety for Tom had 
 never taken a definite shape. "Disappear" was 
 the only word connected with the idea of Tom's 
 danger. It was very vague and awful. "Dis- 
 appear ! " What did that mean? 
 
 Byrne shuddered, and then said to himself 
 
 y 
 
222 THE INN OF THE TWO WITCHES 
 
 that he must be a Httle feverish. But Tom had 
 not disappeared. Byrne had just heard of him. 
 And again the young man felt the blood beating 
 in his ears. He sat still expecting every moment 
 to hear through the pulsating strokes the sound 
 of Tom's voice. He waited straining his ears, 
 but nothing came. Suddenly the thought 
 occurred to him: *'He has not disappeared, but 
 he cannot make himself heard." 
 
 He jumped up from the arm-chair. How 
 absurd ! Laying his pistol and his hanger on the 
 table he took off his boots and, feeling suddenly 
 too tired to stand, flung himself on the bed 
 which he found soft and comfortable beyond his 
 hopes. 
 
 He had felt very wakeful, but he must have 
 dozed off after all, because the next thing he 
 knew he was sitting up in bed and trying to recol- 
 lect what it was that Tom's voice had said. Oh! 
 He remembered it now. It had said: "Mr. 
 Byrne! Look out, sir!" A warning this. But 
 against what? 
 
 He landed with one leap in the middle of the 
 floor, gasped once, then looked all round the 
 room. The window was shuttered and barred 
 with an iron bar. Again he ran his eyes slowly 
 all round the bare walls, and even looked up at 
 the ceiling, which was rather high. Afterward 
 
^ THE INN OF THE TWO WITCHES 223 
 
 he went to the door to examine the fastenings. 
 They consisted of two enormous iron bolts sliding 
 into holes made in the wall ; and as the corridor 
 outside was too narrow to admit of any battering 
 arrangement or even to permit an axe to be 
 swung, nothing could burst the door open — un- 
 less gunpowder. But while he was still making 
 sure that the lower bolt was pushed well home, , 
 he received the impression of somebody's <X^ 
 presence in the room. It was so strong that he 
 spun round quicker than lightning. There was 
 no one. Who could there be? And yet . . . 
 
 It was then that he lost the decorum and re- 
 straint a man keeps up for his own sake. He 
 got down on his hands and knees, with the lamp 
 on the floor, to look under the bed, like a silly 
 girl. He saw a lot of dust and nothing else. He 
 got up, his cheeks burning, and walked about 
 discontented with his own behaviour and un- 
 reasonably angry with Tom for not leaving him 
 alone. The words: "Mr. Byrne! Look out, 
 sir," kept on repeating themselves in his head in 
 a tone of warning. 
 
 "Hadn't I better just throw myself on the bed 
 and try to go to sleep," he asked himself. But 
 his eyes fell on the tall wardrobe, and he went 
 toward it feeling irritated with himself and yet 
 unable to desist. How he could explain to- 
 
224 THE INN OF THE TWO WITCHES 
 
 morrow the burglarious misdeed to the two 
 odious witches he had no idea. Nevertheless he 
 inserted the point of his hanger between the two 
 halves of the door and tried to prize them open. 
 They resisted. He swore, sticking now hotly to 
 his purpose. His mutter: "I hope you will be 
 satisfied, confound you," was addressed to the 
 absent Tom. Just then the doors gave way and 
 flew open. 
 
 He was there. 
 
 He — the trusty, sagacious, and courageous 
 Tom was there, drawn up shadowy and stiff, in 
 prudent silence, which his wide-open eyes by 
 their fixed gleam seemed to command Byrne 
 to respect. But Byrne was too startled to make 
 a sound. Amazed, he stepped back a little — 
 and on the instant the seaman flung himself for- 
 ward headlong as if to clasp his officer round the 
 neck. Instinctively Byrne put out his faltering 
 arms ; he felt the horrible rigidity of the body and 
 then the coldness of death as their heads knocked 
 together and their faces came into contact. They 
 reeled, Byrne hugging Tom close to his breast in 
 order not to let him fall with a crash. He had 
 just strength enough to lower the awful burden 
 gently to the floor — then his head swam, his legs 
 gave way, and he sank on his knees, leaning over 
 the body with his hands resting on the breast of 
 
THE INN OF THE TWO WITCHES 225 
 
 that man once full of generous life, and now as in- 
 sensible as a stone. 
 
 "Dead! my poor Tom, dead," he repeated 
 mentally. The light of the lamp standing near 
 the edge of the table fell from above straight on 
 the stony empty stare of these eyes which 
 naturally had a mobile and merry expression. 
 Byrne turned his own away from them. Tom's 
 black silk neckerchief was not knotted on his 
 breast. It was gone. The murderers had also 
 taken off his shoes and stockings. And noticing 
 this spoliation, the exposed throat, the bare up- 
 turned feet, Byrne felt his eyes run full of tears. 
 In other respects the seaman was fully dressed; 
 neither was his clothing disarranged as it must 
 have been in a violent struggle. Only his 
 checked shirt had been pulled a little out the 
 waistband in one place, just enough to ascertain 
 whether he had a money belt fastened round his 
 body. Byrne began to sob into his handkerchief. 
 
 It was a nervous outburst which passed off 
 quickly. Remaining on his knees he contem- 
 plated sadly the athletic body of as fine a sea- 
 man as ever had drawn a cutlass, laid a gun, or 
 passed the weather earring in a gale, lying stiff 
 and cold, his cheery, fearless spirit departed — 
 perhaps turning to him, his boy chum, to his 
 ship out there rolling on the grey seas off an iron- 
 
226 THE INN OF THE TWO WITCHES 
 
 bound coast, at the very moment of its flight. 
 He perceived that the six brass buttons of 
 Tom's jacket had been cut off. He shuddered at 
 the notion of the two miserable and repulsive 
 witches busying themselves ghoulishly about the 
 defenceless body of his friend. Cutoff. Perhaps 
 with the same knife which . . . The head 
 of one trembled; the other was bent double, and 
 their eyes were red and bleared, their infamous 
 claws unsteady. ... It must have been in 
 this very room too, for Tom could not have been 
 killed in the open and brought in here afterward. 
 Of that Byrne was certain. Yet those devilish 
 crones could not have killed him themselves 
 even by taking him unawares — and Tom would 
 be always on his guard of course. Tom was a 
 very wideawake wary man when engaged on 
 any service. . . . And in fact how did they 
 murder him.^^ Who did.^ In what way.^ 
 
 Byrne jumped up, snatched the lamp off the 
 table, and stooped swiftly over the body. The 
 light revealed on the clothing no stain, no trace, 
 no spot of blood anywhere. Byrne's hands be- 
 gan to shake so that he had to set the lamp on 
 the floor and turn away his head in order to re- 
 cover from this agitation. 
 
 Then he began to explore that cold, still, and 
 rigid body for a stab, a gunshot wound, for the 
 
THE INN OF THE TWO WITCHES 227 
 
 trace of some killing blow. He felt all over the 
 skull anxiously. It was whole. He slipped his 
 hand under the neck. It was unbroken. With 
 terrified eyes he peered close under the chin and 
 saw no marks of strangulation on the throat. 
 
 There were no signs anywhere. He was just 
 dead. 
 
 Impulsively Byrne got away from the body as \j 
 if the mystery of an incomprehensible death had 
 changed his pity into suspicion and dread. The 
 lamp on the floor near the set, still face of the 
 seaman showed it staring at the ceiling as if 
 despairingly. In the circle of light Byrne saw by 
 the undisturbed patches of thick dust on the 
 floor that there had been no struggle in that 
 room. " He has died outside," he thought. Yes, 
 outside in that narrow corridor, where there 
 was hardly room to turn, the mysterious death 
 had come to his poor dear Tom. The impulse of 
 snatching up his pistols and rushing out of the 
 room abandoned Byrne suddenly. For Tom, 
 too, had been armed — with just such powerless 
 weapons as he himself possessed — pistols, a cut- 
 lass ! And Tom had died a nameless death, by 
 incomprehensible means. 
 
 A new thought came to Byrne. That stranger 
 knocking at the door and fleeing so swiftly at his 
 appearance had come there to remove the body. 
 
7 
 
 228 THE INN OF THE TWO WITCHES 
 
 Aha! That was the guide the withered witch 
 had promised would show the Enghsh officer the 
 shortest way of rejoining his man. A promise, 
 he saw it now, of dreadful import. He who had 
 knocked would have two bodies to deal with. 
 Man and officer would go forth from the house 
 together. For Byrne was certain now that he 
 would have to die before the morning — and in 
 the same mysterious manner, leaving behind 
 him an unmarked body. 
 
 The sight of a smashed head, of a cut throat, of 
 a gaping gunshot wound, would have been an in- 
 expressible relief. It would have soothed all his 
 fears. His soul cried within him to that dead 
 man whom he had never found wanting in dan- 
 ger. "Why don't you tell me what I am to look 
 for, Tom.^ Wliy don't you.^" But in rigid im- 
 mobility, extended on his back, he seemed to pre- 
 serve an austere [silence, as if disdaining in the 
 finality of his awful knowledge to hold converse 
 with the living. 
 
 Suddenly Byrne flung himself on his knees by 
 the side of the body, and dry-eyed, fierce, opened 
 the shirt wide on the breast, as if to tear the 
 secret forcibly from that cold heart which had 
 been so loyal to him in life ! Nothing! Nothing! 
 He raised the lamp, and all the sign vouchsafed 
 to him by that face which used to be so kindly in 
 
THE INN OF THE TWO WITCHES 229 
 
 expression was a small bruise on the forehead — 
 the least thing, a mere mark. The skin even 
 was not broken. He stared at it a long time as if 
 lost in a dreadful dream. Then he observed that 
 Tom's hands were clenched as though he had 
 fallen facing somebody in a fight with fists. His 
 knuckles, on closer view, appeared somewhat 
 abraded. Both hands. 
 
 The discovery of these slight signs was more 
 appalling to Byrne than the absolute absence of 
 every mark would have been. So Tom had died 
 striking against something which could be hit, 
 and yet could kill one without leaving a wound — 
 by a breath. 
 
 Terror, hot terror, began to play about 
 Byrne's heart like a tongue of flame that touches 
 and withdraws before it turns a thing to ashes. 
 He backed away from the body as far as he 
 could, then came forward stealthily casting fear- 
 ful glances to steal another look at the bruised 
 forehead. There would perhaps be such a faint 
 bruise on his own forehead — before the morning. 
 
 *'I can't bear it," he whispered to himself. 
 Tom was for him now an object of horror, a 
 sight at once tempting and revolting to his 
 fear. He couldn't bear to look at him. 
 
 At last, desperation getting the better of his 
 increasing horror, he stepped forward from the 
 
230 THE INN OF THE TWO WITCHES 
 
 wall against which he had been leaning, seized 
 the corpse under the armpits, and began to lug 
 it over to the bed. The bare heels of the sea- 
 man trailed on the floor noiselessly. He was 
 heavy with the dead weight of inanimate ob- 
 jects. With aTast etiort Byrne landed him face 
 downward on the edge of the bed, rolled him 
 over, snatched from under this stiff passive 
 thing a sheet with which he covered it over. 
 Then he spread the curtains at head and foot 
 so that joining together as he shook their folds 
 they hid the bed altogether from his sight. 
 
 He stumbled toward a chair, and fell on it. 
 The perspiration poured from his face for a 
 moment, and then his veins seemed to carry 
 for a while a thin stream of half -frozen blood. 
 Complete terror had possession of him now, a 
 nameless terror which had turned his heart to 
 ashes. 
 
 He sat upright in the straight-backed chair, 
 the lamp burning at his feet, his pistols and his 
 hanger at his left elbow on the end of the table, 
 his eyes turning incessantly in their sockets 
 round the walls, over the ceiling, over the floor, 
 in the expectation of a mysterious and appalling 
 vision. The thing which could deal death in a 
 breath was outside that bolted door. But 
 Byrne believed neither in walls nor bolts now. 
 
