The Planter of Malata
CHAPTER IIn the private editorial office of the principal newspaper in agreat colonial city two men were talking. They were both young.The stouter of the two, fair, and with more of an urban look abouthim, was the editor and part-owner of the important newspaper.The other's name was Renouard. That he was exercised in his mindabout something was evident on his fine bronzed face. He was alean, lounging, active man. The journalist continued theconversation."And so you were dining yesterday at old Dunster's."He used the word old not in the endearing sense in which it issometimes applied to intimates, but as a matter of sober fact. TheDunster in question was old. He had been an eminent colonialstatesman, but had now retired from active politics after a tour inEurope and a lengthy stay in England, during which he had had avery good press indeed. The colony was proud of him."Yes. I dined there," said Renouard. "Young Dunster asked me justas I was going out of his office. It seemed to be like a suddenthought. And yet I can't help suspecting some purpose behind it.He was very pressing. He swore that his uncle would be verypleased to see me. Said his uncle had mentioned lately that thegranting to me of the Malata concession was the last act of hisofficial life.""Very touching. The old boy sentimentalises over the past now andthen.""I really don't know why I accepted," continued the other."Sentiment does not move me very easily. Old Dunster was civil tome of course, but he did not even inquire how I was getting on withmy silk plants. Forgot there was such a thing probably. I mustsay there were more people there than I expected to meet. Quite abig 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 thebay--off Garden Point. I was in Dunster's office before he hadfinished reading his letters. Have you ever seen young Dunsterreading his letters? I had a glimpse of him through the open door.He holds the paper in both hands, hunches his shoulders up to hisugly ears, and brings his long nose and his thick lips on to itlike a sucking apparatus. A commercial monster.""Here we don't consider him a monster," said the newspaper manlooking at his visitor thoughtfully."Probably not. You are used to see his face and to see otherfaces. I don't know how it is that, when I come to town, theappearance of the people in the street strike me with such force.They seem so awfully expressive.""And not charming.""Well--no. Not as a rule. The effect is forcible without beingclear. . . . I know that you think it's because of my solitarymanner of life away there.""Yes. I do think so. It is demoralising. You don't see any onefor months at a stretch. You're leading an unhealthy life."The other hardly smiled and murmured the admission that true enoughit was a good eleven months since he had been in town last."You see," insisted the other. "Solitude works like a sort ofpoison. And then you perceive suggestions in faces--mysterious andforcible, that no sound man would be bothered with. Of course youdo."Geoffrey Renouard did not tell his journalist friend that thesuggestions of his own face, the face of a friend, bothered him asmuch as the others. He detected a degrading quality in the touchesof age which every day adds to a human countenance. They moved anddisturbed him, like the signs of a horrible inward travail whichwas frightfully apparent to the fresh eye he had brought from hisisolation in Malata, where he had settled after five strenuousyears of adventure and exploration."It's a fact," he said, "that when I am at home in Malata I see noone consciously. I take the plantation boys for granted.""Well, and we here take the people in the streets for granted. Andthat's sanity."The visitor said nothing to this for fear of engaging a discussion.What he had come to seek in the editorial office was notcontroversy, but information. Yet somehow he hesitated to approachthe subject. Solitary life makes a man reticent in respect ofanything in the nature of gossip, which those to whom chattingabout their kind is an everyday exercise regard as the commonestuse of speech."You very busy?" he asked.The Editor making red marks on a long slip of printed paper threwthe pencil down."No. I am done. Social paragraphs. This office is the placewhere everything is known about everybody--including even a greatdeal 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 thatsort for your assistant--didn't you?""I engaged an assistant only to stop your preaching about the evilsof solitude," said Renouard hastily; and the pressman laughed atthe half-resentful tone. His laugh was not very loud, but hisplump person shook all over. He was aware that his youngerfriend's deference to his advice was based only on an imperfectbelief in his wisdom--or his sagacity. But it was he who had firsthelped Renouard in his plans of exploration: the five-years'programme of scientific adventure, of work, of danger andendurance, carried out with such distinction and rewarded modestlywith the lease of Malata island by the frugal colonial government.And this reward, too, had been due to the journalist's advocacywith word and pen--for he was an influential man in the community.Doubting very much if Renouard really liked him, he was himselfwithout great sympathy for a certain side of that man which hecould not quite make out. He only felt it obscurely to be his realpersonality--the true--and, perhaps, the absurd. As, for instance,in that case of the assistant. Renouard had given way to thearguments of his friend and backer--the argument against theunwholesome effect of solitude, the argument for the safety ofcompanionship even if quarrelsome. Very well. In this docility hewas sensible and even likeable. But what did he do next? Insteadof taking counsel as to the choice with his old backer and friend,and a man, besides, knowing everybody employed and unemployed onthe pavements of the town, this extraordinary Renouard suddenly andalmost surreptitiously picked up a fellow--God knows who--andsailed away with him back to Malata in a hurry; a proceedingobviously rash and at the same time not quite straight. That wasthe sort of thing. The secretly unforgiving journalist laughed alittle 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 ashadow of uneasiness on his face."Have you nothing to tell me of him?""Nothing except. . . ." Incipient grimness vanished out ofRenouard's aspect and his voice, while he hesitated as ifreflecting seriously before he changed his mind. "No. Nothingwhatever.""You haven't brought him along with you by chance--for a change."The Planter of Malata stared, then shook his head, and finallymurmured carelessly: "I think he's very well where he is. But Iwish you could tell me why young Dunster insisted so much on mydining with his uncle last night. Everybody knows I am not asociety man."The Editor exclaimed at so much modesty. Didn't his friend knowthat he was their one and only explorer--that he was the manexperimenting with the silk plant. . . ."Still, that doesn't tell me why I was invited yesterday. Foryoung Dunster never thought of this civility before. . . .""Our Willie," said the popular journalist, "never does anythingwithout 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. Theextraordinary part is that the old man did not seem to haveanything special to say. He smiled kindly on me once or twice, andthat was all. It was quite a party, sixteen people."The Editor then, after expressing his regret that he had not beenable to come, wanted to know if the party had been entertaining.Renouard regretted that his friend had not been there. Being a manwhose business or at least whose profession was to know everythingthat went on in this part of the globe, he could probably have toldhim something of some people lately arrived from home, who wereamongst the guests. Young Dunster (Willie), with his large shirt-front and streaks of white skin shining unpleasantly through thethin black hair plastered over the top of his head, bore down onhim and introduced him to that party, as if he had been a traineddog or a child phenomenon. 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 sayanything more when, suddenly, he came out with the real object ofhis visit to the editorial room."They looked to me like people under a spell."The Editor gazed at him appreciatively, thinking that, whether theeffect of solitude or not, this was a proof of a sensitiveperception of the expression of faces."You omitted to tell me their name, but I can make a guess. Youmean Professor Moorsom, his daughter and sister--don't you?"Renouard assented. Yes, a white-haired lady. But from hissilence, with his eyes fixed, yet avoiding his friend, it was easyto guess that it was not in the white-haired lady that he wasinterested."Upon my word," he said, recovering his usual bearing. "It looksto me as if I had been asked there only for the daughter to talk tome."He did not conceal that he had been greatly struck by herappearance. Nobody could have helped being impressed. She wasdifferent from everybody else in that house, and it was not onlythe effect of her London clothes. He did not take her down todinner. 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 forchoice, with the dinner-harness off. He hadn't exchanged fortywords altogether during the evening with the other guests. He sawher suddenly all by herself coming towards him along the dimlylighted terrace, quite from a distance.She was tall and supple, carrying nobly on her straight body a headof a character which to him appeared peculiar, something--well--pagan, crowned with a great wealth of hair. He had been about torise, but her decided approach caused him to remain on the seat.He had not looked much at her that evening. He had not thatfreedom of gaze acquired by the habit of society and the frequentmeetings with strangers. It was not shyness, but the reserve of aman 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 wasmagnificently red and her eyes very black. It was a troublingeffect, but it had been evanescent; he had forgotten it almost tillvery unexpectedly he saw her coming down the terrace slow andeager, as if she were restraining herself, and with a rhythmicupward undulation of her whole figure. The light from an openwindow fell across her path, and suddenly all that mass of arrangedhair appeared incandescent, chiselled and fluid, with the daringsuggestion of a helmet of burnished copper and the flowing lines ofmolten metal. It kindled in him an astonished admiration. But hesaid nothing of it to his friend the Editor. Neither did he tellhim that her approach woke up in his brain the image of love'sinfinite grace and the sense of the inexhaustible joy that lives inbeauty. No! What he imparted to the Editor were no emotions, butmere facts conveyed in a deliberate voice and in uninspired words."That young lady came and sat down by me. She said: 'Are youFrench, 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 extraordinarysplendour, and when she advanced her head into the light he saw theadmirable contour of the face, the straight fine nose with delicatenostrils, the exquisite crimson brushstroke of the lips on thisoval without colour. The expression of the eyes was lost in ashadowy mysterious play of jet and silver, stirring under the redcoppery gold of the hair as though she had been a being made ofivory and precious metals changed into living tissue.". . . I told her my people were living in Canada, but that I wasbrought up in England before coming out here. I can't imagine whatinterest she could have in my history.""And you complain of her interest?"The accent of the all-knowing journalist seemed to jar on thePlanter of Malata."No!" he said, in