The doctor reached for the key and
studied it sombrely. The act was mechanical,
a bit of sparring for time: his anger was searching
about for a new vent. He was a just man, and he
did not care to start any thunder which was not based
upon fairness. He had no wish to go foraging
in Spurlock’s trunk. He had already shown
the covering envelope and its instructions to Ruth,
and she had ignored or misunderstood the warning.
The boy was right. Ruth could not be told now.
There would be ultimate misery, but it would be needless
cruelty to give her a push toward it. But all
these hours, trying to teach the child wariness toward
life, and the moment his back was turned, this!
He was, perhaps, still dazed by the
inner revelation his own interest in Ruth.
The haste to send her upon her way now had but one
interpretation the recognition of his own
immediate danger, the fear that if this tender association
continued, he would end in offering her a calamity
quite as impossible as that which had happened the
love of a man who was in all probability older than
her father! The hurt was no less intensive because
it was so ridiculous.
He would talk to Spurlock, but from
the bench; as a judge, not as a chagrined lover.
He dropped the key on the counterpane.
“If I could only make you realize
what you have done,” he said, lamely.
“I know exactly what I have
done,” replied Spurlock. “She is my
lawful wife.”
“I should have opened that letter
in the beginning,” said the doctor. “But
I happen to be an honest man myself. Had you died,
I should have fully obeyed the instructions on that
envelope. You will make her suffer.”
“For every hurt she has, I shall
have two. I did not lay any traps for her.
I asked her to marry me, and she consented.”
“Ah, yes; that’s all very
well. But when she learns that you are a fugitive
from justice....”
“What proof have you that I am?” was
the return bolt.
“A knowledge of the ways of
men. I don’t know what you have done; I
don’t want to know now. But God will punish
you for what you have done this day.”
“As for that, I don’t
say. But I shall take care of Ruth, work for
her and fight for her.” A prophecy which
was to be fulfilled in a singular way. “Given
a chance, I can make bread and butter. I’m
no mollycoddle. I have only one question to ask
you.”
“And what might that be?”
“Will McClintock take us both?”
“You took that chance.
There has never been a white woman at McClintock’s.”
He paused, and not without malice.
He was human. The pause lengthened, and he had
the satisfaction of seeing despair melt the set mockery
of Spurlock’s mouth.
“You begin to have doubts, eh?
A handful of money between you, and nothing else.
There are only a few jobs over here for a man of your
type; and even these are more or less hopeless if you
haven’t trained mechanical ability.”
Then he became merciful. “But McClintock
agrees to take you both because he’s
as big a fool as I am. But I give you this warning,
and let it sink in. You will be under the eye
of the best friend I have; and if you do not treat
that child for what she is an innocent angel I
promise to hunt you across the wide world and kill
you with bare hands.”
Spurlock’s glance shot up, flaming
again. “And on my part, I shall not lift
a hand to defend myself.”
“I wish I could have foreseen.”
“That is to say, you wish you had let me die?”
“That was the thought.”
This frankness rather subdued Spurlock.
His shoulders relaxed and his gaze wavered. “Perhaps
that would have been best.”
“But what, in God’s name,
possessed you? You have already wrecked your
own life and now you’ve wrecked hers. She
doesn’t love you; she hasn’t the least
idea what it means beyond what she has read in novels.
The world isn’t real yet; she hasn’t comparisons
by which to govern her acts. I am a physician
first, which gives the man in me a secondary part.
You have just passed through rather a severe physical
struggle; just as previously to your collapse you had
gone through some terrific mental strain. Your
mind is still subtly sick. The man in me would
like to break every bone in your body, but the physician
understands that you don’t actually realize what
you have done. But in a little while you will
awake; and if there is a spark of manhood in you,
you will be horrified at this day’s work.”
Spurlock closed his eyes. Expiation.
He felt the first sting of the whip. But there
was no feeling of remorse; there was only the sensation
of exaltation.
“If you two loved each other,”
went on the doctor, “there would be something
to stand on a reason why for this madness.
I can fairly understand Ruth; but you...!”
“Have you ever been so lonely
that the soul of you cried in anguish? Twenty-four
hours a day to think in, alone?... Perhaps I
did not want to go mad from loneliness. I will
tell you this much, because you have been kind.
It is true that I do not love Ruth; but I swear to
you, before the God of my fathers, that she shall never
know it!”
“I’ll be getting along.”