THE INN OF THE TWO WITCHES 231 
 
 Unreasoning terror turning everything to ac- 
 count, his old time boyish admiration of the 
 athletic Tom, the undaunted Tom (he had 
 seemed to him invincible), helped to paralyse 
 his faculties, added to his despair. 
 
 He was no longer Edgar Byrne. He was a 
 tortured soul suffering more anguish than any 
 sinner's body had ever suffered from rack or 
 boot. The depth of his torment may be meas- 
 ured when I say that this young man, as brave 
 at least as the average of his kind, contemplated , 
 seizing a pistol and firing into his own head.i/ 
 But a deadly, chilly languor was spreading over 
 his limbs. It was as if his flesh had been wet 
 plaster stiffening slowly about his ribs. Pres- 
 ently, he thought, the two witches will be 
 coming in, with crutch and stick — horrible, 
 grotesque, monstrous — affiliated to the devil — 
 to put a mark on his forehead, the tiny little 
 bruise of death. And he wouldn't be able 
 to do anything. Tom had struck out at some- 
 thing, but he was not like Tom. His limbs were 
 dead already. He sat still, dying the death over 
 and over again; and the only part of him which 
 moved were his eyes, turning round and round 
 in their sockets, running over the walls, the 
 floor, the ceiling, again and again till suddenly 
 they became motionless and stony — starting 
 
232 THE INN OF THE TWO WITCHES 
 
 out of 'his head fixed in the direction of the 
 bed. 
 
 He had seen the heavy curtains stir and shake 
 as if the dead body they concealed had turned 
 over and sat up. Byrne, who thought the world 
 could hold no more terrors in store, felt his hair 
 stir at the roots. He gripped the arms of the 
 chair, his jaw fell, and the sweat broke out on his 
 brow while his dry tongue clove suddenly to the 
 roof of his mouth. Again the curtains stirred, 
 but did not open. " Don't, Tom ! " Byrne made 
 effort to shout, but all he heard was a slight 
 moan such as an uneasy sleeper may make. 
 He felt that his brain was going, for, now, it 
 seemed to him that the ceiling over the bed 
 had moved, had slanted, and came level again — 
 and once more the closed curtains swayed gently 
 as if about to part. 
 
 Byrne closed his eyes not to see the awful ap- 
 parition of the seaman's corpse coming out 
 animated by an evil spirit. In the profound 
 silence of the room he endured a moment of 
 frightful agony, then opened his eyes again. 
 And he saw at once that the curtains remained 
 closed still, but that the ceiling over the bed 
 had risen quite a foot. With the last gleam of 
 reason left to him he understood that it was 
 the enormous baldaquin over the bed which 
 
THE INN OF THE TWO WITCHES 233 
 
 was coming down, while the curtains attached 
 to it swayed softly, sinking gradually to the 
 floor. His drooping jaw snapped to — and half 
 rising in his chair he watched mutely the noise- 
 less descent of the monstrous canopy. It came 
 down in short smooth rushes till lowered half 
 way or more, when it took a run and settled 
 swiftly its turtle-back shape with the deep 
 border piece fitting exactly the edge of the bed- 
 stead. A slight crack or two of wood were 
 heard, and the overpowering stillness of the room 
 resumed its sway. 
 
 Byrne stood up, gasped for breath, and let out 
 a cry of rage and dismay, the first sound which 
 he is perfectly certain did make its way past his 
 lips on this night of terrors. This then was the 
 death he had escaped! This was the devilish 
 artifice of murder poor Tom's soul had perhaps 
 tried from beyond the border to warn him of. 
 For this was how he had died. Byrne was cer- 
 tain he had heard the voice of the seaman, faintly 
 distinct in his familiar phrase, "Mr. Byrne! 
 Look out, sir!" and again uttering words he 
 could not make out. But then the distance 
 separating the living from the dead is so great! 
 Poor Tom had tried. Byrne ran to the bed and 
 attempted to lift up, to push off the horrible lid 
 smothering the body. It resisted his efforts, 
 
234 THE INN OF THE TWO WITCHES 
 
 heavy as lead, immovable like a tombstone. The 
 rage of vengeance made him desist; his head 
 buzzed with chaotic thoughts of extermination, 
 he turned round the room as if he could find 
 neither his weapons nor the way out; and all the 
 time he stammered awful menaces. . . . 
 
 A violent battering at the door of the inn re- 
 called him to his soberer senses. He flew to the 
 window, pulled the shutters open, and looked 
 out. In the faint dawn he saw below him a 
 mob of men. Ha! He would go and face at 
 once this murderous lot collected no doubt for 
 his undoing. After his struggle with nameless 
 terrors he yearned for an open fray with armed 
 enemies. But he must have remained yet 
 bereft of his reason, because forgetting his weap- 
 ons he rushed downstairs with a wild cry, un- 
 barred the door while blows were raining on it 
 outside, and flinging it open flew with his bare 
 hands at the throat of the first man he saw 
 before him. They rolled over together. Byrne's 
 hazy intention was to break through, to fly up 
 the mountain path, and come back presently 
 with Gonzales' men to exact an exemplary 
 vengeance. He fought furiously till a tree, 
 a house, a mountain, seemed to crash down 
 upon his head — and he knew no more. 
 
THE INN OF THE TWO WITCHES 235 
 
 Here Mr. Byrne describes in detail the skilful 
 manner in which he found his broken head band- 
 aged, informs us that he had lost a great deal of 
 blood, and ascribes the preservation of his sanity 
 to that circumstance. He sets down Gonzales' 
 profuse apologies in full too. For it was Gon- 
 zales who, tired of waiting for news from the 
 English, had come down to the inn with half his 
 band, on his way to the sea. "His excellency," he 
 explained, "rushed out with fierce impetuosity, 
 and, moreover, was not known to us for a friend, 
 and so we . . . etc., etc. When asked 
 what had become of the witches, he only pointed 
 his finger silently to the ground, then voiced 
 calmly a moral reflection : ' The passion for gold 
 is pitiless in the very old, senor,' he said. *No 
 doubt in former days they have put many a soli- 
 tary traveller to sleep in the archbishop's bed.' " 
 
 "There was also a gipsy girl there," said 
 Byrne feebly from the improvised litter on 
 which he was being carried to the coast by a 
 squad of guerilleros. 
 
 "It was she who winched up that infernal 
 machine, and it was she too who lowered it that 
 night," was the answer. 
 
 "But why? Why?" exclaimed Byrne. "Why 
 should she wish for my death?" 
 
 "No doubt for the sake of your excellency's 
 
236 THE INN OF THE TWO WITCHES 
 
 coat buttons," said politely the saturnine Gon- 
 zales. "We found those of the dead mariner 
 concealed on her person. But your excellency 
 may rest assured that everything that is fitting 
 has been done on this occasion." 
 
 Byrne asked no more questions. There was 
 still another death which was considered by 
 Gonzales as "fitting to the occasion." The 
 one-eyed Bernardino stuck against the wall of 
 his wine-shop received the charge of six escopet- 
 tas into his breast. As the shots rang out the 
 rough bier with Tom's body on it went past 
 carried by a bandit-like gang of Spanish patriots 
 down the ravine to the shore, where two boats 
 from the ship were waiting for what was left 
 on earth of her best seaman. 
 
 Mr. Byrne, very pale and weak, stepped into 
 the boat which carried the body of his humble 
 friend. For it was decided that Tom Corbin 
 should rest far out in the bay of Biscay. The 
 officer took the tiller and, turning his head for 
 the last look at the shore, saw on the grey hill- 
 side something moving, which he made out to be 
 a little man in a yellow hat mounted on a mule 
 — that mule without which the fate of Tom Cor- 
 bin would have remained mysterious for ever. 
 
 June, 1913. 
 
BECAUSE OF THE DOLLARS 
 
BECAUSE OF THE DOLLARS 
 
 While we were hanging about near the water's 
 edge, as sailors idhng ashore will do (it was in the 
 o pen sm ce before the Harbour OiBSce of a great 
 pastern |)ort), a man came toward us from the 
 ' ifoirF'' of business houses, aiming obliquely at 
 the landing steps. He attracted my attention 
 because in the movement of figures in white drill 
 suits on the pavement from which he stepped, 
 his costume, the usual tunic and trousers, being 
 made of light grey flannel, made him noticeable. 
 
 I had time to observe him. He was stout, 
 but he was not grotesque. His face was round 
 and smooth, his complexion very fair. On his 
 nearer approach I saw a little mustache made 
 all the fairer by a good many white hairs. And 
 he had, for a stout man, quite a good chin. In 
 passing us he exchanged nods with the friend I 
 was with and smiled. 
 
 My friend was Hollis, the fellow who had so 
 many adventures and had known so many queer 
 
 239 
 
£40 BECAUSE OF THE DOLLARS 
 
 people in that part of the (more or less) gorgeous 
 East in the days of his youtEnie said: "That's 
 a good man. I don't mean good in the sense 
 of smart or skilful in his trade. I mean a really 
 good man." 
 
 I turned round at once to look at the phe- 
 nomenon. The "really good man" had a very 
 broad back. I saw him signal a sampan to come 
 alongside, get into it, and go off in the direc- 
 tion of a cluster of local steamers anchored close 
 inshore. 
 
 I said: "He's a seaman, isn't he.^^" 
 "Yes. Commands that biggish dark-green 
 steamer: 'Sissie — Glasgow.' He has never 
 commanded anything else but the ' Sissie — 
 Glasgow,' only it wasn't always the same Sissie. 
 The first he had was about half the length of this 
 one, and we used to tell poor Davidson that she 
 was a size too small for him. Even at that time 
 Davidson had bulk. We warned him he would 
 get callosities on his shoulders and elbows be- 
 cause of the tight fit of his command. And 
 Davidson could well afford the smiles he gave us 
 for our chaff. He made lots of money in her. 
 She belonged to a portly Chinaman resembling a 
 mandarin in a picture-book, with goggles and 
 thin drooping mustaches, and as dignified as only 
 a Celestial knows how to be. 
 
BECAUSE OF THE DOLLARS 241 , 
 
 "The best of Chinamen as employers is that ^ 
 they have such gentlemanly instincts. Once 
 they become convinced that you are a straight 
 man, they give you their unbounded confidence. 
 You simply can't do wrong, then. And they are 
 pretty quick judges of character, too. David- 
 son's Chinaman was the first to find out his 
 worth, on some theoretical principle. One day 
 in his counting-house, before several white men 
 he was heard to declare : ' Captain Davidson is a 
 good man.' And that settled it. After that 
 you couldn't tell if it was Davidson who belonged C 
 to the Chinaman or the Chinaman who belonged^ 
 to Davidson. It was he who, shortly before he 
 died, ordered in Glasgow the new Sissie for 
 Davidson to command." 
 
 We walked into the shade of the Harbour 
 Office and leaned our elbows on the parapet of 
 the quay. 
 
 " She was really meant to comfort poor David- 
 son," continued Hollis. "Can you fancy any- 
 thing more naively touching than this old 
 mandarin spending several thousand pounds to 
 console his white man.^ Well, there she is. The 
 old mandarin's sons have inherited her, andj)a- 
 vidson^with her, and he commands her; and what 
 with his salary and the trading privileges he 
 makes a lot of money; and everything is as be- 
 
242 BECAUSE OF THE DOLLARS 
 
 fore; and Davidson even smiles — you have seen 
 it? Well, the smile's the only thing which isn't 
 as before." 
 
 "Tell me, HolHs," I asked, "what do you 
 mean by good in this connection?" 
 
 "Well, there are men who are born good just 
 as others are born witty. What I mean is his 
 nature. No simpler, more scrupulously delicate 
 soul had ever lived in such a — a — comfortable 
 envelope. How we used to laugh at Davidsoh's 
 fine scruples ! In short, he's thoroughly humane, 
 and I don't imagine there can be much of any 
 other sort of goodness that counts on this earth. 
 And as he's that with a shade of particular re- 
 finement, I may well call him a 'really good 
 man.'" 
 