a deadened voice that was almost sullen. Butafter a short silence he went on. "Very extraordinary. I told herI came out to wander at large in the world when I was nineteen,almost directly after I left school. It seems that her latebrother was in the same school a couple of years before me. Shewanted 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 foretellfrom my experience the fates of men who come out here with ahundred different projects, for hundreds of different reasons--forno reason but restlessness--who come, and go, and disappear!Preposterous. She seemed to want to hear their histories. I toldher that most of them were not worth telling."The distinguished journalist leaning on his elbow, his head restingagainst the knuckles of his left hand, listened with greatattention, but gave no sign of that surprise which Renouard,pausing, seemed to expect."You know something," the latter said brusquely. The all-knowingman moved his head slightly and said, "Yes. But go on.""It's just this. There is no more to it. I found myself talkingto her of my adventures, of my early days. It couldn't possiblyhave interested her. Really," he cried, "this is mostextraordinary. Those people have something on their minds. We satin the light of the window, and her father prowled about theterrace, with his hands behind his back and his head drooping. Thewhite-haired lady came to the dining-room window twice--to look atus I am certain. The other guests began to go away--and still wesat there. Apparently these people are staying with the Dunsters.It was old Mrs. Dunster who put an end to the thing. The fatherand the aunt circled about as if they were afraid of interferingwith the girl. Then she got up all at once, gave me her hand, andsaid she hoped she would see me again."While he was speaking Renouard saw again the sway of her figure ina movement of grace and strength--felt the pressure of her hand--heard the last accents of the deep murmur that came from her throatso white in the light of the window, and remembered the black raysof her steady eyes passing off his face when she turned away. Heremembered all this visually, and it was not exactly pleasurable.It was rather startling like the discovery of a new faculty inhimself. There are faculties one would rather do without--such,for instance, as seeing through a stone wall or remembering aperson with this uncanny vividness. And what about those twopeople belonging to her with their air of expectant solicitude!Really, those figures from home got in front of one. In fact,their persistence in getting between him and the solid forms of theeveryday material world had driven Renouard to call on his friendat the office. He hoped that a little common, gossipy informationwould lay the ghost of that unexpected dinner-party. Of course theproper person to go to would have been young Dunster, but, hecouldn't stand Willie Dunster--not at any price.In the pause the Editor had changed his attitude, faced his desk,and smiled a faint knowing smile."Striking girl--eh?" he said.The incongruity of the word was enough to make one jump out of thechair. Striking! That girl striking! Stri . . .! But Renouardrestrained his feelings. His friend was not a person to giveoneself away to. And, after all, this sort of speech was what hehad come there to hear. As, however, he had made a movement he re-settled himself comfortably and said, with very creditableindifference, that yes--she was, rather. Especially amongst a lotof over-dressed frumps. There wasn't one woman under forty there."Is that the way to speak of the cream of our society; the 'top ofthe basket,' as the French say," the Editor remonstrated with mockindignation. "You aren't moderate in your expressions--you know.""I express myself very little," interjected Renouard seriously."I will tell you what you are. You are a fellow that doesn't countthe cost. Of course you are safe with me, but will you neverlearn. . . .""What struck me most," interrupted the other, "is that she shouldpick me out for such a long conversation.""That's perhaps because you were the most remarkable of the menthere."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 meassure you that under ordinary circumstances it would have been agood shot. You are sufficiently remarkable. But you seem a prettyacute customer too. The circumstances are extraordinary. By Jovethey are!"He mused. After a time the Planter of Malata dropped a negligent -"And you know them.""And I know them," assented the all-knowing Editor, soberly, asthough the occasion were too special for a display of professionalvanity; a vanity so well known to Renouard that its absenceaugmented his wonder and almost made him uneasy as if portendingbad 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 anapology to Willie in the morning. It was then that he had thebright idea to invite you to fill the place, from a muddled notionthat you could be of use. Willie is stupid sometimes. For it isclear 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. "Ionly arrived here yesterday morning."CHAPTER IIHis friend the Editor turned to him squarely. "Willie took me intoconsultation, and since he seems to have let you in I may just aswell tell you what is up. I shall try to be as short as I can.But in confidence--mind!"He waited. Renouard, his uneasiness growing on him unreasonably,assented by a nod, and the other lost no time in beginning.Professor Moorsom--physicist and philosopher--fine head of whitehair, to judge from the photographs--plenty of brains in the headtoo--all these famous books--surely even Renouard would know. . . .Renouard muttered moodily that it wasn't his sort of reading, andhis friend hastened to assure him earnestly that neither was it hissort--except as a matter of business and duty, for the literarypage of that newspaper which was his property (and the pride of hislife). The only literary newspaper in the Antipodes could notignore the fashionable philosopher of the age. Not that anybodyread Moorsom at the Antipodes, but everybody had heard of him--women, children, dock labourers, cabmen. The only person (besideshimself) who had read Moorsom, as far as he knew, was old Dunster,who used to call himself a Moorsomian (or was it Moorsomite) yearsand years ago, long before Moorsom had worked himself up into thegreat swell he was now, in every way. . . Socially too. Quite thefashion in the highest world.Renouard listened with profoundly concealed attention. "Acharlatan," he muttered languidly."Well--no. I should say not. I shouldn't wonder though if most ofhis writing had been done with his tongue in his cheek. Of course.That's to be expected. I tell you what: the only really honestwriting is to be found in newspapers and nowhere else--and don'tyou forget it."The Editor paused with a basilisk stare till Renouard had concededa casual: "I dare say," and only then went on to explain that oldDunster, during his European tour, had been made rather a lion ofin London, where he stayed with the Moorsoms--he meant the fatherand the girl. The professor had been a widower for a long time."She doesn't look just a girl," muttered Renouard. The otheragreed. Very likely not. Had been playing the London hostess totip-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 theprivilege," he continued. "Those people are staying with theDunster's incog., in a manner, you understand--something likeroyalties. They don't deceive anybody, but they want to be left tothemselves. We have even kept them out of the paper--to oblige oldDunster. 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 working for the prosperity of our country inanother way on his Malata plantation . . . And, by the by, how'sthe silk plant--flourishing?""Yes.""Did you bring any fibre?""Schooner-full.""I see. To be transhipped to Liverpool for experimentalmanufacture, eh? Eminent capitalists at home very much interested,aren't they?""They are."A silence fell. Then the Editor uttered slowly--"You will be arich man some day."Renouard's face did not betray his opinion of that confidentprophecy. He didn't say anything till his friend suggested in thesame meditative voice -"You ought to interest Moorsom in the affair too--since Willie haslet you in.""A philosopher!""I suppose he isn't above making a bit of money. And he may beclever at it for all you know. I have a notion that he's a fairlypractical old cove. . . . Anyhow," and here the tone of the speakertook on a tinge of respect, "he has made philosophy pay."Renouard raised his eyes, repressed an impulse to jump up, and gotout of the arm-chair slowly. "It isn't perhaps a bad idea," hesaid. "I'll have to call there in any case."He wondered whether he had managed to keep his voice steady, itstone unconcerned enough; for his emotion was strong though it hadnothing to do with the business aspect of this suggestion. Hemoved in the room in vague preparation for departure, when he hearda soft laugh. He spun about quickly with a frown, but the Editorwas not laughing at him. He was chuckling across the big desk atthe wall: a preliminary of some speech for which Renouard,recalled to himself, waited silent and mistrustful."No! You would never guess! No one would ever guess what thesepeople are after. Willie's eyes bulged out when he came to me withthe 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 searchparty. They are out looking for a man. Willie's soft heart'senlisted in the cause."Renouard repeated: "Looking for a man."He sat down suddenly as if on purpose to stare. "Did Willie cometo you to borrow the lantern," he asked sarcastically, and got upagain for no apparent reason."What lantern?" snapped the puzzled Editor, and his face darkenedwith suspicion. "You, Renouard, are always alluding to things thataren't clear to me. If you were in politics, I, as a partyjournalist, wouldn't trust you further than I could see you. Notan inch further. You are such a sophisticated beggar. Listen:the man is the man Miss Moorsom was engaged to for a year. Hecouldn't have been a nobody, anyhow. But he doesn't seem to havebeen very wise. Hard luck for the young lady."He spoke with feeling. It was clear that what he had to tellappealed to his sentiment. Yet, as an experienced man of theworld, he marked his amused wonder. Young man of good family andconnections, going everywhere, yet not merely a man about town, butwith a foot in the two big F's.Renouard lounging aimlessly in the room turned round: "And whatthe devil's that?" he asked faintly."Why Fashion and Finance," explained the Editor. "That's how Icall it. There are the three R's at the bottom of the socialedifice and the two F's on the top. See?""Ha! Ha! Excellent! Ha! Ha!" Renouard 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 youare clever enough. The only danger is in being too clever. And Ithink something of the sort happened here. That swell I amspeaking of got himself into a mess. Apparently a very ugly messof a financial character. You will understand that Willie did notgo into details with me. They were not imparted to him with verygreat abundance either. But a bad mess--something of the criminalorder. Of course he was innocent. But he had to quit all thesame.""Ha! Ha!" Renouard laughed again abruptly, staring as before. "Sothere's one more big F in the tale.""What do you mean?" inquired the Editor quickly, with an air as ifhis 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 disdainfulsmile of a man who had discounted the moral of the story. Still hesat down and the Editor swung his revolving chair right round. Hewas full of unction."Imprudent, I should say. In many ways money is as dangerous tohandle as gunpowder. You can't be too careful either as to who youare working