The doctor ran his fingers through his hair, despairingly.
“A hell of a muddle! But all the talk in
the world can’t undo it. I’ll put
you aboard The Tigress to-morrow after sundown.
But remember my warning, and play the game!”
Spurlock closed his eyes again.
The doctor turned quickly and made for the door, which
he opened and shut gently because he was assured that
Ruth was listening across the hall for any sign of
violence. He had nothing more to say either to
her or to Spurlock. All the king’s horses
and all the king’s men could not undo what was
done; nor kill the strange exquisite flower that had
grown up in his own lonely heart.
Opals. He wondered if, after
all, McClintock wasn’t nearest the truth, that
Ruth was one of those unfortunate yet innocent women
who make havoc with the hearts of men.
Marriage! and no woman
by to tell the child what it was! The shocks
and disillusions she would have to meet unsuspectingly and
bitterly. Unless there was some real metal in
the young fool, some hidden strength with which to
breast the current, Ruth would become a millstone
around his neck and soon he would become to her an
object of pity and contempt.
There was once a philanthropist who
dressed with shameful shabbiness and carried pearls
in his pocket. The picture might easily apply
to The Tigress: outwardly disreputable,
but richly and comfortably appointed below. The
flush deck was without wells. The wheel and the
navigating instruments were sternward, under a spread
of heavy canvas, a protection against rain and sun.
Amidship there was also canvas, and like that over
the wheel, drab and dirty.
The dining saloon was done in mahogany
and sandalwood, with eight cabins, four to port and
four to starboard. The bed-and table-linen were
of the finest texture. From the centre of the
ceiling hung a replica of the temple lamp in the Taj
Mahal. The odour of coconut prevailed, delicately
but abidingly; for, save for the occasioned pleasure
junket, The Tigress was a copra carrier, shell
and fibre.
McClintock’s was a plantation
of ten thousand palms, yielding him annually about
half a million nuts. Natives brought him an equal
amount from the neighbouring islands. As the palm
bears nuts perennially, there were always coconut-laden
proas making the beach. Thus, McClintock
carried to Copeley’s press about half a million
pounds of copra. There was a very substantial
profit in the transaction, for he paid the natives
in commodities coloured cotton cloths,
pipes and tobacco, guns and ammunition, household
utensils, cutlery and glass gewgaws. It was perfectly
legitimate. Money was not necessary; indeed,
it would have embarrassed all concerned.. A native
sold his supply of nuts in exchange for cloth, tobacco
and so forth. In the South Seas, money is the
eliminated middleman.
Where the islands are grouped, men
discard the use of geographical names and simply refer
to “McClintock’s” or “Copeley’s,”
to the logical dictator of this or that island.
At sundown Spurlock was brought aboard
and put into cabin 2, while Ruth was assigned to cabin
4, adjoining. From the Sha-mien to the yacht,
Spurlock had uttered no word; though, even in the
semi-darkness, no gesture or word of Ruth’s escaped
him.
Now that she was his, to make or mar,
she presented an extraordinary fascination. She
had suddenly become as the jewels of the Madonna,
as the idol’s eye, infinitely beyond his reach,
sacred. He could not pull her soul apart now to
satisfy that queer absorbing, delving thing which
was his literary curiosity; he had put her outside
that circle. His lawful wife; but nothing more;
beyond that she was only an idea, a trust.
An incredible road he had elected
to travel; he granted that it was incredible; and
along this road somewhere would be Desire. There
were menacing possibilities; the thought of them set
him a-tremble. What would happen when confronted
by the actual? He was young; she was also young
and physically beautiful his lawful wife.
He had put himself before the threshold of damnation;
for Ruth was now a vestal in the temple. Such
was the condition of his mind that the danger exhilarated
rather than depressed him. Here would be the
true test of his strength. Upon this island whither
he was bound there would be no diversions, breathing
spells; the battle would be constant.
All at once it came to him what a
fool he was to worry over this phase which was wholly
suppositional. He did not love Ruth. They
would be partners only in loneliness. He would
provide the necessities of life and protect her.
He would teach her all he knew of life so that if
the Hand should ever reach his shoulder, she would
be able to defend herself. He was always anticipating,
stepping into the future, torturing himself with non-existent
troubles. These cogitations were interrupted
by the entrance of the doctor.
“Good-bye, young man; and good luck.”
“You are offering your hand to me?”