 I knew from old that Hollis was a firm be- 
 liever in the final values of shades. And I said: 
 "I see" — because I really did see Hollis's David- 
 son in the sympathetic stout man who had 
 passed us a little while before. But I remem- 
 bered that at the very moment he smiled his 
 placid face appeared veiled in melancholy — a 
 sort of spiritual shadow. I went on. 
 
 "Who on earth has paid him off for being so 
 fine by spoiling his smile?" 
 
 "That's quite a story, and I will tell it to you 
 if you like. Confound it ! It's quite a surpris- 
 
BECAUSE OF THE DOLLARS 243 
 
 ing one, too. Surprising in every way, but 
 mostly in the way it knocked over poor David- 
 son — and apparently only because he is such a 
 good sort. He was telling me all about it only a 
 few days ago. He said that when he saw these 
 four fellows with their heads in a bunch over the 
 table, he at once didn't like it. He didn't like it 
 at all. You mustn't suppose that Davidson is a 
 soft fool. These men 
 
 "But I had better begin at the beginning. 
 We must go back to the first time the old dollars 
 had been called in by our Government in ex- 
 change for a new issue. Just about the time 
 when I left these parts to go home for a long stay. 
 Every trader in the islands was thinking of 
 getting his old dollars sent up here in time, and 
 the demand for empty French wine cases — you 
 know the dozen of vermouth or claret size — ■ 
 was something unprecedented. The custom 
 was to pack the dollars in little bags of a hun- 
 dred each. I don't know how many bags 
 each case would hold. A good lot. Pretty tidy 
 sums must have been moving afloat just then. 
 But let us get away from here. Won't do to 
 
 stay in the sun. Where could we ^ I know! 
 
 let us go to those tiffin-rooms over there." 
 
 W^e moved over accordingly. Our appear- 
 ance in the long empty room at that early hour 
 
244 BECAUSE OF THE DOLLARS 
 
 caused visible consternation amongst the China 
 boys. But HolKs led the way to one of the tables 
 between the windows screened by rattan blinds. 
 A brilliant half-light trembled on the ceiling, on 
 the whitewashed walls, bathed the multitude of 
 vacant chairs and tables in a peculiar, stealthy 
 glow. 
 
 "All right. We will get something to eat when 
 it's ready," he said, waving the anxious China- 
 man waiter aside. He took his temples touched 
 with grey between his hands, leaning over the 
 table to bring his face, his dark, keen eyes, closer 
 to mine. 
 
 "Davidson then was commanding the steamer 
 Sissie — the little one which we used to chaff him 
 about. He ran her alone, with only the Malay 
 sfiiang^for a deck officer. The nearest approach 
 to another white man on board of her was the 
 engineer, a JsiiH^^^s^ half-caste, as thin as a 
 lath and quite a youngster at that. For all 
 practical purposes Davidson was managing that 
 command of his single-handed; and of course 
 this was known in the port. I am telling you of 
 it because the fact had its influence on the de- 
 velopments you shall hear of presently. 
 
 " His steamer, being so small, could go up tiny 
 creeks and into shallow bays and through reefs 
 and over sand-banks, collecting produce, where 
 
BECAUSE OF THE DOLLARS 245 
 
 no other vessel but a native craft would think of 
 venturing. It is a paying game, often. David- \ 
 son was known to visit in her places that no one \ 
 else could find and that hardly anybody had 1 
 ever heard of. ^^ — ^ 
 
 "The old dollars being called in, Davidson's 
 Chinaman thought that the Sissie would be just 
 the thing to collect them from small traders in 
 the less frequented parts of the Archipelago. It's 
 a good business. Such cases of dollars are 
 dumped aft in the ship's lazarette, and you get 
 good freight for very little trouble and space. 
 
 "Davidson, too, thought it was a good idea; 
 and together they made up a list of his calls on 
 his next trip. Then Davidson (he had naturally 
 the chart of his voyages in his head) remarked 
 that on his way back he might look in at a cer- 
 tain settlement up a mere creek, where a poor ^ 
 sort of white man lived in a native village. 
 Davidson pointed out to his Chinaman that the 
 fellow was certain to have some rattans to ship. 
 
 "'Probably enough to fill her forward,' said 
 Davidson. 'And that'll be better than bringing 
 her back with empty holds. A day more or less 
 doesn't matter.' 
 
 "This was sound talk, and the Chinaman 
 owner could not but agree. But if it hadn't 
 been sound it would have been just the same. 
 
246 BECAUSE OF THE DOLLARS 
 
 Davidson did what he liked. He was a man 
 ^y^ai could do no wrong. However, this sugges- 
 tion of his was not merely a business matter. 
 There was in it a touch of Davidsonian kindness. 
 For you must know that the man could not have 
 continued to live quietly up that creek if it had 
 yHot been for Davidson's willingness to call there 
 ^ from time to time. And_ Davidson's Chinaman 
 knew this perfectly well, too. So he only smiled 
 his dignified, bland smile, and said: 'All right. 
 Captain. You do what you like.' 
 
 "I will explain presently how this connection 
 between Davidson and that fellow came about. 
 Now I want to tell you about the part of this 
 affair which happened here — the preliminaries of 
 it. 
 
 "You know as well as I do that these tiffin- 
 rooms where we are sitting now have been in ex- 
 istence for many years. Well, next day about 
 twelve o'clock, Davidson dropped in here to get 
 something to eat. 
 
 "And here comes the only moment in this 
 story where accident — mere accident — plays a 
 part. If Davidson had gone home that day for 
 tiffin, there would be now, after twelve years or 
 more, nothing changed in his kindly, placid 
 smile. 
 
 "But he came in here; and perhaps it was 
 
BECAUSE OF THE DOLLARS 247 
 
 sitting at this very table that he remarked to a 
 friend of mine .that his next trip was to be a dol- 
 lar-collecting trip. He added, laughing, that his 
 wife was making rather a fuss about it. She had 
 begged him to stay ashore and get somebody else 
 to take his place for a voyage. She thought there 
 was some danger on account of the dollars. He 
 told her, he said, that there were no Java-sea 
 pirates nowadays except in boys' books. He had 
 laughed at her fears, but he was very sorry, too; 
 for when she took any notion in her head it was 
 impossible to argue her out of it. She would be 
 worrying herself all the time he was away. Well, 
 he couldn't help it. There was no one ashore fit 
 to take his place for the trip. 
 
 "This friend of mine and I went home together 
 in the same mail-boat, and he mentioned that 
 conversation one evening in the Red Sea while 
 we were talking over the things and people we 
 had just left, with more or less regret. 
 
 "I can't say that Davidson occupied a very 
 prominent place. Moral excellence seldom does. 
 He was quietly appreciated by those who knew 
 him well; but his more obvious distinction con- 
 sisted in this, that he was married. Ours, as you 
 remember, was a bachelor crowd; in spirit any- 
 how, if not absolutely in fact. There might have 
 been a few wives in existence, but if so they were 
 
248 BECAUSE OF THE DOLLARS 
 
 invisible, distant, never alluded to. For what 
 would have been the good? Davidson alone was 
 visibly married. 
 
 *' Being married suited him exactly. It fitted 
 him so well that the wildest of us did not resent 
 the fact when it was disclosed. Directly he had 
 felt his feet out here, Davidson sent for his wife. 
 She came out (from Australia) in the Somerset 
 under the care of Captain Ritchie — you know. 
 Monkey-face Ritchie — who couldn't praise 
 enough her sweetness, her gentleness, and her 
 charm. She seemed to be the heaven-born mate 
 for Davidson. She found on arrival a very pretty 
 bungalow on the hill, ready for her and the little 
 girl they had. Very soon he got for her a two- 
 wheeled trap and a Burmah pony, and she used 
 to drive down of an evening to pick up Davidson 
 on the quay. When Davidson, beaming, got into 
 tlie trap, it would become very full all at once. 
 
 "We used to admire Mrs. Davidson from a 
 distance. It was a girlish head out of a keep- 
 sake. From a distance. We had not many 
 opportunities for a closer view, because she 
 did not care to give them to us. We would 
 have been glad to drop in at the Davidson 
 bungalow, but we were made to feel somehow 
 that we were not very welcome there. Not 
 that she ever said anything ungracious. She 
 
BECAUSE OF THE DOLLARS 249 
 
 never had much to say for herself. I was 
 perhaps the one who saw most of the Davidsons 
 at home. What I noticed under the superficial 
 aspect of vapid sweetness was her convex, i^^ 
 obstinate forehead, and her small, red, pretty, 
 ungenerous mouth. But then I am an observer 
 with strong prejudices. Most of us were 
 fetched by her white, swan- like neck, by that 
 drooping, innocent profile. There was a lot of 
 latent devotion to Davidson's wife hereabouts, 
 at that time, I can tell you. But my idea was 
 that she repaid it by a profound suspicion of 
 the sort of men we were; a mistrust which 
 extended — I fancied — to her very husband at 
 times. And I thought then she was jealous of 
 him in a way ; though there were no women that 
 she could be jealous about. She had no women's 
 society. It's difficult for a shipmaster's wife 
 unless there are other shipmasters' wives about, 
 and there were none here then. I know that 
 the dock manager's wife called on her; but that 
 was all. The fellows here formed the opinion 
 that Mrs. Davidson was a meek, shy little 
 thing. She looked it, I must say. And this 
 opinion was so universal that the friend I have 
 been telling you of remembered his conversation 
 with Davidson simply because of the statement 
 about Davidson's wife. He even wondered 
 
250 BECAUSE OF THE DOLLARS 
 
 to me: * Fancy Mrs. Davidson making a fuss 
 to that extent. She didn't seem to me the 
 sort of woman that would know how to make a 
 fuss about anything.' 
 
 "I wondered, too — ^but not so much. That 
 bumpy forehead — eh? I had always suspected 
 her of being silly. And I observed that David- 
 son must have been vexed by this display of 
 wifely anxiety. 
 
 "My friend said: *No. He seemed rather 
 touched and distressed. There really was no 
 one he could ask to relieve him; mainly because 
 he intended to make a call in some God-forsaken 
 creek, to look up a fellow of the name of Bamtz 
 who apparently had settled there.' ^"^ 
 
 "And again my friend wondered. *Tell me,' 
 he cried, ' what connection can there be between 
 Davidson and such a creature as Bamtz .^' 
 
 "I don't remember now what answer I made. 
 A sufficient one could have been given in two 
 words: 'Davidson's goodness.' That never 
 boggled at unworthiness if there was the slight- 
 est reason for compassion. I don't want you to 
 think that Davidson had no discrimination at 
 all. Bamtz could not have imposed on him. 
 Moreover, everybody knew what Bamtz was. 
 He was a loafer with a beard. When I think 
 of Bamtz, the first thing I see is that long black 
 
BECAUSE OF THE DOLLARS 251 
 
 beard and a lot of propitiatory wrinkles at the 
 corners of two little eyes. There was no such 
 beard from here to Polynesia, where a beard is 
 a valuable property in itself. Bamtz's beard 
 was valuable to him in another way. You 
 know how impressed Orientals are by a fine 
 beard. Years and years ago, I remember, the 
 grave Abdullah, the great trader of Sambir,^ 
 unable to repress signs of astonishment and 
 admiration at the first sight of that imposing 
 beard. And it's very well known that Bamtz 
 lived on Abdullah off and on for several years. 
 It was a unique beard, and so was the bearer of 
 the same. A unique loafer. He made a fi^e 
 art of it, or rather a sort of craft and mystery. 
 One can understand a fellow living by cadging 
 and small swindles in towns, in large communi- 
 ties of people; but Bamtz managed to do that 
 trick in the wilderness, to loaf on the outskirts 
 of the virgin forest. 
 