with. Anyhow there was a mighty flashy burst up, asensation, and--his familiar haunts knew him no more. But beforehe vanished he went to see Miss Moorsom. That very fact argues forhis innocence--don't it? What was said between them no man knows--unless the professor had the confidence from his daughter. Therecouldn't have been much to say. There was nothing for it but tolet 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, Ifancy, for a young lady of spirit and position drawn into an uglyaffair like that. Any ordinary young lady, I mean. Well, thefellow asked nothing better than to be forgotten, only he didn'tfind it easy to do so himself, because he would write home now andthen. Not to any of his friends though. He had no near relations.The professor had been his guardian. No, the poor devil wrote nowand then to an old retired butler of his late father, somewhere inthe country, forbidding him at the same time to let any one know ofhis whereabouts. So that worthy old ass would go up and dodgeabout the Moorsom's town house, perhaps waylay Miss Moorsom's maid,and then would write to 'Master Arthur' that the young lady lookedwell and happy, or some such cheerful intelligence. I dare say hewanted to be forgotten, but I shouldn't think he was much cheeredby the news. What would you say?"Renouard, his legs stretched out and his chin on his breast, saidnothing. A sensation which was not curiosity, but rather a vaguenervous anxiety, distinctly unpleasant, like a mysterious symptomof some malady, prevented him from getting up and going away."Mixed feelings," the Editor opined. "Many fellows out herereceive news from home with mixed feelings. But what will hisfeelings be when he hears what I am going to tell you now? For weknow he has not heard yet. Six months ago a city clerk, just acommon drudge of finance, gets himself convicted of a commonembezzlement or something of that kind. Then seeing he's in for along sentence he thinks of making his conscience comfortable, andmakes a clean breast of an old story of tampered with, or elsesuppressed, documents, a story which clears altogether the honestyof our ruined gentleman. That embezzling fellow was in a positionto know, having been employed by the firm before the smash. Therewas no doubt about the character being cleared--but where thecleared man was nobody could tell. Another sensation in society.And then Miss Moorsom says: 'He will come back to claim me, andI'll marry him.' But he didn't come back. Between you and me Idon't think he was much wanted--except by Miss Moorsom. I imagineshe's used to have her own way. She grew impatient, and declaredthat if she knew where the man was she would go to him. But allthat could be got out of the old butler was that the last envelopebore the postmark of our beautiful city; and that this was the onlyaddress of 'Master Arthur' that he ever had. That and no more. Infact the fellow was at his last gasp--with a bad heart. MissMoorsom wasn't allowed to see him. She had gone herself into thecountry to learn what she could, but she had to stay downstairswhile the old chap's wife went up to the invalid. She brought downthe scrap of intelligence I've told you of. He was already too fargone to be cross-examined on it, and that very night he died. Hedidn't leave behind him much to go by, did he? Our Willie hintedto me that there had been pretty stormy days in the professor'shouse, but--here they are. I have a notion she isn't the kind ofeveryday young lady who may be permitted to gallop about the worldall by herself--eh? Well, I think it rather fine of her, but Iquite understand that the professor needed all his philosophy underthe circumstances. She is his only child now--and brilliant--what?Willie positively spluttered trying to describe her to me; and Icould see directly you came in that you had an uncommonexperience."Renouard, with an irritated gesture, tilted his hat more forward onhis eyes, as though he were bored. The Editor went on with theremark that to be sure neither he (Renouard) nor yet Willie weremuch used to meet girls of that remarkable superiority. Williewhen learning business with a firm in London, years before, hadseen none but boarding-house society, he guessed. As to himself inthe 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 theoratory of the House of Commons.He paid to this not very distant past the tribute of a tender,reminiscent smile, and returned to his first idea that for asociety girl her action was rather fine. All the same theprofessor could not be very pleased. The fellow if he was as pureas a lily now was just about as devoid of the goods of the earth.And there were misfortunes, however undeserved, which damaged aman's standing permanently. On the other hand, it was difficult tooppose cynically a noble impulse--not to speak of the great love atthe root of it. Ah! Love! And then the lady was quite capable ofgoing off by herself. She was of age, she had money of her own,plenty of pluck too. Moorsom must have concluded that it was moretruly paternal, more prudent too, and generally safer all round tolet himself be dragged into this chase. The aunt came along forthe same reasons. It was given out at home as a trip round theworld 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 allglamour by the prosaic personality of the narrator. The Editoradded: "I've been asked to help in the search--you know."Renouard muttered something about an appointment and went out intothe street. His inborn sanity could not defend him from a mistycreeping jealousy. He thought that obviously no man of that sortcould 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 hischaracter; and moved by a delicate consideration for that splendidgirl he tried to think out for the man a character of inwardexcellence and outward gifts--some extraordinary seduction. But invain. Fresh from months of solitude and from days at sea, hersplendour presented itself to him absolutely unconquerable in itsperfection, unless by her own folly. It was easier to suspect herof this than to imagine in the man qualities which would be worthyof her. Easier and less degrading. Because folly may be generous--could be nothing else but generosity in her; whereas to imagineher subjugated by something common was intolerable.Because of the force of the physical impression he had receivedfrom her personality (and such impressions are the real origins ofthe deepest movements of our soul) this conception of her was eveninconceivable. But no Prince Charming has ever lived out of afairy tale. He doesn't walk the worlds of Fashion and Finance--andwith a stumbling gait at that. Generosity. Yes. It was hergenerosity. But this generosity was altogether regal in itssplendour, almost absurd in its lavishness--or, perhaps, divine.In the evening, on board his schooner, sitting on the rail, hisarms folded on his breast and his eyes fixed on the deck, he letthe darkness catch him unawares in the midst of a meditation on themechanism of sentiment and the springs of passion. And all thetime he had an abiding consciousness of her bodily presence. Theeffect on his senses had been so penetrating that in the middle ofthe night, rousing up suddenly, wide-eyed in the darkness of hiscabin, he did not create a faint mental vision of her person forhimself, but, more intimately affected, he scented distinctly thefaint perfume she used, and could almost have sworn that he hadbeen awakened by the soft rustle of her dress. He even sat uplistening in the dark for a time, then sighed and lay down again,not agitated but, on the contrary, oppressed by the sensation ofsomething that had happened to him and could not be undone.CHAPTER IIIIn the afternoon he lounged into the editorial office, carryingwith affected nonchalance that weight of the irremediable he hadfelt laid on him suddenly in the small hours of the night--thatconsciousness of something that could no longer be helped. Hispatronising friend informed him at once that he had made theacquaintance of the Moorsom party last night. At the Dunsters, ofcourse. 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 himdumbly."Phew! That's a stunning girl. . . Why do you want to sit on thatchair? It's uncomfortable!""I wasn't going to sit on it." Renouard walked slowly to thewindow, glad to find in himself enough self-control to let go thechair instead of raising it on high and bringing it down on theEditor's head."Willie kept on gazing at her with tears in his boiled eyes. Youshould have seen him bending sentimentally over her at dinner.""Don't," said Renouard in such an anguished tone that the Editorturned right round to look at his back."You push your dislike of young Dunster too far. It's positivelymorbid," he disapproved mildly. "We can't be all beautiful afterthirty. . . . I talked a little, about you mostly, to theprofessor. He appeared to be interested in the silk plant--if onlyas a change from the great subject. Miss Moorsom didn't seem tomind when I confessed to her that I had taken you into theconfidence of the thing. Our Willie approved too. Old Dunsterwith his white beard seemed to give me his blessing. All thosepeople have a great opinion of you, simply because I told them thatyou've led every sort of life one can think of before you gotstruck on exploration. They want you to make suggestions. What doyou think 'Master Arthur' is likely to have taken to?""Something easy," muttered Renouard without unclenching his teeth."Hunting man. Athlete. Don't be hard on the chap. He may beriding boundaries, or droving cattle, or humping his swag about theback-blocks away to the devil--somewhere. He may be evenprospecting at the back of beyond--this very moment.""Or lying dead drunk in a roadside pub. It's late enough in theday for that."The Editor looked up instinctively. The clock was pointing at aquarter to five. "Yes, it is," he admitted. "But it needn't be.And he may have lit out into the Western Pacific all of a sudden--say in a trading schooner. Though I really don't see in whatcapacity. 