“Without reservations.”
The doctor gave Spurlock’s hand a friendly pressure.
“Buck up! While there’s life there’s
hope. Play fair with her. You don’t
know what you have got; I do. Let her have her
own way in all things, for she will always be just.”
Spurlock turned aside his head as
he replied: “Words are sometimes useless
things. I might utter a million, and still I doubt
if I could make you understand.”
“Probably not. The thing
is done. The main idea now is of the future.
You will have lots of time on your hands. Get
out your pad and pencil. Go to it. Ruth
will be a gold mine for a man of your peculiar bent.”
“You read those yarns?”
Spurlock’s head came about, and there was eagerness
in his eyes. “Rot, weren’t they?”
“No. You have the gift
of words, but you haven’t started to create
yet. Go to it; and the best of luck!”
He went out. This farewell had
been particularly distasteful to him. There was
still in his heart that fierce anger which demands
physical expression; but he had to consider Ruth in
all phases. He proceeded to the deck, where Ruth
and McClintock were waiting for him by the ladder.
He handed Ruth a letter.
“What is this?” she wanted to know.
“A hundred dollars which was left from your
husband’s money.”
“Would you be angry if I offered it to you?”
“Very. Don’t worry about me.”
“You are the kindest man I have
ever known,” said Ruth, unashamed of her tears.
“I have hurt you because I would not trust you.
It is useless to talk. I could never make you
understand.”
Almost the identical words of the
boy. “Will you write,” asked the
doctor, “and tell me how you are getting along?”
“Oh, yes!”
“The last advice I can give
you is this: excite his imagination; get him
started with his writing. Remember, some day you
and I are going to have that book.” He
patted her hand. “Good-bye, Mac. Don’t
forget to cut out all effervescent water. If you
will have your peg, take it with plain water.
You’ll be along next spring?”
“If the old tub will float.
I’ll watch over these infants, if that’s
your worry. Good-bye.”
The doctor went down the side to the
waiting sampan, which at once set out for the Sha-mien.
Through a blur of tears Ruth followed the rocking
light until it vanished. One more passer-by; and
always would she remember his patience and tenderness
and disinterestedness. She was quite assured
that she would never see him again.
“Yon’s a dear man,”
said McClintock. His natal burr was always in
evidence when he was sentimentally affected. He
knocked his pipe on the teak rail. “Took
a great fancy to you. Wants me to look out for
you a bit. I take it, down where we’re going
will be nothing new to you. But I’ve stacks
of books and a grand piano-player.”
“Piano-player? Do you mean someone who
plays for you?”
“No, no; one of those mechanical
things you play with your feet. Plays Beethoven,
Rubenstein and all those chaps. I’m a bit
daffy about music.”
“That sounds funny ... to play it with your
feet!”
McClintock laughed. “It’s a pump,
like an organ.”
“Oh, I see. What a wonderful world it is!”
Music. She shuddered.
“Ay. Well, I’ll be getting this tub
under way.”
Ruth walked to the companion.
It was one of those old sliding trap affairs, narrow
and steep of descent. She went down, feeling rather
than seeing the way. The door of cabin 2 was open.
Someone had thoughtfully wrapped a bit of tissue paper
round the electric bulb.
She did not enter the cabin at once,
but paused on the threshold and stared at the silent,
recumbent figure in the bunk. In the subdued
light she could not tell whether he was asleep or awake.
Never again to be alone! To fit herself into this
man’s life as a hand into a glove; to use all
her skill to force him into the position of depending
upon her utterly; to be the spark to the divine fire!
He should have his book, even if it had to be written
with her heart’s blood.
What she did not know, and what she
was never to know, was that the divine fire was hers.
“Ruth?” he called.
She entered and approached the bunk.
“I thought you were asleep. Is there anything
you want?” She laid her hand on his forehead,
and found it without fever. She had worried in
fear that the excitement would be too much for him.
“Call me Hoddy. That is
what my mother used to call me.”
“Hoddy,” she repeated.
“I shall like to call you that. But now
you must be quiet; there’s been too much excitement.
Knock on the partition if you want anything during
the might. I awaken easily. Good night!”
She pressed his hand and went out.
For a long time he stared at the empty
doorway. He heard the panting of the donkey-engine,
then the slithering of the anchor chains. Presently
he felt motion. He chuckled. The vast ironic
humour of it: he was starting on his honeymoon!