 "He understood how to ingratiate himself 
 with the natives. He would arrive in some 
 settlement up a river, make a present of a cheap 
 carbine or a pair of shoddy binoculars, or some- 
 thing of that sort, to the Rajah, or the head- 
 man, or the principal trader; and on the 
 strength of that gift, ask for a house, posing 
 mysteriously as a very special trader. He 
 
252 BECAUSE OF THE DOLLARS 
 
 would spin them no end of yarns, live on the fat 
 of the land for a while, and then do some mean 
 swindle or other — or else they would get tired of 
 him and ask him to quit. And he would go off 
 meekly with an air of injured innocence. Funny 
 life. Yet, he never got hurt somehow. I've 
 heard of the Rajah of Dongala giving him fifty 
 dollars' worth of trade goods and paying his 
 passage in a prau only to get rid of him. Fact. 
 And observe that nothing prevented the old 
 fellow having Bamtz's throat cut and the carcase 
 thrown into deep water outside the reefs; for 
 who on earth would have inquired after Bamtz.^^ 
 
 "He had been known to loaf up and down the 
 wilderness as far north as the Gulf of Tonkin. 
 Neither did he disdain a spell of civilisation 
 from time to time. And it was while loafing 
 and cadging in Saigon, bearded and dignified 
 (he gave himself out there as a bookkeeper), 
 that he came across Laughing Anne. 
 
 "The less said of her early history the better, 
 but something must be said. We may safely 
 suppose there was very little heart left in her 
 famous laugh when Bamtz spoke first to her in 
 some low cafe. She was stranded in Saigon 
 with precious little money and in great trouble 
 about a kid she had, a boy of five or six. 
 
 "A fellow I just remember, whom they called 
 
BECAUSE OF THE DOLLARS 253 
 
 Pearler Harry, brought her out first into these 
 parts — from AustraHa, I beHeve. He brought 
 her out and then dropped her, and she remained 
 knocking about here and there, known to most 
 of us by sight, at any rate. Everybody in the 
 Archipelago had heard of Laughing Anne. She 
 had really a pleasant silvery laugh always at 
 her disposal, so to speak, but it wasn't enough 
 apparently to make her fortune. The poor 
 creature was ready to stick to any half-decent 
 man if he would only let her, but she always got 
 dropped, as it might have been expected. 
 
 "She had been left in Saigon by the skipper 
 of a German ship with whom she had been going 
 up and down the China coast as far as Vladi- 
 vostok for near upon two years. The German 
 said to her: *This is all over, mein Taubchen. 
 I am going home now to get married to the girl 
 I got engaged to before coming out here.' And 
 Anne said: 'All right, I'm ready to go. We part 
 friends, don't we?' 
 
 "She was always anxious to part friends. The 
 German told her that of course they were part- 
 ing friends. He looked rather glum at the 
 moment of parting. She laughed and went 
 ashore. 
 
 "But it was no laughing matter for her. She 
 had some notion that this would be her last 
 
254 BECAUSE OF THE DOLLARS 
 
 chance. What frightened her most was the 
 future of her child. She had left her boy in 
 Saigon before going off with the German, in the 
 care of an elderly French couple. The husband 
 was a doorkeeper in some Government office, 
 but his time was up, and they were returning 
 to France. She had to take the boy back from 
 them; and after she had got him back, she did 
 not like to part with him any more. 
 
 "That was the situation when she and Bamtz 
 got acquainted casually. She could not have 
 had any illusions about that fellow. To pick 
 up with Bamtz was coming down pretty low 
 in the world, even from a material point of view. 
 She had always been decent, in her way; whereas 
 Bamtz was, not to mince words, an abject sort 
 of creature. On the other hand, that bearded 
 loafer, who looked much more like a pirate 
 than a bookkeeper, was not a brute. He was 
 gentle — rather — even in his cups. And then 
 despair, like misfortune, makes us acquainted 
 ^with strange bed-fellows. For she may well 
 have despaired. She was no longer young — 
 you know. 
 
 "On the man's side this conjunction is more 
 difficult to explain, perhaps. One thing, how- 
 ever, must be said of Bamtz; he had always 
 kept clear of native women. As one can't 
 
BECAUSE OF THE DOLLARS ^55 
 
 suspect him of moral delicacy, I surmise that 
 it must have been from prudence. And he, 
 too, was no longer young. There were many 
 white hairs in his valuable black beard by then. 
 He may have simply longed for some kind of w^ 
 companionship in his queer, degraded existence. 
 Whatever their motives, they vanished from 
 Saigon together. And of course nobody cared 
 what had become of them. 
 
 "Six months later Davidson came into the 
 Mirrah Settlement. It was the very first time 
 he had been up that creek, where no European 
 vessel had ever been seen before. A Javanese 
 passenger he had on board offered him fifty 
 dollars to call in there — it must have been some 
 very particular business — and Davidson con- 
 sented to try. Fifty dollars, he told me, were 
 neither here nor there; but he was curious to see 
 the place, and the little Sissie could go anywhere 
 where there was water enough to float a soup- 
 plate. 
 
 "Davidson landed his Javanese plutocrat, 
 and, as he had to wait a couple of hours for the 
 tide, he went ashore himself to stretch his legs. 
 
 "It was a small settlement. Some sixty 
 houses, most of them built on piles over the 
 river, the rest scattered in the long grass; the 
 usual pathway at the back; the forest hemming 
 
256 BECAUSE OF THE DOLLARS 
 
 in the clearing and smothering what there might 
 have been of air into a dead, hot stagnation. 
 
 "All the population was on the river-bank 
 staring silently, as Malays will do, at the Sissie 
 anchored in the stream. She w^as almost as 
 wonderful to them as an angel's visit. Many of 
 the old people had only heard vaguely of fire- 
 ships, and not many of the younger genera- 
 tion had seen one. On the back path Davidson 
 strolled in perfect solitude. But he became 
 aware of a bad_sm ell and concluded he would go 
 no farther. 
 
 "While he stood wiping his forehead, he 
 heard from somewhere the exclamation: *My 
 God! It's Davy!' 
 
 "Davidson's lower jaw, as he expressed it, 
 came unhooked at the crying of this excited 
 voice. Davy was the name used by the asso- 
 ciates of his young days; he hadn't heard it 
 for many years. He stared about with his 
 mouth open and saw a white w^oman issue from 
 the long grass in which a small hut stood buried 
 nearly up to the roof. 
 
 "Try to imagine the shock: in that wild 
 place that you couldn't find on a map, and 
 more squalid than the most poverty-stricken 
 Malay settlement had a right to be, this Euro- 
 pean woman coming swishing out of the long 
 
BECAUSE OF THE DOLLARS 257 
 
 grass in a fanciful teagown thing, dingy pink 
 satin, with a long train and frayed lace trim- 
 mings; her eyes like black coals in a pasty- 
 white face. Davidson thought that he was 
 asleep, that he was delirious. From the offen- 
 sive village mudhole (it was what Davidson had 
 sniffed just before) a couple of filthy buffaloes 
 uprose with loud snorts and lumbered off crash- 
 ing through the bushes, panic-struck by this 
 apparition. 
 
 "The woman came forward, her arms ex- 
 tended, and laid her hands on Davidson's 
 shoulders, exclaiming : ' Why ! You have hardly 
 changed at all. The same good Davy.' And 
 she laughed a little wildly. 
 
 "This sound was to Davidson like a galvanic 
 shock to a corpse. He started in every muscle. 
 * Laughing Anne,' he said in an awe-struck 
 voice. 
 
 " 'All that's left of her, Davy. All that's left 
 of her.' 
 
 "Davidson looked up at the sky: but there 
 was to be seen no balloon from which she could 
 have fallen on that spot. When he brought his 
 distracted gaze down, it rested on a child hold- 
 ing on with a brown little paw to the pink satin 
 gown. He ha"d run out of the grass after her. 
 Had Davidson seen a real hobgoblin his eyes 
 
258 BECAUSE OF THE DOLLARS 
 
 could not have bulged more than at this small 
 boy in a dirty white blouse and ragged knickers. 
 He had a round head of tight chestnut curls, 
 very sunburnt legs, a freckled face, and merry 
 eyes. Admonished by his mother to greet the 
 gentleman, he finished off Davidson by addres- 
 sing him in French. 
 
 '' 'Bonjq ur.' 
 
 "Davidson, overcome, looked up at the wo- 
 man in silence. She sent the child back to the 
 hut, and w^hen he had disappeared in the grass? 
 she turned to Davidson, tried to speak, but 
 after getting out the words, 'That's my Tony,' 
 burst into a long fit of crying. She had to 
 lean on Davidson's shoulder. He, distressed 
 in the goodness of his heart, stood rooted to the 
 spot where she had come upon him. 
 
 "What a meeting — eh.^ Bamtz had sent her 
 out to see what white man it was who had 
 landed. And she had recognised him from that 
 time when Davidson, who had been pearling 
 himself in his youth, had been associating with 
 Harry the Pearler and others, the quietest of a 
 rather rowdy set. 
 
 "Before Davidson retraced his steps to go on 
 board the steamer, he had heard much of Laugh- 
 ing Anne's story, and had even had an inter- 
 view, on the path, with Bamtz himself. She 
 
BECAUSE OF THE DOLLARS 259 
 
 ran back to the hut to fetch him, and he came 
 out lounging, with his hands in his pockets, 
 with the detached, casual manner under which 
 he concealed his propensity to cringe> Ya-a- 
 as-as. He thought he would settle here per- 
 manently — with her. This with a nod at 
 Laughing Anne, who stood by, a haggard, tragi- 
 cally anxious figure, her black hair hanging 
 over her shoulders. 
 
 " *No more paint and dyes for me, Davy,' she 
 struck in, *if only you will do what he wants you 
 to do. You know that I was always ready to 
 stand by my men — if they had only let me.' 
 
 "Davidson had no doubt of her earnestness. 
 It was of Bamtz's good faith that he was not at 
 all sure. Bamtz wanted Davidson to promise 
 to call at Mirrah more or less regularly. He 
 thought he saw an opening to do business with 
 rattans there, if only he could depend on some 
 craft to bring out trading goods and take away 
 his produce. 
 
 "'I have a few dollars to make a start on. 
 The p eople are all right.' 
 
 " He had come there, where he was not known, 
 in a native prau, and had managed, with his 
 sedate manner and the exactly right kind of 
 yarn he knew how to tell to the natives, to in- 
 gratiate himself with the chief man. 
 
260 BECAUSE OF THE DOLLARS 
 
 "'The Orang Kay a has given me that empty 
 house there to live in as long as I will stay/ 
 added Bamtz. 
 
 '"Do it, Davy,' cried the woman suddenly. 
 'Think of that poor kid.' 
 
 "'Seen him? 'Cute little customer,' said the 
 reformed loafer in such a tone of interest as to 
 surprise Davidson into a kindly glance. 
 
 "'I certainly can do it,' he declared. He 
 thought of at first making some stipulation as 
 to Bamtz behaving decently to the woman, but 
 his exaggerated delicacy and also the conviction 
 that such a fellow's promises were w^orth noth- 
 ing restrained him. Anne went a little distance 
 down the path with him talking anxiously. 
 
 "'It's for the kid. How could I have kept 
 him with me if I had to knock about in towns .^ 
 Here he will never know that his mother was a 
 painted woman. And this Bamtz likes him. 
 He's real fond of him. I suppose I ought to 
 thank God for that.' 
 
 {"Davidson shuddered at any human crea- 
 ture being brought so low as to have to thank 
 God for the favours or affection of a Bamtz. 
 
 " 'And do you think that you can make out to 
 live here.^ ' he asked gently. 
 
 " 'Can't I.^ You know I have always stuck to 
 . ^y/men through thick and thin till they had enough 
 
BECAUSE OF THE DOLLARS 261 
 
 of me. And now look at me! But inside I am 
 as I always was. I have acted on the square to 
 them all one after another. Only they do get 
 tired somehow. Oh, Davy! Harry ought not 
 to have cast me off. It was he that led me 
 astray. 
 
 "Davidson mentioned to her that Harry the 
 Pearler had been dead now for some years. 
 Perhaps she had heard? 
 