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 onecan see your face. I hate talking to a man's back. You standthere like a hermit on a sea-shore growling to yourself. I tellyou 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 satdown in the armchair. "How can you be so certain that your manisn't down there in the street?" he asked. "It's neither more norless probable than every single one of your other suppositions."Placated by Renouard's docility the Editor gazed at him for awhile. "Aha! I'll tell you how. Learn then that we have begunthe campaign. We have telegraphed his description to the police ofevery township up and down the land. And what's more we'veascertained definitely that he hasn't been in this town for thelast three months at least. How much longer he's been away wecan't tell.""That's very curious.""It's very simple. Miss Moorsom wrote to him, to the post officehere directly she returned to London after her excursion into thecountry to see the old butler. Well--her letter is still lyingthere. It has not been called for. Ergo, this town is not hisusual abode. Personally, I never thought it was. But he cannotfail to turn up some time or other. Our main hope lies just in thecertitude that he must come to town sooner or later. Remember hedoesn't know that the butler is dead, and he will want to inquirefor a letter. Well, he'll find a note from Miss Moorsom."Renouard, silent, thought that it was likely enough. His profounddistaste for this conversation was betrayed by an air of wearinessdarkening his energetic sun-tanned features, and by the augmenteddreaminess of his eyes. The Editor noted it as a further proof ofthat immoral detachment from mankind, of that callousness ofsentiment fostered by the unhealthy conditions of solitude--according to his own favourite theory. Aloud he observed that aslong as a man had not given up correspondence he could not belooked upon as lost. Fugitive criminals had been tracked in thatway by justice, he reminded his friend; then suddenly changed thebearing of the subject somewhat by asking if Renouard had heardfrom his people lately, and if every member of his large tribe waswell and happy."Yes, thanks."The tone was curt, as if repelling a liberty. Renouard did notlike being asked about his people, for whom he had a profound andremorseful affection. He had not seen a single human being to whomhe was related, for many years, and he was extremely different fromthem all.On the very morning of his arrival from his island he had gone to aset of pigeon-holes in Willie Dunster's outer office and had takenout from a compartment labelled "Malata" a very small accumulationof envelopes, a few addressed to himself, and one addressed to hisassistant, all to the care of the firm, W. Dunster and Co. Asopportunity offered, the firm used to send them on to Malata eitherby a man-of-war schooner going on a cruise, or by some tradingcraft proceeding that way. But for the last four months there hadbeen no opportunity."You going to stay here some time?" asked the Editor, after alongish silence.Renouard, perfunctorily, did see no reason why he should make along stay."For health, for your mental health, my boy," rejoined thenewspaper man. "To get used to human faces so that they don't hityou in the eye so hard when you walk about the streets. To getfriendly with your kind. I suppose that assistant of yours can betrusted to look after things?""There's the half-caste too. The Portuguese. He knows what's tobe done.""Aha!" The Editor looked sharply at his friend. "What's hisname?""Who's name?""The assistant's you picked up on the sly behind my back."Renouard made a slight movement of impatience."I met him unexpectedly one evening. I thought he would do as wellas another. He had come from up country and didn't seem happy in atown. He told me his name was Walter. I did not ask him forproofs, you know.""I don't think you get on very well with him.""Why? What makes you think so.""I don't know. Something reluctant in your manner when he's inquestion.""Really. My manner! I don't think he's a great subject forconversation, perhaps. Why not drop him?""Of course! You wouldn't confess to a mistake. Not you.Nevertheless I have my suspicions about it."Renouard got up to go, but hesitated, looking down at the seatedEditor."How funny," he said at last with the utmost seriousness, and wasmaking 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 withanybody you couldn't kick. Now, confess--is there any truth in thesoft impeachment?""No," said Renouard. "Did you print that in your paper.""No. I didn't quite believe it. But I will tell you what Ibelieve. I believe that when your heart is set on some object youare a man that doesn't count the cost to yourself or others. Andthis shall get printed some day.""Obituary notice?" Renouard dropped negligently."Certain--some day.""Do you then regard yourself as immortal?""No, my boy. I am not immortal. But the voice of the press goeson for ever. . . . And it will say that this was the secret of yourgreat success in a task where better men than you--meaning nooffence--did fail repeatedly.""Success," muttered Renouard, pulling-to the office door after himwith considerable energy. And the letters of the word PRIVATE likea row of white eyes seemed to stare after his back sinking down thestaircase of that temple of publicity.Renouard had no doubt that all the means of publicity would be putat 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 areall equipped with a fund of humanity which is not exhausted withoutmany and repeated provocations--and this man had done him no evil.But before Renouard had left old Dunster's house, at the conclusionof the call he made there that very afternoon, he had discovered inhimself the desire that the search might last long. He neverreally flattered himself that it might fail. It seemed to him thatthere was no other course in this world for himself, for allmankind, but resignation. And he could not help thinking thatProfessor Moorsom had arrived at the same conclusion too.Professor Moorsom, slight frame of middle height, a thoughtful keenhead under the thick wavy hair, veiled dark eyes under straighteyebrows, and with an inward gaze which when disengaged andarriving at one seemed to issue from an obscure dream of books,from the limbo of meditation, showed himself extremely gracious tohim. Renouard guessed in him a man whom an incurable habit ofinvestigation and analysis had made gentle and indulgent; inapt foraction, and more sensitive to the thoughts than to the events ofexistence. Withal not crushed, sub-ironic without a trace ofacidity, and with a simple manner which put people at ease quickly.They had a long conversation on the terrace commanding an extendedview of the town and the harbour.The splendid immobility of the bay resting under his gaze, with itsgrey spurs and shining indentations, helped Renouard to regain hisself-possession, which he had felt shaken, in coming out on theterrace, into the setting of the most powerful emotion of his life,when he had sat within a foot of Miss Moorsom with fire in hisbreast, a humming in his ears, and in a complete disorder of hismind. There was the very garden seat on which he had beenenveloped in the radiant spell. And presently he was sitting on itagain with the professor talking of her. Near by the patriarchalDunster leaned forward in a wicker arm-chair, benign and a littledeaf, his big hand to his ear with the innocent eagerness of hisadvanced age remembering the fires of life.It was with a sort of apprehension that Renouard looked forward toseeing Miss Moorsom. And strangely enough it resembled the stateof mind of a man who fears disenchantment more than sortilege. Buthe need not have been afraid. Directly he saw her in a distance atthe 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 satdown; it was an intimate circle into which Renouard felt himselfcordially admitted; and the talk was of the great search whichoccupied all their minds. Discretion was expected by these people,but of reticence as to the object of the journey there could be noquestion. Nothing but ways and means and arrangements could betalked about.By fixing his eyes obstinately on the ground, which gave him an airof reflective sadness, Renouard managed to recover his self-possession. He used it to keep his voice in a low key and tomeasure his words on the great subject. And he took care with agreat inward effort to make them reasonable without giving them adiscouraging complexion. For he did not want the quest to be givenup, 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 thecounsels of all these people captivated by the sentimentalenterprise of a declared love. On taking Miss Moorsom's hand helooked up, would have liked to say something, but found himselfvoiceless, with his lips suddenly sealed. She returned thepressure of his fingers, and he left her with her eyes vaguelystaring beyond him, an air of listening for an expected sound, andthe faintest possible smile on her lips. A smile not for him,evidently, but the reflection of some deep and inscrutable thought.CHAPTER IVHe went on board his schooner. She lay white, and as if suspended,in the crepuscular atmosphere of sunset mingling with the ashygleam of the vast anchorage. He tried to keep his thoughts assober, as reasonable, as measured as his words had been, lest theyshould get away from him and cause some sort of moral disaster.What he was afraid of in the coming night was sleeplessness and theendless strain of that wearisome task. It had to be faced however.He lay on his back, sighing profoundly in the dark, and suddenlybeheld his very own self, carrying a small bizarre lamp, reflectedin a long mirror inside a room in an empty and unfurnished palace.In this startling image of himself he recognised somebody he had tofollow--the frightened guide of his dream. He traversed endlessgalleries, no end of lofty halls, innumerable doors. He losthimself utterly--he found his way again. Room succeeded room. Atlast the lamp went out, and he stumbled against some object which,when he stooped for it, he found to be very cold and heavy to lift.The sickly white light of dawn showed him the head of a statue.Its marble hair was done in the bold lines of a helmet, on its lipsthe chisel had left a faint smile, and it resembled Miss Moorsom.While he was staring at it fixedly, the head began to grow light inhis fingers, to diminish and crumble to pieces, and at last turnedinto a handful of dust, which was blown away by a puff of wind sochilly that he woke up with a desperate shiver and leaped headlongout of his bed-place. The day had really come. He sat down by thecabin table, and taking his head between his hands, did not stirfor a very long time.Very quiet, he set himself to review this dream. The lamp, ofcourse, he connected with the search for a man. But on closerexamination he perceived that the reflection of himself in themirror was not really the true Renouard, but somebody else whoseface he could not remember. In the deserted palace he recognised asinister adaptation by his brain of the long corridors with manydoors, in the great building in which his friend's newspaper waslodged on the first floor. The marble head with Miss Moorsom'sface! Well! What other face could he have dreamed of? And hercomplexion was fairer than Parian marble, than the heads of angels.The wind at the end was the morning breeze entering through theopen porthole and touching his face before the schooner could swingto the chilly gust.Yes! And all this rational explanation of the fantastic made itonly more mysterious and weird. There was something daemonic inthat dream. It was one of those experiences which throw a man outof conformity with the established order of his kind and make him acreature of obscure suggestions.Henceforth, without ever trying to resist, he went every afternoonto the house where she lived. He went there as passively as if ina dream. He could never make out how he had attained the footingof intimacy in the Dunster mansion above the bay--whether on theground of personal merit or as the pioneer of the vegetable silkindustry. It must have been the last, because he remembereddistinctly, as distinctly as in a dream, hearing old Dunster oncetelling him that his next public task would be a careful survey ofthe Northern Districts to discover tracts suitable for thecultivation of the silk plant. The old man wagged his beard at himsagely. It was indeed as absurd as a dream.Willie of course would be there in the evening. But he was more ofa figure out of a nightmare, hovering about the circle of chairs inhis dress-clothes like a gigantic, repulsive, and sentimental bat."Do away with the beastly cocoons all over the world," he buzzed inhis blurred, water-logged voice. He affected a great horror ofinsects of all kinds. One evening he appeared with a red flower inhis button-hole. Nothing could have been more disgustinglyfantastic. And he would also say to Renouard: "You may yet changethe history of our country. For economic conditions do shape thehistory of nations. Eh? What?" And he would turn to Miss Moorsomfor approval, lowering protectingly his spatulous nose and lookingup with feeling from under his absurd eyebrows, which grew thin, inthe manner of canebrakes, out of his spongy skin. For this large,bilious creature was an economist and a sentimentalist, facile