 "She made a sign that she had heard; and 
 walked by the side of Davidson in silence nearly 
 to the bank. Then she told him that her meet- 
 ing with him had brought back the old times to 
 her mind. She had not cried for years. She 
 was not a crying woman either. It was hearing 
 herself called Laughing Anne that had started 
 her sobbing like a fool. Harry was the only 
 man she had loved. The others 
 
 " She shrugged her shoulders. But she prided 
 herself on her loyalty to the successive partners 
 of her dismal adventures. She had never 
 played any tricks in her life. She was a pal 
 worth having. But men did get tired. They 
 did not understand women. She supposed it 
 had to be. 
 
 "Davidson was attempting a veiled warning 
 as to Bamtz, but she interrupted him. She 
 knew what men were. She knew what this 
 
262 BECAUSE OF THE DOLLARS 
 
 man was like. But he had taken wonderfully 
 to the kid. And Davidson desisted willingly, 
 saying to himself that surely poor Laughing 
 Anne could have no illusions by this time. She 
 wrung his hand hard at parting. 
 
 "'It's for the kid, Davy— it's for the kid. 
 Isn't he a bright little chap? ' 
 
II 
 
 "All this happened about two years before the 
 day when Davidson, sitting in this very room, 
 talked to my friend. You will see presently 
 how this room can get full. Every seat'll be 
 occupied, and as you notice, the tables are set 
 close, so that the backs of the chairs are almost 
 touching. There is also a good deal of noisy 
 talk here about one o'clock. 
 
 "I don't suppose Davidson was talking very 
 loudly; but very likely he had to raise his voice 
 across the table to my friend. And here ac- 
 cident, mere accident, put in its work by pro- 
 viding a pair of fine ears close behind Davidson's 
 chair. It was ten to one against the owner of 
 the same having enough change in his pockets 
 to get his tiffin here. But he had. Most likely 
 had rooked somebody of a few dollars at cards 
 overnight. JHe .was a bright creature of the 
 name of /Fec torj a spare, short, jumpy fellow 
 with a red face and muddy eyes. He described 
 himself as a journalist as certain kind of women 
 
 263 
 
A 
 
 264 BECAUSE OF THE DOLLARS 
 
 give themselves out as actresses in the dock 
 of a pohce-court. 
 
 "He used to introduce himself to strangers as 
 a man with a mission to track out abuses and 
 fight them whenever found. He would also 
 hint that he was a martyr. And it's a fact 
 that he had been kicked, horsewhipped, im- 
 risoned, and hounded with ignominy out of 
 pretty well every place between Ceylon and 
 Shanghai for a proJessioiiaLhlackmailer. 
 
 "I suppose, in that trade, you've got to have 
 active wits and sharp ears. It's not likely that 
 he overheard every word Davidson said about 
 his dollar-collecting trip, but he heard enough 
 to set his wits at work. 
 
 "He let Davidson go out, and then hastened 
 away down to the nativ£_slunis to a sort of 
 lodging-house kept in partnership by the usual 
 sort of Portuguese and a very disreputjible 
 CEmaman. Macao Hotel, it was called, but 
 it was mostly a gambling den that one used to 
 warn fellows against. Perhaps you remember.'^ 
 
 "There, the evening before, Fector had met a 
 precious couple, a partnership even more queer 
 than the Portuguese and the Chinaman. One of 
 the two was Niclaus — you know. Why! the 
 fellow with a Tartar mustache and a yellow 
 /complexion like a Mongolian, only that his 
 
BECAUSE OF THE DOLLARS 265 
 
 eyes were set straight and his face was not so 
 flat. One couldn't tell what bYeed)he was. A 
 nondescript beggar. From a certain angle you 
 would think a very bilious white man. And I 
 daresay he was. He owned a Malay prau and 
 called himself The Nakhoda, as one would say: 
 The Captain. xAha! Now you remember. He \\ 
 couldn't, apparently, speak any other European \ 
 language than English, but he flew the 4)ut^Ji 
 flag on his prau. 
 
 *'The other was the Frenchman without 
 hands. Yes. The very same we used to 
 know in '79 in Sydney, keeping a little tobacco 
 shop at the lower end of George Street. You 
 remember the huge carcase hunched up behind 
 the counter, the big white face and the long 
 black hair brushed back off a high forehead 
 like a bard's. He was always trying to roll 
 cigarettes on his knee with his stumps, telling 
 endless yarns of Polynesia and whining and 
 cursing in turn about 'mon malheur.' His hands 
 had been blown away by a dynamite cartridge 
 while fishing in some lagoon. This accident, I 
 believe, had made him more wicked than before, 
 which is saying a good deal. 
 
 "He was always talking about * resuming his 
 activities' some day, whatever they were, if he 
 could only get an intelligent companion. It 
 
266 BECAUSE OF THE DOLLARS 
 
 was evident that the little shop was no field for 
 his activities, and the sickly woman with her face 
 tied up, who used to look in sometimes through 
 the back door, was no companion for him. 
 
 "And, true enough, he vanished from Sydney 
 before long, after some trouble with the Excise 
 fellows about his stock. Goods stolen out of a 
 warehouse or something similar. He left the 
 woman behind, but he must have secured some 
 sort of companion — he could not have shifted 
 for himself; but whom he went away with, and 
 where, and what other companions he might 
 have picked up afterward, it is impossible to 
 make the remotest guess about. 
 
 "Why exactly he came this way I can't tell. 
 Toward the end of my time here we began to 
 hear talk of a maimed Frenchman who had been 
 seen here and there. But no one knew then 
 that he had foregathered with Niclaus and 
 lived in hisprau. I daresay he put Niclaus 
 up to a thing or two. Anyhow, it was a part- 
 nership. Niclaus was somewhat afraid of the 
 Frenchman on account of his tempers, which 
 were awful. He looked then like a devil; but 
 a man without hands, unable to load or handle 
 a weapon, can at best go for one only with his 
 teeth. From that danger Niclaus felt certain 
 he could always defend himself. 
 
BECAUSE OF THE DOLLARS 267 
 
 "The couple were alone together loafing in 
 the common-room of that infamous hotel when 
 Fector turned up. After some beating about 
 the bush, for he was doubtful how far he could 
 trust these two, he repeated what he had over- 
 heard in the tifiin-rooms. 
 
 "His tale did not have much success till he 
 came to mention the creek and Bamtz's name. 
 Niclaus, sailing about like a native in a prau, 
 was, in his own words, 'familiar with the local- 
 ity.' The huge Frenchman, walking up and 
 down the room with his stumps in the pockets 
 of his jacket, stopped short in surprise. ' Com- 
 ment ? Bamtz I Bamtz ! ' 
 
 "He had run across him several times in his 
 life. He exclaimed: ^ Bamtz! Mais je ne con- 
 nais que ca!^ And he applied such a contemp- 
 tuously indecent epithet to Bamtz that when, 
 later, he alluded to him as ^une chiffe' (a mere 
 rag) it sounded quite complimentary. 'We 
 can do with him what we like,' he asserted con- 
 fidently. 'Oh, yes. Certainly we must hasten 
 
 to pay a visit to that ' (another awful 
 
 descriptive epithet quite unfit for repetition). 
 'Devil take me if we don't pull off a coup that 
 will set us all up for a long time.' 
 
 "He saw all that lot of dollars melted into 
 bars and disposed of somewhere on the China 
 
268 BECAUSE OF THE DOLLARS 
 
 coast. Of the escape after the coup he never 
 doubted. There was Niclaus's prau to manage 
 that in. 
 
 "In his enthusiasm he pulled his stumps out 
 of his pockets and waved them about. Then, 
 catching sight of them, as it were, he held them 
 in front of his eyes, cursing and blaspheming and 
 bewailing his misfortune and his helplessness, 
 till Niclaus quieted him down. 
 
 "But it was his mind that planned out the 
 affair and it was his spirit which carried the 
 other two on. Neither of them was of the bold 
 buccaneer type; and Fector, especially, had 
 never in his adventurous life used other wea- 
 pons than slander and lies. 
 
 "That very evening they departed on a visit 
 to Bamtz in Niclaus's prau, which had been 
 lying, emptied of her cargo of cocoanuts, for a 
 day or two under the canal bridge. They must 
 have crossed the bows of the anchored Sissie, 
 and no doubt looked at her with interest as the 
 scene of their future exploit, the great haul, 
 le grand coup! 
 
 "Davidson's wife, to his great surprise, sulked 
 with him for several days before he left. I 
 don't know whether it occurred to him that, for 
 all her angelic profile, she was a very stupidly 
 obstinate girl. She didn't like the tropics. He 
 
BECAUSE OF THE DOLLARS 269 
 
 had brought her out there, where she had no 
 friends, and now, she said, he was becoming 
 inconsiderate. She had a presentiment of some 
 misfortune, and notwithstanding Davidson's 
 painstaking explanations, she could not see 
 why her presentiments were to be disregarded. 
 On the very last evening before Davidson went 
 away she asked him in a suspicious manner : 
 
 " * Why is it that you are so anxious to go this 
 time.?' 
 
 "'I am not anxious,' protested the good 
 Davidson. * I simply can't help myself. There's 
 no one else to go in my place.' 
 
 "'Oh! There's no one,' she said, turning 
 away slowly. 
 
 "She was so distant with him that evening 
 that Davidson from a sense of delicacy made up 
 his mind to say good-bye to her at once and go 
 and sleep on board. He felt very miserable 
 and, strangely enough, more on his own account 
 than on account of his wife. She seemed to 
 him much more offended than grieved. 
 
 "Three weeks later, having collected a good 
 many cases of old dollars (they were stowed aft 
 in the lazarette with an iron bar and a padlock 
 securing the hatch under his cabin-table), yes, 
 with a bigger lot than he had expected to col- 
 lect, he found himself homeward bound and 
 
270 BECAUSE OF THE DOLLARS 
 
 off the entrance of the creek where Bamtz lived 
 and even, in a sense, flourished. 
 
 "It was so late in the day that Davidson 
 actually hesitated whether he should not pass 
 by this time. He had no regard for Bamtz, who 
 was a degraded but not a really unhappy man. 
 His pity for Laughing Anne was no more than 
 her case deserved. But his goodness was of a 
 pa rticularly j elicate sort. He realized how 
 these people were dependent on him, and how 
 they would feel their dependence (if he failed 
 to turn up) through a long month of anxious 
 waiting. Prompted by his sensitive humanity, 
 Davidson, in the gathering dusk, turned the 
 Sissie's head toward the hardly discernible 
 coast, and navigated her safely through a 
 maze of shallow patches. But by the time he got 
 to the mouth of the creek the night had come. 
 
 "The narrow waterway lay like a black cut- 
 ting through the forest. And as there were 
 always grounded snags in the channel which 
 it would be impossible to make out, Davidson 
 very prudently turned the Sissie round, and 
 with only enough steam on the boilers to give 
 her a touch ahead if necessary, let her drift 
 up stern first with the tide, silent and invisible 
 in the impenetrable darkness and in the dumb 
 stillness. 
 
BECAUSE OF THE DOLLARS 271 
 
 "It was a long job, and when at the end of 
 two hours Davidson thought he must be up to 
 the clearing, the settlement slept already, the 
 whole land of forests and rivers was asleep. 
 
 "Davidson, seeing a solitary light in the 
 massed darkness of the shore, knew that it was 
 burning in Bamtz's house. This was unex- 
 pected at this time of the night, but convenient 
 as a guide. By a turn of the screw and a touch 
 of the helm he sheered the Sissie alongside 
 Bamtz's wharf — a miserable structure of a dozen 
 piles and a few planks of which the ex-vagabond 
 was very proud. A couple of Kalashes jumped 
 down on it, took a turn with the ropes thrown 
 to them round the posts, and the Sissie came to 
 rest without a single loud word or the slightest 
 noise. And just in time too, for the tide turned 
 even before she was properly moored. 
 
 "Davidson had something to eat, and then, 
 coming on deck for a last look round, noticed 
 that the light was still burning in the house. 
 