totears, and a member of the Cobden Club.In order to see as little of him as possible Renouard began comingearlier so as to get away before his arrival, without curtailingtoo much the hours of secret contemplation for which he lived. Hehad given up trying to deceive himself. His resignation waswithout bounds. He accepted the immense misfortune of being inlove with a woman who was in search of another man only to throwherself into his arms. With such desperate precision he defined inhis thoughts the situation, the consciousness of which traversedlike a sharp arrow the sudden silences of general conversation.The only thought before which he quailed was the thought that thiscould not last; that it must come to an end. He feared itinstinctively as a sick man may fear death. For it seemed to himthat it must be the death of him followed by a lightless,bottomless pit. But his resignation was not spared the torments ofjealousy: the cruel, insensate, poignant, and imbecile jealousy,when it seems that a woman betrays us simply by this that sheexists, that she breathes--and when the deep movements of hernerves or her soul become a matter of distracting suspicion, ofkilling doubt, of mortal anxiety.In the peculiar condition of their sojourn Miss Moorsom went outvery little. She accepted this seclusion at the Dunsters' mansionas in a hermitage, and lived there, watched over by a group of oldpeople, with the lofty endurance of a condescending and strong-headed goddess. It was impossible to say if she suffered fromanything in the world, and whether this was the insensibility of agreat passion concentrated on itself, or a perfect restraint ofmanner, or the indifference of superiority so complete as to besufficient to itself. But it was visible to Renouard that she tooksome pleasure in talking to him at times. Was it because he wasthe only person near her age? Was this, then, the secret of hisadmission to the circle?He admired her voice as well poised as her movements, as herattitudes. He himself had always been a man of tranquil tones.But the power of fascination had torn him out of his very nature socompletely that to preserve his habitual calmness from going topieces 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 always had a moment ofhallucination. She was a misty and fair creature, fitted forinvisible music, for the shadows of love, for the murmurs ofwaters. After a time (he could not be always staring at theground) he would summon up all his resolution and look at her.There was a sparkle in the clear obscurity of her eyes; and whenshe turned them on him they seemed to give a new meaning to life.He would say to himself that another man would have found longbefore the happy release of madness, his wits burnt to cinders inthat radiance. But no such luck for him. His wits had comeunscathed through the furnaces of hot suns, of blazing deserts, offlaming angers against the weaknesses of men and the obstinatecruelties of hostile nature.Being sane he had to be constantly on his guard against fallinginto adoring silences or breaking out into wild speeches. He hadto keep watch on his eyes, his limbs, on the muscles of his face.Their conversations were such as they could be between these twopeople: she a young lady fresh from the thick twilight of fourmillion people and the artificiality of several London seasons; hethe man of definite conquering tasks, the familiar of widehorizons, and in his very repose holding aloof from theseagglomerations of units in which one loses one's importance even tooneself. They had no common conversational small change. They hadto use the great pieces of general ideas, but they exchanged themtrivially. It was no serious commerce. Perhaps she had not muchof that coin. Nothing significant came from her. It could not besaid that she had received from the contacts of the external worldimpressions of a personal kind, different from other women. Whatwas ravishing in her was her quietness and, in her grave attitudes,the unfailing brilliance of her femininity. He did not know whatthere was under that ivory forehead so splendidly shaped, sogloriously crowned. He could not tell what were her thoughts, herfeelings. Her replies were reflective, always preceded by a shortsilence, while he hung on her lips anxiously. He felt himself inthe presence of a mysterious being in whom spoke an unknown voice,like the voice of oracles, bringing everlasting unrest to theheart.He was thankful enough to sit in silence with secretly clenchedteeth, devoured by jealousy--and nobody could have guessed that hisquiet deferential bearing to all these grey-heads was the supremeeffort of stoicism, that the man was engaged in keeping a sinisterwatch on his tortures lest his strength should fail him. Asbefore, when grappling with other forces of nature, he could findin himself all sorts of courage except the courage to run away.It was perhaps from the lack of subjects they could have in commonthat Miss Moorsom made him so often speak of his own life. He didnot shrink from talking about himself, for he was free from thatexacerbated, timid vanity which seals so many vain-glorious lips.He talked to her in his restrained voice, gazing at the tip of hershoe, and thinking that the time was bound to come soon when hervery inattention would get weary of him. And indeed on stealing aglance he would see her dazzling and perfect, her eyes vague,staring in mournful immobility, with a drooping head that made himthink of a tragic Venus arising before him, not from the foam ofthe sea, but from a distant, still more formless, mysterious, andpotent immensity of mankind.CHAPTER VOne afternoon Renouard stepping out on the terrace found nobodythere. It was for him, at the same time, a melancholydisappointment and a poignant relief.The heat was great, the air was still, all the long windows of thehouse stood wide open. At the further end, grouped round a lady'swork-table, several chairs disposed sociably suggested invisibleoccupants, a company of conversing shades. Renouard looked towardsthem with a sort of dread. A most elusive, faint sound of ghostlytalk issuing from one of the rooms added to the illusion andstopped his already hesitating footsteps. He leaned over thebalustrade of stone near a squat vase holding a tropical plant of abizarre shape. Professor Moorsom coming up from the garden with abook under his arm and a white parasol held over his bare head,found him there and, closing the parasol, leaned over by his sidewith a remark on the increasing heat of the season. Renouardassented and changed his position a little; the other, after ashort silence, administered unexpectedly a question which, like theblow of a club on the head, deprived Renouard of the power ofspeech and even thought, but, more cruel, left him quivering withapprehension, not of death but of everlasting torment. Yet thewords were extremely simple."Something will have to be done soon. We can't remain in a stateof suspended expectation for ever. Tell me what do you think ofour chances?"Renouard, speechless, produced a faint smile. The professorconfessed in a jocular tone his impatience to complete the circuitof the globe and be done with it. It was impossible to remainquartered on the dear excellent Dunsters for an indefinite time.And then there were the lectures he had arranged to deliver inParis. A serious matter.That lectures by Professor Moorsom were a European event and thatbrilliant audiences would gather to hear them Renouard did notknow. All he was aware of was the shock of this hint of departure.The menace of separation fell on his head like a thunderbolt. Andhe saw the absurdity of his emotion, for hadn't he lived all thesedays under the very cloud? The professor, his elbows spread out,looked down into the garden and went on unburdening his mind. Yes.The department of sentiment was directed by his daughter, and shehad plenty of volunteered moral support; but he had to look afterthe 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 aredetached from all these sublimities--confound them.""What do you mean?" murmured Renouard."I mean that you are capable of calm judgment. Here the atmosphereis simply detestable. Everybody has knuckled under to sentiment.Perhaps your deliberate opinion could influence . . .""You want Miss Moorsom to give it up?" The professor turned to theyoung man dismally."Heaven only knows what I want."Renouard leaning his back against the balustrade folded his arms onhis breast, appeared to meditate profoundly. His face, shadedsoftly by the broad brim of a planter's Panama hat, with thestraight line of the nose level with the forehead, the eyes lost inthe depth of the setting, and the chin well forward, had such aprofile as may be seen amongst the bronzes of classical museums,pure under a crested helmet--recalled vaguely a Minerva's head."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 ofjealousy traversing his breast like a self-inflicted stab.Whether enervated by the heat or giving way to pent up irritationthe professor surrendered himself to the mood of sincerity."He began by being a pleasantly dull boy. He developed into apointlessly clever young man, without, I suspect, ever trying tounderstand anything. My daughter knew him from childhood. I am abusy man, and I confess that their engagement was a completesurprise to me. I wish their reasons for that step had been morenaive. But simplicity was out of fashion in their set. From aworldly point of view he seems to have been a mere baby. Ofcourse, now, I am assured that he is the victim of his nobleconfidence in the rectitude of his kind. But that's mereidealising of a sad reality. For my part I will tell you that fromthe very beginning I had the gravest doubts of his dishonesty.Unfortunately my clever daughter hadn't. And now we behold thereaction. No. To be earnestly dishonest one must be really poor.This was only a manifestation of his extremely refined cleverness.The complicated simpleton. He had an awful awakening though."In such words did Professor Moorsom give his "young friend" tounderstand the state of his feelings toward the lost man. It wasevident that the father of Miss Moorsom wished him to remain lost.Perhaps the unprecedented heat of the season made him long for thecool spaces of the Pacific, the sweep of the ocean's free windalong the promenade decks, cumbered with long chairs, of a shipsteaming towards the Californian coast. To Renouard thephilosopher appeared simply the most treacherous of fathers. Hewas 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 goneto hide in Italy, for instance, you wouldn't think of saying that.""Well! And suppose he has become morally disintegrated. You knowhe 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 pullany broken man together--to drag a man out of his grave. And hethought this with inward despair, which kept him silent as muchalmost as his astonishment. At last he managed to stammer out agenerous -"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 toolong at life not to distrust its surprises. Age! Age! Here Istand before you a man full of doubts and hesitation--spe lentus,timidus futuri."He made a sign to Renouard not to interrupt, and in a loweredvoice, as if afraid of being overheard, even there, in the solitudeof the terrace -"And the worst is that I am not even sure how far this sentimentalpilgrimage is genuine. Yes. I doubt my own child. It's true thatshe's a woman. . . . "Renouard detected with horror a tone of resentment, as if theprofessor had never forgiven his daughter for not dying instead ofhis son. The latter noticed the young man's stony stare."Ah! you don't understand. Yes, she's clever, open-minded,popular, and--well, charming. But you don't know what it is tohave moved, breathed, existed, and even triumphed in the meresmother and froth of life--the brilliant froth. There thoughts,sentiments, opinions, feelings, actions too, are nothing butagitation in empty space--to amuse life--a sort of superiordebauchery, exciting and fatiguing, meaning nothing, leadingnowhere. She is the creature of that circle. And I ask myself ifshe is obeying the uneasiness of an instinct seeking itssatisfaction, or is it a revulsion of feeling, or is she merelydeceiving her own heart by this dangerous trifling with romanticimages. And everything is possible--except sincerity, such as onlystark, struggling humanity can know. No woman can stand that modeof life in which women rule, and remain a perfectly genuine, simplehuman being. Ah! There's some people coming out."He moved off a pace, then turning his head: "Upon my word! Iwould be infinitely obliged to you if you could throw a little coldwater. . . " and at a vaguely dismayed gesture of Renouard, headded: "Don't be afraid. You wouldn't be putting out a sacredfire."Renouard could hardly find words for a protest: "I assure you thatI never talk with Miss Moorsom--on--on--that. And if you, herfather . . . ""I envy you your innocence," sighed the professor. "A father isonly an everyday person. Flat. Stale. Moreover, my child wouldnaturally mistrust me. We belong to the same set. Whereas youcarry with you the prestige of the unknown. You have provedyourself to be a force."Thereupon the professor followed by Renouard joined the circle ofall the inmates of the house assembled at the other end of theterrace about a tea-table; three white heads and that resplendentvision of woman's glory, the sight of which had the power toflutter his heart like a reminder of the mortality of his frame.He avoided the seat by the side of Miss Moorsom. The others weretalking together languidly. Unnoticed he looked at that woman somarvellous that centuries seemed to lie between them. He wasoppressed and overcome at the thought of what she could give tosome man who really would be a force! What a glorious strugglewith this amazon. What noble burden for the victorious strength.Dear old Mrs. Dunster was dispensing tea, looking from time to timewith interest towards Miss Moorsom. The aged statesman havingeaten a raw tomato and drunk a glass of milk (a habit of his earlyfarming days, long before politics, when, pioneer of wheat-growing,he demonstrated the possibility of raising crops on ground lookingbarren enough to discourage a magician), smoothed his white beard,and struck lightly 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 onedirection. Mrs. Dunster added: "Do. It will be very quiet. Idon't even know if Willie will be home for dinner." Renouardmurmured his thanks, and left the terrace to go on board theschooner. While lingering in the drawing-room doorway he heard theresonant voice of old Dunster uttering oracularly -". . . the leading man here some day. . . . Like me."Renouard let the thin summer portiere of the doorway fall behindhim. The voice of Professor Moorsom said -"I am told that he has made an enemy of almost every man who had towork 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 couldmove away, Mrs. Dunster struck in placidly -"Don't let yourself be shocked by the tales you may hear of him, mydear. 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 aninstinct for truth."He hastened away from that house with his heart full of dread.CHAPTER VIOn board the schooner, lying on the settee on his back with theknuckles of his hands pressed over his eyes, he made up his mindthat he would not return to that house for dinner--that he wouldnever go back there any more. He made up his mind some twentytimes. The knowledge that he had only to go up on the quarterdeck, utter quietly the words: "Man the windlass," and that theschooner springing into life would run a hundred miles out to seabefore sunrise, deceived his struggling will. Nothing easier!Yet, in the end, this young man, almost ill-famed for his ruthlessdaring, the inflexible leader of two tragically successfulexpeditions, 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 histhroat. He finished dressing and looked at his own impassive facein the saloon mirror scornfully. While being pulled on shore inthe gig, he remembered suddenly the wild beauty of a waterfall seenwhen hardly more than a boy, years ago, in Menado. There was alegend of a governor-general of the Dutch East Indies, on officialtour, 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 visitation like his own, at the same timebinding 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 ofMiss Moorsom. Renouard had the professor's sister on his left,dressed in an expensive gown becoming her age. That maiden lady inher wonderful preservation reminded Renouard somehow of a waxflower under glass. There were no traces of the dust of life'sbattles on her anywhere. She did not like him very much in theafternoons, in his white drill suit and planter's hat, which seemedto her an unduly Bohemian costume for calling in a house wherethere were ladies. But in the evening, lithe and elegant in hisdress clothes and with his pleasant, slightly veiled voice, healways made her conquest afresh. He might have been anybodydistinguished--the son of a duke. Falling under that charmprobably (and also because her brother had given her a hint), sheattempted to open her heart to Renouard, who was watching with allthe power of his soul her niece across the table. She spoke to himas frankly as though that miserable mortal envelope, emptied ofeverything but hopeless passion, were indeed the son of a duke.Inattentive, he heard her only in snatches, till the finalconfidential burst: ". . . glad if you would express an opinion.Look at her, so charming, such a great favourite, so generallyadmired! It would be too sad. We all hoped she would make abrilliant marriage with somebody very rich and of high position,have a house in London and in the country, and entertain us allsplendidly. She's so eminently fitted for it. She has such hostsof distinguished friends! And then--this instead! . . . My heartreally aches."Her well-bred if anxious whisper was covered by the voice ofprofessor Moorsom discoursing subtly down the short length of thedinner table on the Impermanency of the Measurable to his venerabledisciple. It might have been a chapter in a new and popular bookof Moorsonian philosophy. Patriarchal and delighted, old Dunsterleaned forward a little, his eyes shining youthfully, two spots ofcolour at the roots of his white beard; and Renouard, glancing atthe senile excitement, recalled the words heard on those subtlelips, adopted their scorn for his own, saw their truth before thisman ready to be amused by the side of the grave. Yes!Intellectual debauchery in the froth of existence! Froth andfraud!On the same side of the table Miss Moorsom never once lookedtowards her father, all her grace as if frozen, her red lipscompressed, the faintest rosiness under her dazzling complexion,her black eyes burning motionless, and the very coppery gleams oflight lying still on the waves and undulation of her hair.Renouard fancied himself overturning the table, smashing crystaland china, treading fruit and flowers under foot, seizing her inhis arms, carrying her off in a tumult of shrieks from all thesepeople, a silent frightened mortal, into some profound retreat asin the age of Cavern men. Suddenly everybody got up, and hehastened to rise too, finding himself out of breath and quiteunsteady on his feet.On the terrace the philosopher, after lighting a cigar, slipped hishand condescendingly under his "dear young friend's" arm. Renouardregarded him now with the profoundest mistrust. But the great manseemed really to have a liking for his young friend--one of thosemysterious sympathies, disregarding the differences of age andposition, which in this case might have been explained by thefailure of philosophy to meet a very real worry of a practicalkind.After a turn or two and some casual talk the professor saidsuddenly: "My late son was in your school--do you know? I canimagine that had he lived and you had ever met you would haveunderstood each other. He too was inclined to action."He sighed, then, shaking off the mournful thought and with a nod atthe dusky part of the terrace where the dress of his daughter madea luminous stain: "I really wish you would drop in that quarter afew sensible, discouraging words."Renouard disengaged himself from that most perfidious of men underthe pretence of astonishment, and stepping back a pace -"Surely you are making fun of me, Professor Moorsom," he said witha low laugh, which was really a sound of rage."My dear young friend! It's no subject for jokes, to me. . . Youdon't seem to have any notion of your prestige," he added, walkingaway towards the chairs."Humbug!" thought Renouard, standing still and looking after him."And yet! And yet! What if it were true?"He advanced then towards Miss Moorsom. Posed on the seat on whichthey had first spoken to each other, it was her turn to watch himcoming on. But many of the windows were not lighted that evening.It was dark over there. She appeared to him luminous in her cleardress, a figure without shape, a face without features, awaitinghis approach, till he got quite near to her, sat down, and they hadexchanged a few insignificant words. Gradually she came out like amagic painting of charm, fascination, and desire, glowingmysteriously on the dark background. Something imperceptible inthe lines of her attitude, in the modulations of her voice, seemedto soften that suggestion of calm unconscious pride which envelopedher always like a mantle. He, sensitive like a bond slave to themoods of the master, was moved by the subtle relenting of her graceto an infinite tenderness. He fought down the impulse to seize herby the hand, lead her down into the garden away under the bigtrees, and throw himself at her feet uttering words of love. Hisemotion was so strong that he had to cough slightly, and notknowing what to talk to her about he began to tell her of hismother and sisters. All the family were coming to London to livethere, for some little time at least."I hope you will go and tell them something of me. Somethingseen," he said pressingly.By this miserable subterfuge, like a man about to part with hislife, he hoped to make her remember him a little longer."Certainly," she said. "I'll be glad to call when I get back. Butthat 'when' may be a long time."He heard a light sigh. A cruel jealous curiosity 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. "Youdon't know me, I see.""Ah! Never despair," he muttered."This, Mr. Renouard, is a work of reparation. I stand for truthhere. I can't think of myself."He could have taken her by the throat for every word seemed aninsult 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 connectionsurprises me. And from a man too who, I understand, has nevercounted the cost.""You are pleased to tease me," he said, directly he had recoveredhis voice and had mastered his anger. It was as if ProfessorMoorsom had dropped poison in his ear which was spreading now andtainting his passion, his very jealousy. He mistrusted every wordthat came from those lips on which his life hung. "How can youknow anything of men who do not count the cost?" he asked in hisgentlest 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, Ihad a disappointment this morning. This mail brought me a letterfrom the widow of the old butler--you know. I expected to learnthat she had heard from--from here. But no. No letter arrivedhome since we left."Her voice was calm. His jealousy couldn't stand much more