 "This was very unusual, but since they were 
 awake so late, Davidson thought that he would 
 go up to say that he was in a hurry to be off and to 
 ask that what rattans there were in store should 
 be sent on board with the first sign of dawn. 
 
 "He stepped carefully over the shaky planks, 
 not being anxious to get a sprained ankle, and 
 
272 BECAUSE OF THE DOLLAES 
 
 picked his way across the waste ground to the 
 foot of the house ladder. The house was but a 
 glorified hut on piles, unfenced and lonely. 
 
 "Like many a stout man, Davidson is very 
 lightfooted. He climbed the seven steps or so, 
 stepped across the bamboo platform quietly, 
 but what he saw through the doorway stopped 
 him short. 
 
 "Four men were sitting by the light of a 
 solitary candle. There was a bottle, a jug, and 
 glasses on the table, but they were not engaged 
 in drinking. Two packs of cards were lying 
 there too, but they were not preparing to play. 
 They were talking together in whispers, and 
 remained quite unaware of him. He himself 
 was too astonished to make a sound for some 
 time. The world was still, except for the sibila- 
 tion of the whispering heads bunched together 
 over the table. 
 
 "And Davidson, as I have quoted him to you 
 before, didn't like it. He didn't like it at all. 
 
 "The situation ended with a scream proceed- 
 ing from the dark, interior part of the room. ' O 
 Davy! you've given me a turn.' 
 
 "Davidson made out beyond the table Anne's 
 very pale face. She laughed a little hysteric- 
 ally, out of the deep shadows between the gloomy 
 mat walls. 'Ha! ha! ha!' 
 
BECAUSE OF THE DOLLARS 273 
 
 "The four heads sprang apart at the first 
 sound, and four pairs of eyes became fixed 
 stonily on Davidson. The woman came for- 
 ward, having Kttle more on her than a loose 
 chintz wrapper and straw slippers on her bare 
 feet. Her head was tied up Malay fashion in a 
 red handkerchief, with a mass of loose hair 
 hanging under it behind. Her professional, 
 gay, European feathers had literally dropped off 
 her in the course of these two years, but a long 
 necklace of amber beads hung round her un- 
 covered neck. It was the only ornament she 
 had left; Bamtz had sold all her poor-enough 
 trinkets during the flight from Saigon — when 
 their association began. 
 
 "She came forward, past the table into the 
 light, with her usual groping gesture of ex- 
 tended arms, as though her soul, poor thing! had 
 gone blind long ago, her white cheeks hollow, 
 her eyes darkly wild, distracted, as Davidson 
 thought. She came on swiftly, grabbed him by 
 the arm, dragged him in. *It's heaven itself 
 that sends you to-night. My Tony's so bad — 
 come and see him. Come along — do!' 
 
 "Davidson submitted. The only one of the 
 men to move was Bamtz, who made as if to get 
 up but dropped back in his chair again. David- 
 son in passing heard him mutter confusedly 
 
274 BECAUSE OF THE DOLLARS 
 
 something that sounded like 'poor little beg- 
 gar.' 
 
 "The child, lying very flushed in a miserable 
 cot knocked up out of gin-cases, stared at David- 
 son with wide, drowsy eyes. It was a bad bout 
 of fever clearly. But while Davidson was 
 promising to go on board and fetch some medi- 
 cines, and generally trying to say reassuring 
 things, he could not help being struck by the 
 extraordinary manner of the woman standing 
 by his side. Gazing with despairing expression 
 down at the cot, she would suddenly throw a 
 quick, startled glance at Davidson and then 
 toward the other room. 
 
 **'Yes, my poor girl,' he whispered, interpret- 
 ing her distraction in his own way, though he had 
 nothing precise in his mind. 'I'm afraid this 
 bodes no good to you. How is it they are here? ' 
 
 "She seized his forearm and breathed out 
 forcibly : * No good to me ! Oh, no ! But what 
 about you! They are after the dollars you 
 t '^have on board.' 
 
 "Davidson let out an astonished *How do 
 they know there are any dollars? ' 
 
 "She clapped her hands lightly, in distress. 
 *So it's true! You have them on board? Then 
 look out for yourself.' 
 
 "They stood gazing down at the boy in the 
 
BECAUSE OF THE DOLLARS 275 
 
 cot, aware that they might be observed from 
 the other room. 
 
 "*We must get him to perspire as soon as 
 possible,' said Davidson in his ordinary voice. 
 'You'll have to give him hot drink of some kind. 
 I will go on board and bring you a spirit-kettle 
 amongst other things.' And he added under his 
 breath: 'Do they actually mean murder .^' 
 
 "She made no sign, she had returned to her 
 desolate contemplation of the boy. Davidson 
 thought she nad not heard him even, when with 
 an unchanged expression she spoke under her 
 breath. 
 
 "'The Frenchman would, in a minute. The 
 others shirk it — unless you resist. He's a 
 devil. He keeps them going. Without him 
 they would have done nothing but talk. I've 
 got chummy with him. What can you do when 
 you are with a man like the fellow I am with 
 now. Bamtz is terrified of them, and they 
 know it. He's in it from funk. Oh, Davy! 
 take your ship away — quick ! ' 
 
 "'Too late,' said Davidson. 'She's on the 
 mud already.' 
 
 "'If the kid hadn't been in this state I would 
 have run off with him — to you — into the woods 
 — anywhere. Oh, Davy! will he die.f^' she cried 
 aloud suddenly. 
 
276 BECAUSE OF THE DOLLARS 
 
 "Davidson met three men in the doorway. 
 They made way for him without actually daring 
 to face his glance. But Bamtz was the only one 
 who looked down with an air of guilt. The 
 big Frenchman had remained lolling in his 
 chair; he kept his stumps in his pockets and 
 addressed Davidson. 
 
 " ' Isn't it unfortunate about that child ! The 
 distress of that woman there upsets me, but I 
 am of no use in the world. I couldn't smooth 
 the sick pillow of my dearest friend. I have no 
 hands. Would you mind sticking one of those 
 cigarettes there into the mouth of a poor, harm- 
 less cripple.^ My nerves want soothing — upon 
 my honour, they do.' 
 
 "Davidson complied with his naturally kind 
 smile. As his outward placidity becomes only 
 piore pronounced, if possible, the more reason 
 there is for excitement; and as Davidson's eyes, 
 when his wits are hard at work, get very still 
 and as if sleepy, the huge Frenchman might 
 have been justified in concluding that the man 
 there was a mere sheep — a sheep ready for 
 slaughter. With a 'merci bien' he uplifted his 
 huge carcase to reach the light of the candle 
 with his cigarette, and Davidson left the house. 
 
 "Going down to the ship and returning, he 
 had time to consider his position. At first he 
 
BECAUSE OF THE DOLLARS 277 
 
 was inclined to believe that these men (Niclaus 
 — the white Nakhoda — was the only one he 
 knew by sight before, besides Bamtz) were not 
 of the stamp to proceed to extremities. This 
 was partly the reason why he never attempted 
 to take any measures on board. His pacific 
 Kalashes were not to be thought of as against 
 white men. His wretched engineer would have 
 had a fit from fright at the mere idea of any sort 
 of combat. Davidson knew that he would have to 
 depend on himself in this affair if it ever came off. 
 
 "Davidson underestimated naturally the 
 driving power of the Frenchman's character 
 and the force of the actuatiiiff motive. To 
 that man so hopelessly , crippled '>these dollars 
 were an enormous oppoftuhTty. With his 
 share of the robbery he would open another 
 shop in Vladivostok, Hai-p hong, Mamla — some 
 where far away. 
 
 "Neither did it occur to Davidson, who is a 
 man of courage, if ever there was one, that his 
 psychology was not known to the world at 
 large, and that to this particular lot of ruflSans, 
 who judged him by his appearance, he appeared 
 an unsuspicious, inoffensive, soft creature, as 
 he passed again through the room, his hands 
 full of various objects and parcels destined for 
 the sick boy. 
 
 ^ 
 
 'I 
 
278 BECAUSE OF THE DOLLARS 
 
 "All the four were sitting again round the 
 table. Bamtz not having the pluck to open his 
 mouth, it was Niclaus who, as a collective voice, 
 called out to him thickly to come out soon and 
 join in a drink. 
 
 "*I think I'll have to stay some little time in 
 there, to help her look after the boy,' Davidson 
 answered without stopping. 
 
 "This was a good thing to say to allay a 
 possible suspicion. And, as it was, Davidson 
 felt he must not stay very long. 
 
 "He sat down on an old empty nail-keg near 
 the improvised cot and looked at the child; 
 while Laughing Anne, moving to and fro, pre- 
 paring the hot drink, giving it to the boy in 
 spoonfuls, or stopping to gaze motionless at the 
 flushed face, whispered disjointed bits of in- 
 formation. She had succeeded in making friends 
 with that French devil. Davy would under- 
 stand that she knew how to make herself 
 pleasant to a man. 
 
 "And Davidson nodded without looking at 
 her. 
 
 " The big beast had got to be quite confidential 
 with her. She held his cards for him when they 
 were having a game. Bamtz! Oh! Bamtz in 
 his funk was only too glad to see the Frenchman 
 humoured. And the Frenchman had come to 
 
BECAUSE OF THE DOLLARS 279 
 
 believe that she was a woman who didn't care 
 what she did. That's how it came about they 
 got to talk before her openly. For a long time 
 she could not make out what game they were 
 up to. The new arrivals, not expecting to find 
 a woman with Bamtz, had been very startled 
 and annoyed at first, she explained. 
 
 "She busied herself in attending to the boy; 
 and nobody looking into that room would have 
 seen anything suspicious in those two people 
 exchanging murmurs by the sick-bedside. 
 
 " 'But now they think I am a better man than 
 Bamtz ever was,' she said with a faint laugh. 
 
 "The child moaned. She went down on her 
 knees, and, bending low, contemplated him 
 mournfully. Then raising her head, she asked 
 Davidson whether he thought the child would 
 get better. Davidson was sure of it. She 
 murmured sadly: 'Poor kid. There's nothing 
 in life for such as he. Not a dog's chance. 
 But I couldn't let him go, Davy ! I couldn't.' 
 
 "Davidson felt a profound pity for the child. 
 She laid her hand on his knee and whispered an 
 earnest warning against the Frenchman. Davy 
 must never let him come to close quarters. 
 Naturally Davidson wanted to know the rea- 
 son, for a man without hands did not strike 
 him as very formidable under any circumstances. 
 
280 BECAUSE OF THE DOLLARS 
 
 "*Mind you don't let him — that's all,' she 
 insisted anxiously, hesitated, and then confessed 
 that the Frenchman had got her away from the 
 others that afternoon and had ordered her to 
 tie a seven-pound iron weight (out of the set of 
 weights Bamtz used in business) to his right 
 stump. She had to do it for him. She had 
 been afraid of his sayag^ temper. Bamtz was 
 such a craven, and neither of the other men 
 would have cared what happened to her. The 
 Frenchman, however, with many awful threats 
 had warned her not to let the others know what 
 she had done for him. Afterward he had been 
 trying to cajole her. He had promised her 
 that if she stood by him faithfully in this busi- 
 ness he would take her with him to Hai-phong 
 or some other place. A poor cripple needed 
 somebody to take care of him — always. 
 
 "Davidson asked her again if they really 
 meant mischief. It was, he told me, the hardest 
 thing to believe he had run up against, as yet, in 
 his life. Anne nodded. The Frenchman's heart 
 was set on this robbery. Davy might expect 
 them, about midnight, creeping on board his 
 ship, to steal anyhow — to murder, perhaps. 
 Her voice sounded weary, and her eyes remained 
 fastened on her child. 
 
 "And still Davidson could not accept it some- 
 
BECAUSE OF THE DOLLARS 281 
 
 how; his contempt for these men was too 
 great. 
 