of thissort of talk; but he was glad that nothing had turned up to helpthe search; glad blindly, unreasonably--only because it would keepher longer in his sight--since she wouldn't give up."I am too near her," he thought, moving a little further on theseat. He was afraid in the revulsion of feeling of flinginghimself on her hands, which were lying on her lap, and coveringthem with kisses. He was afraid. Nothing, nothing could shakethat spell--not if she were ever so false, stupid, or degraded.She was fate itself. The extent of his misfortune plunged him insuch a stupor that he failed at first to hear the sound of voicesand footsteps inside the drawing-room. Willie had come home--andthe Editor was with him.They burst out on the terrace babbling noisily, and then pullingthemselves together stood still, surprising--and as if themselvessurprised.CHAPTER VIIThey had been feasting a poet from the bush, the latest discoveryof the Editor. Such discoveries were the business, the vocation,the pride and delight of the only apostle of letters in thehemisphere, the solitary patron of culture, the Slave of the Lamp--as he subscribed himself at the bottom of the weekly literary pageof his paper. He had had no difficulty in persuading the virtuousWillie (who had festive instincts) to help in the good work, andnow they had left the poet lying asleep on the hearthrug of theeditorial room and had rushed to the Dunster mansion wildly. TheEditor had another discovery to announce. Swaying a little wherehe stood he opened his mouth very wide to shout the one word"Found!" Behind him Willie flung both his hands above his head andlet them fall dramatically. Renouard saw the four white-headedpeople at the end of the terrace rise all together from theirchairs with an effect of sudden panic."I tell you--he--is--found," the patron of letters shoutedemphatically."What is this!" exclaimed Renouard in a choked voice. Miss Moorsomseized his wrist suddenly, and at that contact fire ran through allhis veins, a hot stillness descended upon him in which he heard theblood--or the fire--beating in his ears. He made a movement as ifto rise, but was restrained by the convulsive pressure on hiswrist."No, no." Miss Moorsom's eyes stared black as night, searching thespace before her. Far away the Editor strutted forward, Williefollowing with his ostentatious manner of carrying his bulky andoppressive carcass which, however, did not remain exactlyperpendicular for two seconds together."The innocent Arthur . . . Yes. We've got him," the Editor becamevery business-like. "Yes, this letter has done it."He plunged into an inside pocket for it, slapped the scrap of paperwith his open palm. "From that old woman. William had it in hispocket since this morning when Miss Moorsom gave it to him to showme. Forgot all about it till an hour ago. Thought it was of noimportance. Well, no! Not till it was properly read."Renouard and Miss Moorsom emerged from the shadows side by side, awell-matched couple, animated yet statuesque in their calmness andin their pallor. She had let go his wrist. On catching sight ofRenouard the Editor exclaimed:"What--you here!" in a quite shrill voice.There came a dead pause. All the faces had in them somethingdismayed and cruel."He's the very man we want," continued the Editor. "Excuse myexcitement. You are the very man, Renouard. Didn't you tell methat your assistant called himself Walter? Yes? Thought so. Buthere's that old woman--the butler's wife--listen to this. Shewrites: All I can tell you, Miss, is that my poor husband directedhis letters to the name of H. Walter."Renouard's violent but repressed exclamation was lost in a generalmurmur and shuffle of feet. The Editor made a step forward, bowedwith creditable steadiness."Miss Moorsom, allow me to congratulate you from the bottom of myheart 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 oflife you will end by having no more discrimination than a savage.Fancy living with a gentleman for months and never guessing. Aman, I am certain, accomplished, remarkable, out of the common,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 elbowon his knee leaned his head on his hand. Behind him the sister ofthe 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 carefuldisposition of the thin hairs across Willie's bald spot wasdeplorably disarranged, and the spot itself was red and, as itwere, steaming."What's the matter, Geoffrey?" The Editor seemed disconcerted bythe silent attitudes round him, as though he had expected all thesepeople to shout and dance. "You have him on the island--haven'tyou?""Oh, yes: I have him there," said Renouard, without looking up."Well, then!" The Editor looked helplessly around as if beggingfor response of some sort. But the only response that came wasvery unexpected. Annoyed at being left in the background, and alsobecause very little drink made him nasty, the emotional Willieturned malignant all at once, and in a bibulous tone surprising ina 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 ajaded horse. He positively jumped."What of that? What do you mean? We--haven't--got--him--here. Ofcourse he isn't here! But Geoffrey's schooner is here. She can besent at once to 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 prefer. . ."With a gallant flourish of his arm he looked for Miss Moorsom. Shehad disappeared. He was taken aback somewhat."Ah! H'm. Yes. . . . Why not. A pleasure cruise, delightfulship, delightful season, delightful errand, del . . . No! Thereare no objections. Geoffrey, I understand, has indulged in abungalow three sizes too large for him. He can put you all up. Itwill be a pleasure for him. It will be the greatest privilege.Any man would be proud of being an agent of this happy reunion. Iam proud of the little part I've played. He will consider it thegreatest honour. Geoff, my boy, you had better be stirring to-morrow bright and early about the preparations for the trip. Itwould be criminal to lose a single day."He was as flushed as Willie, the excitement keeping up the effectof the festive dinner. For a time Renouard, silent, as if he hadnot heard a word of all that babble, did not stir. But when he gotup it was to advance towards the Editor and give him such a heartyslap on the back that the plump little man reeled in his tracks andlooked 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 ofsentiment, and you must even risk the voyage to Malata. . . "Renouard's voice sank. "A lonely spot," he added, and fell intothought under all these eyes converging on him in the suddensilence. His slow glance passed over all the faces in succession,remaining arrested on Professor Moorsom, stony eyed, a smoulderingcigar in his fingers, and with his sister standing by his side."I shall be infinitely gratified if you consent to come. But, ofcourse, you will. We shall sail to-morrow evening then. And nowlet me leave you to your happiness."He bowed, very grave, pointed suddenly his finger at Willie who wasswaying about with a sleepy frown. . . . "Look at him. He'sovercome with happiness. You had better put him to bed . . . " anddisappeared while every head on the terrace was turned to Williewith varied expressions.Renouard ran through the house. Avoiding the carriage road he fleddown 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 attheir anchors each with the open unwinking eye of the lamp in therigging; she flew past the flagship of the Pacific squadron, agreat mass all dark and silent, heavy with the slumbers of fivehundred men, and where the invisible sentries heard his urgent"Give way! Give way!" in the night. The Kanakas, panting, roseoff the thwarts at every stroke. Nothing could be fast enough forhim! And he ran up the side of his schooner shaking the laddernoisily with his rush.On deck he stumbled and stood still.Wherefore this haste? To what end, since he knew well before hestarted that he had a pursuer from whom there was no escape.As his foot touched the deck his will, his purpose he had beenhurrying to save, died out within. It had been nothing less thangetting the schooner under-way, letting her vanish silently in thenight from amongst these sleeping ships. And now he was certain hecould not do it. It was impossible! And he reflected that whetherhe lived or died such an act would lay him under a dark suspicionfrom which he shrank. No, there was nothing to be done.He went down into the cabin and, before even unbuttoning hisovercoat, took out of the drawer the letter addressed to hisassistant; that letter which he had found in the pigeon-holelabelled "Malata" in young Dunster's outer office, where it hadbeen waiting for three months some occasion for being forwarded.From the moment of dropping it in the drawer he had utterlyforgotten its existence--till now, when the man's name had come outso clamorously. He glanced at the common envelope, noted the shakyand laborious handwriting: H. Walter, Esqre. Undoubtedly the verylast letter the old butler had posted before his illness, and inanswer clearly to one from "Master Arthur" instructing him toaddress 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 hishand full of pieces of paper he returned on deck and scattered themoverboard on the dark water, in which they vanished instantly.He did it slowly, without hesitation or remorse. H. Walter, Esqre,in Malata. The innocent Arthur--What was his name? The man soughtfor by that woman who as she went by seemed to draw all the passionof the earth to her, without effort, not deigning to notice,naturally, as other women breathed the air. But Renouard was nolonger jealous of her very existence. Whatever its meaning it wasnot for that man he had picked up casually on obscure impulse, toget rid of the tiresome expostulations of a so-called friend; a manof whom he really knew nothing--and now a dead man. In Malata.Oh, yes! He was there secure enough, untroubled in his grave. InMalata. To bury him was the last service Renouard had rendered tohis assistant before leaving the island on this trip to town.Like many men ready enough for arduous enterprises Renouard wasinclined to evade the small complications of existence. This traitof his character was composed of a little indolence, some disdain,and a shrinking from contests with certain forms of vulgarity--likea man who would face a lion and go out of his way to avoid a toad.His intercourse with the meddlesome journalist was that merelyoutward intimacy without sympathy some young men get drawn intoeasily. It had amused him rather to keep that "friend" in the darkabout the fate of his assistant. Renouard had never needed othercompany than his own, for there was in him something of thesensitiveness of a dreamer who is easily jarred. He had said tohimself that the all-knowing one would only preach again about theevils of solitude and worry his head off in favour of someforlornly useless protege of his. Also the inquisitiveness of theEditor had irritated him and had closed his lips in sheer disgust.And now he contemplated the noose of consequences drawing tightaround him.It was the memory of that diplomatic reticence which on the terracehad stiffled his first cry which would have told them all that theman sought for was not to be met on earth any more. He shrank fromthe absurdity of hearing the all-knowing one, and not very sober atthat, turning on him with righteous reproaches -"You never told me. You gave me to understand that your assistantwas alive, and now you say he's dead. Which is it? Were you lyingthen or are you lying now?" No! the thought of such a scene wasnot to be borne. He had sat down appalled, thinking: "What shallI do now?"His courage had oozed out of him. Speaking the truth meant theMoorsoms going