 "'Look here, Davy,' she said. *I'll go out- 
 side with them when they start, and it will be 
 hard luck if I don't find something to laugh at. 
 They are used to that from me. Laugh or cry 
 — what's the odds. You will be able to hear 
 me oiTIBoard on this quiet night. Dark it is 
 too. Oh ! it's dark, Davy !— it's dark ! ' 
 
 "'Don't you run any risks,' said Davidson. 
 Presently he called her attention to the boy, 
 who, less flushed now, had dropped into a sound 
 sleep. 'Look. He'll be all right.' 
 
 "She made as if to snatch the child up to her 
 breast, but restrained herself. Davidson pre- 
 pared to go. She whispered hurriedly: 
 
 '"Mind, Davy! I've told them that you 
 generally sleep aft in the hammock under the 
 awning over the cabin. They have been ask- 
 ing me about your ways and about your ship, 
 too. I told them all I knew. I had to keep in 
 with them. And Bamtz would have told them 
 if I hadn't — you understand.'^' 
 
 "He made a friendly sign and went out. The 
 men about the table (except Bamtz) looked at 
 him. This time it was Fector who spoke. 
 * Won't you join us in a quiet game. Captain .^^ ' 
 
 "Davidson said that now the child was better 
 
282 BECAUSE OF THE DOLLARS 
 
 he thought he would go on board and turn in. 
 Fector was the only one of the four whom he 
 had, so to speak, never seen, for he had had a 
 good look at the Frenchman already. He ob- 
 served Fector's muddy eyes, his mean, bitter 
 mouth. Davidson's contempt for those men rose 
 in his gorge, while his placid smile, his gentle 
 tones and general air of innocence put heart 
 into them. They exchanged meaning glances. 
 
 "*We shall be sitting late over the cards/ 
 Fector said in his harsh, low voice. 
 
 "* Don't make more noise than you can help.' 
 
 "'Oh! we are a quiet lot. And if the invalid 
 shouldn't be so well, she will be sure to send one 
 of us down to call you, so that you may play the 
 doctor again. So don't shoot at sight.' 
 
 " *He isn't a shooting man,' struck in Niclaus. 
 
 ***I never shoot before making sure there's a 
 reason for it — at any rate,' said Davidson. 
 
 ** Bamtz let out a sickly snigger. The French- 
 man alone got up to make a bow to Davidson's 
 careless nod. His stumps were stuck immov- 
 ably in his pockets. Davidson understood now 
 the reason. 
 
 "He went down to the ship. His wits were 
 working actively, and he was thoroughly angry. 
 He smiled, he says (it must have been the first 
 grim smile of his life), at the thought of the 
 
BECAUSE OF THE DOLLARS 283 
 
 seven-pound weight lashed to the end of the 
 Frenchman's stump. The ruffian had taken 
 that precaution in case of a quarrel that might 
 arise over the division of the spoil. A man with 
 an unsuspected power to deal killing blows could 
 take his own part in a sudden scrimmage round 
 a heap of money, even against adversaries 
 armed with revolvers, especially if he himself 
 started the row. 
 
 "*He's ready to face any of his friends with 
 that thing. But he will have no use for it. 
 There will be no occasion to quarrel about these 
 dollars here,' thought Davidson, getting on 
 board quietly. He never paused to look if 
 there was anybody about the decks. As a 
 matter of fact, most of his crew were on shore, 
 and the rest slept, stowed away in dark corners. 
 
 " He had his plan, and he went to work me- 
 thodically. 
 
 "He fetched a lot of clothing from below and 
 disposed it in his hammock in such a way as to 
 distend it to the shape of a human body; then he 
 threw over all the light cotton sheet he used to 
 draw over himself when sleeping on deck. Hav- 
 ing done this, he loaded his two revolvers and 
 clambered into one of the boats the Sissie 
 carried right aft, swung out on their davits. 
 Then he waited. 
 
284 BECAUSE OF THE DOLLARS 
 
 "And again the doubt of such a thing hap- 
 pening to him crept into his mind. He was 
 almost ashamed of this ridiculous vigil in a 
 boat. He became bored. And then he became 
 drowsy. The stillness of the black universe 
 •wearied him. There was not even the lapping 
 of the water to keep him company, for the tide 
 was out and the Sissie was lying on soft mud. 
 Suddenly in the breathless, soundless, hot night 
 an argus pheasant screamed in the woods across 
 the stream. Davidson started violently, all his 
 senses on the alert at once. 
 
 "The candle was still burning in the house. 
 Everything was quiet again, but Davidson felt 
 drowsy no longer. An uneasy premonition of 
 evil oppressed him. 
 
 I I *'* Surely I am not afraid,' he argued with 
 ; Ihimself. 
 
 "The silence was like a seal on his ears, and 
 his nervous inward impatience grew intolerable. 
 He commanded himself to keep still. But all 
 the same he was just going to jump out of the 
 boat when a faint ripple on the immensity of 
 silence, a mere tremor in the air, the ghost of a 
 . >/silvery laugh, reached his ears. 
 
 " Illusio n! 
 
 "He kept very still. He had no diflSculty 
 now in emulating the stillness of the mouse — a 
 
BECAUSE OF THE DOLLARS 285 
 
 grimly determined mouse. But he could not 
 shake off that premonition of evil unrelated to the 
 mere danger of the situation. Nothing hap- 
 pened. It had been an illusion ! 
 
 "A curiosity came to him to learn how they 
 would go to work. He wondered and wondered, 
 till the whole thing seemed more absurd than 
 ever. 
 
 "He had left the hanging lamp in the cabin 
 burning as usual. It was part of his plan that 
 everything should be as usual. Suddenly in the 
 dim glow of the skylight panes a bulky shadow 
 came up the ladder without a sound, made two 
 steps toward the hammock (it hung right over 
 the skylight), and stood motionless. The 
 Frenchman ! 
 
 "The minutes began to slip away. Davidson 
 guessed that the Frenchman's part (the poor 
 cripple) was to watch his (Davidson's) slumbers 
 while the others were no doubt in the cabin busy 
 forcing off the lazarette hatch. 
 
 "What was the course they meant to pursue 
 once they got hold of the silver (there were ten 
 cases, and each could be carried easily by two 
 men) nobody can tell now. But so far, David- 
 son was right. They were in the cabin. He ex- 
 pected to hear the sounds of breaking-in every 
 moment. But the fact was that one of them 
 
286 BECAUSE OF THE DOLLARS 
 
 (perhaps Fector, who had stolen papers out of 
 desks in his time) knew how to pick a lock, and 
 apparently was provided with the tools. Thus 
 while Davidson expected every moment to hear 
 them begin down there, they had the bar off 
 already and two cases actually up in the cabin 
 out of the lazarette. 
 
 "In the diffused faint glow of the skylight the 
 Frenchman moved no more than a statue. 
 Davidson could have shot him with the greatest 
 ease — but he was not homicidally inclined. 
 Moreover, he wanted to make sure before open- 
 ing fire that the others had gone to work. Not 
 hearing the sounds he expected to hear, he felt 
 uncertain whether they all were on board yet. 
 
 "While he listened, the Frenchman, whose 
 immobility might have but cloaked an internal 
 struggle, moved forward a pace, then another. 
 Davidson, entranced, watched him advance one 
 leg, withdraw his right stump, the armed one, 
 out of his pocket, and swinging his body to put 
 greater force into the blow, bring the seven- 
 ^ypound weight down on the hammock where 
 the head of the sleeper ought to have been. 
 ^ "Davidson admitted to me that his hair 
 stirred at the roots then. But for Anne, his 
 unsuspecting head would have been there. The 
 Frenchman's surprise must have been simply 
 
BECAUSE OF THE DOLLARS 287 
 
 overwhelming. He staggered away from the 
 lightly swinging hammock, and before David- 
 son could make a movement he had vanished, 
 bounding down the ladder to warn and alarm 
 the other fellows. 
 
 "Davidson sprang instantly out of the boat, 
 threw up the skylight flap, and had a glimpse 
 of the men down there crouching round the 
 hatch. They looked up scared, and at that 
 moment the Frenchman outside the door bel- 
 lowed out * Trahison — trahison! ' They bolted 
 out of the cabin, falling over each other and 
 swearing awfully. The shot Davidson let off 
 down the skylight had hit no one; but he ran 
 to the edge of the cabin-top and at once opened 
 fire at the dark shapes rushing about the deck. 
 These shots were returned, and a rapid fusillade 
 burst out, reports and flashes, Davidson dodg- 
 ing behind a ventilator and pulling the trigger 
 till his revolver clicked, and then throwing it 
 down to take the other in his right hand. 
 
 "He had been hearing in the din the French- 
 man's infuriated yells ' Tuez-le! — tuez-le! ' above 
 the fierce cursing of the others. But though 
 they fired at him they were only thinking of 
 clearing out. In the flashes of the last shots 
 Davidson saw them scrambling over the rail. 
 That he had hit more than one he was certain. 
 

 288 BECAUSE OF THE DOLLARS 
 
 Two different voices had cried out in pain. 
 But apparently none of them were disabled. 
 
 "Davidson leaned against the bulwark re- 
 loading his revolver without haste. He had not 
 the slightest apprehension of their coming back. 
 On the other hand, he had no intention of pur- 
 suing them on shore in the dark. What they 
 were doing he had no idea. Looking to their 
 hurts probably. Not very far from the bank 
 the invisible Frenchman was blaspheming and 
 cursing his associates, his luck, and all the 
 world. He ceased; then with a sudden, venge- 
 ful yell, 'It's that woman! — it's that woman 
 that has sold us,' was heard running off in the 
 night. 
 
 "Davidson caught his breath in a sudden 
 pang of remorse. He perceived with dismay 
 that the stratagem of his defence had given Anne 
 away. He did not hesitate a moment. It was 
 or him to save her now. He leaped ashore. 
 But even as he landed on the wharf he heard a 
 shrill shriek which pierced his very soul. 
 
 "The light was still burning in the house. 
 Davidson, revolver in hand, was making for it 
 when another shriek, away to his left, made 
 him change his direction. 
 
 "He changed his direction — but very soon he 
 stopped. It was then that he hesitated in cruel 
 
BECAUSE OF THE DOLLARS 289 
 
 perplexity. He guessed what had happened. 
 The woman had managed to escape from the 
 house in some way, and now was being chased 
 in the open by the infuriated Frenchman. He 
 trusted she would try to run on board for pro- 
 tection. 
 
 "All was still around Davidson. Whether 
 she had run on board or not, this silence meant 
 that the Frenchman had lost her in the dark. 
 
 "Davidson, relieved, but still very anxious, 
 turned toward the river-side. He had not 
 made two steps in that direction when another 
 shriek burst out behind him, again close to the 
 house. 
 
 "He thinks that the Frenchman had lost 
 sight of the poor woman right enough. Then 
 came that period of silence. But the horrible 
 ruflSan had not given up his murderous purpose. 
 He reasoned that she would try to steal back 
 to her child, and went to lie in wait for her near 
 the house. 
 
 "It must have been something like that. As 
 she entered the light falling about the house- 
 ladder, he had rushed at her too soon, impatient 
 for vengeance. She had let out that second 
 scream of mortal fear when she caught sight of 
 him, and turned to run for life again. 
 
 "This time she was making for the river. 
 
A, 
 
 /h 
 
 2G0 BECAUSE OF THE DOLLARS 
 
 but not in a straight line. Her shrieks circled 
 about Davidson. He turned on his heels, fol- 
 lowing the horrible trail of sound in the darkness. 
 He wanted to shout 'This way, Anne! I am 
 here!' but he couldn't. At the horror of this 
 hase, more ghastly in his imagination than if 
 he could have seen it,the perspiration broke out 
 on his forhead, while his throat was as dry a 
 tinder. A last supreme scream was cut short 
 suddenly. 
 
 "The silence which ensued was even more 
 dreadful. Davidson felt sick. He tore his feet 
 from the spot and walked straight before him, 
 gripping the revolver and peering into the ob- 
 scurity fearfully. Suddenly a bulky shape 
 sprang from the ground within a few yards of 
 him and bounded away. Instinctively he fired 
 at it, started to run in pursuit, and stumbled 
 against something soft which threw him down 
 headlong. 
 
 ''Even as he pitched forward on his head he 
 knew it could be nothing else but Laughing 
 Anne's body. He picked himself up and, re- 
 maining on his knees, tried to lift her in his 
 arms. He felt her so limp that he gave it up. 
 She was lying on her face, her long hair scattered 
 on the ground. Some of it was wet. Davidson, 
 feeling about her head, came to a place where 
 
BECAUSE OF THE DOLLARS 291 
 
 the crushed bone gave way under his fingers. 
 But even before that discovery he knew that 
 she was dead. The pursuing Frenchman had 
 flung her down with a kick from behind, and, 
 squatting on her back, was battering in her 
 skull with the weight she herself had fastened to 
 his stump, when the totally unexpected Davidson 
 loomed up in the night and scared him away. 
 
 "Davidson, kneeling by the side of that 
 woman done so miserably to death, was over- 
 come by remorse. She had died for him. Jlis 
 manhood was as if stunned. For the first time 
 he f elt^7rag r~He might have been pounced 
 upon in the dark at any moment by the mur- 
 derer of Laughing Anne. He confesses to the 
 impulse of creeping away from that pitiful 
 corpse on his hands and knees to the refuge of 
 the ship. He even says that he actually began 
 to do so. . . . 
 
 "One can hardly picture to oneself Davidson 
 crawling away on all fours from the murdered 
 woman — Davidson unmanned and crushed by 
 the idea that she had died for him in a sense. 
 But he could not have gone very far. What 
 stopped him was the thought of the boy, 
 Laughing Anne's child, that (Davidson remem- 
 bered her very words) would not have a dog's 
 chance. 
 
292 BECAUSE OF THE DOLLARS 
 
 "This life the woman had left behind her 
 
 appeared to Davidson's conscience in the light 
 
 of a sacred trust. He assumed an erect attitude 
 
 (/and, quaking inwardly still, turned about and 
 
 walked toward the house. 
 
 "For all his tremors he was very determined; 
 but that smashed skull had affected his imagina- 
 tion, and he felt very defenceless in the dark- 
 ness, in which he seemed to hear faintly now 
 here, now there, the prowling footsteps of the 
 murderer without hands. But he never faltered 
 in his purpose. He got away with the boy 
 safely after all. The house he found empty. 
 A profound silence encompassed him all the 
 time, except once, just as he got down the 
 ladder with Tony in his arms, when a faint 
 groan reached his ears. It seemed to come 
 from the pitch-black space between the posts 
 on which the house was built, but he did not 
 stop to investigate. 
 
 "It's no use teUing you in detail how David- 
 son got on board with the burden Anne's 
 miserably cruel fate had thrust into his arms; 
 how next morning his scared crew, after ob- 
 serving from a distance the state of affairs on 
 board, rejoined with alacrity; how Davidson 
 went ashore and, aided by his engineer (still 
 half dead with fright), rolled up Laughing 
 
BECAUSE OF THE DOLLARS 293 
 
 Anne's body in a cotton sheet and brought it 
 on board for burial at sea later. While busy 
 with this pious task, Davidson, glancing about, 
 perceived a huge heap of white clothes huddled 
 up against the corner-post of the house. That 
 it was the Frenchman lying there he could not 
 doubt. Taking it in connection with the dismal 
 groan he had heard in the night, Davidson is 
 pretty sure that his random shot gave a mortal 
 hurt to the murderer of poor Anne. 
 
 "As to the others, Davidson never set eyes 
 on a single one of them. Whether they had 
 concealed themselves in the scared settlement, 
 or Bolted into the foresI^"or~were hiding on 
 board Niclaus's prau, which could be seen lying 
 on the mud a hundred yards or so higher up 
 the creek, the fact is that they (^anish^t and 
 Davidson did not trouble his head about them. 
 He lost no time in getting out of the creek 
 directly the Sissie floated. After steaming 
 some twenty miles clear of the coast, he (in 
 his own words) 'committed the body to the 
 deep.' He did everything himself. He weighted 
 her down with a few fire-bars, he read the 
 service, he lifted the plank, he was the only 
 mourner. And while he was rendering these 
 last services to the dead, the desolation of that 
 life and the atrocious wretchedness of its end 
 
^94 BECAUSE OF THE DOLLARS 
 
 cried aloud to his compassion, whispered to 
 him in tones of self-reproach. 
 
 "He ought to have handled the warning she 
 had given him in another way. He was con- 
 vinced now that a simple display of watchful- 
 ness would have been enough to restrain that 
 vile and cowardly crew. But the fact was that 
 he had not quite believed that anything would 
 be attempted. 
 
 "The body of Laughing Anne having been 
 'committed to the deep' some twenty miles 
 S.S.W. from Cape Selatan, the task before 
 Davidson was to commit La.ughing Anne's child 
 to the care of his wife. And there poor, good 
 Davidson made a fatal move. He didn't want 
 to tell her the whole awful story, since it in- 
 volved the knowledge of the danger from which 
 he, Davidson, had escaped. And this, too, 
 after he had been laughing at her unreasonable 
 fears only a short time before. 
 
 "'I thought that if I told her everything,' 
 Davidson explained to me, *she would never 
 have a moment's peace while I was away on 
 my trips.' 
 
 "He simply stated that the boy was an 
 orphan, the child of some people to whom he, 
 Davidson, was under the greatest obligation, 
 and that he felt morally bound to look after 
 
BECAUSE OF THE DOLLARS 295 
 
 him. Some day he would tell her more, he 
 said, and meantime he trusted in the goodness 
 and warmth of her heart, in her woman's natural 
 compassion. 
 
 "He did not know that her heart was about 
 the size of a parched pea, and had the propor- 
 tional amount of warmth; and that her faculty 
 of compassion was mainly directed to herself. 
 He was only startled and disappointed at the 
 air of cold surprise and the suspicious look with 
 which she received his imperfect tale. But she 
 did not say much. She never had much to say. 
 She was a fool of the silent, hopeless kind. 
 
 "What story Davidson's crew thought fit to 
 set afloat in Malay town is neither here nor 
 there. Davidson himself took some of his 
 friends into his confidence, besides giving the 
 full story officially to the Harbour Master. 
 
 "The Harbour Master was considerably 
 astonished. He didn't think, however, that a 
 formal complaint should be made to the Dutch ^ 
 Government. They would probably do noth- 
 ing in the end, after a lot of trouble and cor- 
 respondence. The robbery had not come off, 
 after all. Those vagabonds could be trusted 
 to go to the devil in their own way. No amount 
 of fuss would bring the poor woman to life 
 again, the actual murderer had been done justice 
 
296 BECAUSE OF THE DOLLARS 
 
 to by a chance shot from Davidson. Better 
 let the matter drop. 
 
 "This was good common sense. But he was 
 impressed. 
 
 " 'Sounds a terrible affair, Captain Davidson.' 
 
 "'Aye, terrible enough,' agreed the remorseful 
 Davidson. But the most terrible thing for him, 
 though he didn't know it then, was that his 
 wife's silly brain was slowly coming to the con- 
 clusion that Tony was Davidson's child, and 
 that he had invented that lame story to intro- 
 duce him into her pure home in defiance of 
 ydecency, of virtue — of her most sacred feelings. 
 
 "Davidson was aware of some constraint in 
 his domestic relations. But at the best of times 
 she was not demonstrative; and perhaps that 
 very coldness was part of her charm in the 
 placid Davidson's eyes. Women are loved for 
 all sorts of reasons and even for characteristics 
 which one would think repellent. She was 
 watching him and nursing her suspicions. 
 
 "Then, one day. Monkey -faced Ritchie called 
 on that sweet, shy Mrs. Davidson. She had 
 come out under his care, and he considered him- 
 self a privileged person — her oldest friend in the 
 tropics. He posed for a great admirer of hers. 
 He was always a great chatterer. He had got 
 hold of the story rather vaguely, and he started 
 
BECAUSE OF THE DOLLARS 297 
 
 chattering on that subject, thinking she knew 
 all about it. And in due course he let out some- 
 thing about Laughing Anne. 
 
 "'Laughing Anne,' says Mrs. Davidson with 
 a start. 'What's that.?' 
 
 "Ritchie plunged into circumlocution at once, 
 but she very soon stopped him. 'Is that crea- 
 ture dead? ' she asks. 
 
 '"I believe so,' stammered Ritchie. 'Your 
 husband says so.' 
 
 '"But you don't know for certain? ' 
 
 " ' No ! How could I, Mrs. Davidson ! ' 
 
 '"That's all I wanted to know,' says she, and 
 goes out of the room. 
 
 "When Davidson came home she was ready 
 to go for him, not with common voluble indigna- 
 tion, but as if trickling a stream of cold clear 
 water down his back. She talked of his base 
 intrigue with a vile woman, of being made a 
 fool of, of the insult to her dignity. 
 
 "Davidson begged her to listen to him and 
 told her all the story, thinking that it would 
 move a heart of stone. He tried to make her 
 understand his remorse. She heard him to the 
 end, said 'Indeed!' and turned her back on him. 
 
 '"Don't you believe me?' he asked, appalled. 
 
 "She didn't say yes or no. All she said was, 
 'Send that brat away at once.' 
 
298 BECAUSE OF THE DOLLARS 
 
 "*I can't throw him out into the street,' cried 
 Davidson. * You don't mean it.' 
 
 *"I don't care. There are charitable institu- 
 tions for such children, I suppose.' 
 
 " 'That I will never do,' said Davidson. 
 
 " ' Very well. That's enough for me.' 
 
 "Davidson's home after this was like a silent, 
 frozen hell for him. A stupid woman with a 
 sense of grievance is worse than an unchained 
 devil. He sent the boy to the White Fathers in 
 iMalacca. J This was not a very expensive sort of 
 education, but she could not forgive him for not 
 casting the offensive child away utterly. She 
 worked up her sense of her wifely wrongs and 
 of her injured purity to such a pitch that one 
 day, when poor Davidson was pleading with 
 her to be reasonable and not to make an impos- 
 sible existence for them both, she turned on him 
 in a chill passion and told him that his very 
 sight was odious to her. 
 
 "Davidson, with his scrupulous delicacy of 
 feeling, was not the man to assert his rights over 
 a woman who could not bear the sight of him. 
 He bowed his head; and shortly afterward ar- 
 ranged for her to go back to her parents. That 
 was exactly what she wanted in her outraged 
 dignity. And then she had always disliked the 
 tropics and had detested secretly the people 
 
BECAUSE OF THE DOLLARS 299 
 
 she had to live amongst as Davidson's wife. 
 She took her pure, sensitive, mean little soul 
 away to Fremantle or somewhere in that direc- 
 tion. And of course the little girl went away 
 with her too. What could poor Davidson have 
 done with a little girl on his hands, even if she 
 had consented to leave her with him — which is 
 unthinkable. 
 
 "This is the story that has spoiled Davidson's 
 smile for him — which perhaps it wouldn't have 
 done so thoroughly had he been less of a good 
 fellow." 
 
 Hollis ceased. But before we rose from the 
 table I asked him if he knew what had become of 
 Laughing Anne's boy. 
 
 He counted carefully the change handed him 
 by the Chinaman waiter, and raised his head. 
 
 "Oh! that's the finishing touch. He was a 
 bright, taking little chap, as you know, and the 
 Fathers took very special pains in his bringing 
 up. Davidson expected in his heart to have 
 some comfort out of him. In his placid way 
 he's a man who needs affection. Well, Tony 
 has grown into a fine youth — but there you are ! 
 
 (He wants to be a priest; his one dream is to be a 
 missionary. The Fathers assure Davidson that 
 it IS a serious vocation. They tell him he has a 
 special disposition for mission work, too. So 
 
300 BECAUSE OF THE DOLLARS 
 
 Laughing Anne's boy will lead a saintly life in 
 China somewhere; he may even become a martyr; 
 but poor Davidson is left out in the cold. He 
 will have to go downhill without a single human 
 affection near him because of these old dollars." 
 
 Jan. 1914. 
 
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UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
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