away at once--while it seemed to him that he wouldgive the last shred of his rectitude to secure a day more of hercompany. He sat on--silent. Slowly, from confused sensations,from his talk with the professor, the manner of the girl herself,the intoxicating familiarity of her sudden hand-clasp, there hadcome to him a half glimmer of hope. The other man was dead. Then!. . . Madness, of course--but he could not give it up. He hadlistened to that confounded busybody arranging everything--whileall these people stood around assenting, under the spell of thatdead romance. He had listened scornful and silent. The glimmersof hope, of opportunity, passed before his eyes. He had only tosit still and say nothing. That and no more. And what was truthto him in the face of that great passion which had flung himprostrate in spirit at her adored feet!And now it was done! Fatality had willed it! With the eyes of amortal struck by the maddening thunderbolt of the gods, Renouardlooked up to the sky, an immense black pall dusted over with gold,on which great shudders seemed to pass from the breath of lifeaffirming its sway.CHAPTER VIIIAt last, one morning, in a clear spot of a glassy horizon chargedwith heraldic masses of black vapours, the island grew out from thesea, showing here and there its naked members of basaltic rockthrough the rents of heavy foliage. Later, in the great spillingof all the riches of sunset, Malata stood out green and rosy beforeturning into a violet shadow in the autumnal light of the expiringday. Then came the night. In the faint airs the schooner crept onpast a sturdy squat headland, and it was pitch dark when herheadsails ran down, she turned short on her heel, and her anchorbit into the sandy bottom on the edge of the outer reef; for it wastoo dangerous then to attempt entering the little bay full ofshoals. After the last solemn flutter of the mainsail themurmuring voices of the Moorsom party lingered, very frail, in theblack stillness.They were sitting aft, on chairs, and nobody made a move. Early inthe day, when it had become evident that the wind was failing,Renouard, basing his advice on the shortcomings of his bachelorestablishment, had urged on the ladies the advisability of notgoing ashore in the middle of the night. Now he approached them ina constrained manner (it was astonishing the constraint that hadreigned between him and his guests all through the passage) andrenewed his arguments. No one ashore would dream of his bringingany visitors with him. Nobody would even think of coming off.There was only one old canoe on the plantation. And landing in theschooner's boats would be awkward in the dark. There was the riskof getting aground on some shallow patches. It would be best tospend the rest of the night on board.There was really no opposition. The professor smoking a pipe, andvery 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 avoice 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 had wondered!She had . . .The professor's sister leaned over towards Renouard. Through allthese days at sea the man's--the found man's--existence had notbeen alluded to on board the schooner. That reticence was part ofthe general constraint lying upon them all. She, herself,certainly had not been exactly elated by this finding--poor Arthur,without money, without prospects. But she felt moved by thesentiment and romance of the situation."Isn't it wonderful," she whispered out of her white wrap, "tothink of poor Arthur sleeping there, so near to our dear lovelyFelicia, and not knowing the immense joy in store for him to-morrow."There was such artificiality in the wax-flower lady that nothing inthis speech touched Renouard. It was but the simple anxiety of hisheart 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 somethingimpolite. What a harsh thing to say--instead of finding somethingnice and appropriate. On board, where she never saw him in eveningclothes, Renouard's resemblance to a duke's son was not so apparentto her. Nothing but his--ah--bohemianism remained. She rose witha 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 hispipe. "Infinitely more sensible, my dear Emma."Renouard waited behind Miss Moorsom's chair.She got up slowly, moved one step forward, and paused looking atthe shore. The blackness of the island blotted out the stars withits vague mass like a low thundercloud brooding over the waters andready to burst into flame and crashes."And so--this is Malata," she repeated dreamily, moving towards thecabin door. The clear cloak hanging from her shoulders, the ivoryface--for the night had put out nothing of her but the gleams ofher hair--made her resemble a shining dream-woman uttering words ofwistful inquiry. She disappeared without a sign, leaving Renouardpenetrated to the very marrow by the sounds that came from her bodylike a mysterious resonance of an exquisite instrument.He stood stock still. What was this accidental touch which hadevoked the strange accent of her voice? He dared not answer thatquestion. But he had to answer the question of what was to be donenow. Had the moment of confession come? The thought was enough tomake one's blood run cold.It was as if those people had a premonition of something. In thetaciturn days of the passage he had noticed their reserve evenamongst themselves. The professor smoked his pipe moodily inretired spots. Renouard had caught Miss Moorsom's eyes resting onhimself more than once, with a peculiar and grave expression. Hefancied that she avoided all opportunities of conversation. Themaiden lady seemed to nurse a grievance. And now what had he todo?The lights on the deck had gone out one after the other. Theschooner slept.About an hour after Miss Moorsom had gone below without a sign or aword for him, Renouard got out of his hammock slung in the waistunder the midship awning--for he had given up all the accommodationbelow 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. Unnoticed he got out ofthe ship over the knight-heads, ran along the back rope, andseizing the dolphin-striker firmly with both hands, lowered himselfinto the sea without a splash.He swam away, noiseless like a fish, and then struck boldly for theland, 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 torest and correct his direction. He landed at the lower end of thebungalow garden, into the dead stillness of the island. There wereno lights. The plantation seemed to sleep, as profoundly as theschooner. On the path a small shell cracked under his naked heel.The faithful half-caste foreman going his rounds cocked his ears atthe sharp sound. He gave one enormous start of fear at the sightof the swift white figure flying at him out of the night. Hecrouched in terror, and then sprang up and clicked his tongue inamazed 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 toraise his voice, the man blindly obeyed and never questioned. Hetalked low and rapidly in the quiet night, as if every minute wereprecious. On learning that three guests were coming to stay Luizclicked his tongue rapidly. These clicks were the uniform,stenographic symbols of his emotions, and he could give them aninfinite variety of meaning. He listened to the rest in a deepsilence hardly affected by the low, "Yes, master," wheneverRenouard paused."You understand?" the latter insisted. "No preparations are to bemade 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 theislands.""Yes, master.""No mistakes--mind!""No, master."Renouard walked back towards 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. Suppose you drown.""Then you can say of me and of Mr. Walter what you like. The deaddon't mind."Renouard entered the sea and heard a faint "Tse! Tse! Tse!" ofconcern from the half-caste, who had already lost sight of themaster's dark head on the overshadowed water.Renouard set his direction by a big star that, dipping on thehorizon, seemed to look curiously into his face. On this swim backhe felt the mournful fatigue of all that length of the traversedroad, which brought him no nearer to his desire. It was as if hislove had sapped the invisible supports of his strength. There camea moment when it seemed to him that he must have swum beyond theconfines of life. He had a sensation of eternity close at hand,demanding no effort--offering its peace. It was easy to swim likethis beyond the confines of life looking at a star. But thethought: "They will think I dared not face them and committedsuicide," caused a revolt of his mind which carried him on. Hereturned on board, as he had left, unheard and unseen. He lay inhis hammock utterly exhausted and with a confused feeling that hehad been beyond the confines of life, somewhere near a star, andthat it was very quiet there.CHAPTER IXSheltered by the squat headland from the first morning sparkle ofthe sea the little bay breathed a delicious freshness. The partyfrom the schooner landed at the bottom of the garden. Theyexchanged insignificant words in studiously casual tones. Theprofessor's sister put up a long-handled eye-glass as if to scanthe novel surroundings, but in reality searching for poor Arthuranxiously. Having never seen him otherwise than in his townclothes she had no idea what he would look like. It had been leftto the professor to help his ladies out of the boat becauseRenouard, as if intent on giving directions, had stepped forward atonce to meet the half-caste Luiz hurrying down the path. In thedistance, in front of the dazzlingly sunlit bungalow, a row ofdark-faced house-boys unequal in stature and varied in complexionpreserved the immobility of a guard of honour.Luiz had taken off his soft felt hat before coming within earshot.Renouard bent his head to his rapid talk of domestic arrangementshe meant to make for the visitors; another bed in the master's roomfor the ladies and a cot for the gentleman to be hung in the roomopposite where--where Mr. Walter--here he gave a scared look allround--Mr. Walter--had died."Very good," assented Renouard in an even undertone. "And rememberwhat you have to say of him.""Yes, master. Only"--he wriggled slightly and put one bare foot onthe 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 ofexpression. "Frightened of the dead? Eh? Well--all right. Iwill say it myself--I suppose once for all. . . Immediately heraised his voice very much."Send the boys down to bring up the luggage.""Yes, master."Renouard turned to his distinguished guests who, like a personallyconducted party of tourists, had stopped and were looking aboutthem."I am sorry," he began with an impassive face. "My man has justtold me that Mr. Walter . . ." he managed to smile, but didn'tcorrect himself . . . "has gone in a trading schooner on a shorttour of the islands, to the westward."This communication was received in profound silence.Renouard forgot himself in the thought: "It's done!" But thesight of the string of boys marching up to the house with suit-cases and dressing-bags rescued him from that appallingabstraction."All I can do is to beg you to make yourselves at home . . . withwhat patience you may."This was so obviously the only thing to do that everybody moved onat once. The professor walked alongside Renouard, behind the twoladies."Rather unexpected--this absence.""Not exactly," muttered Renouard. "A trip has to be made everyyear to engage labour.""I see . . . And he . . . How vexingly elusive the poor fellow hasbecome! I'll begin to think that some wicked fairy is favouringthis love tale with unpleasant attentions."Renouard noticed that the party did not seem weighed down by thisnew disappointment. On the contrary they moved with a freer step.The professor's sister dropped her eye-glass to the end of itschain. Miss Moorsom took the lead. The professor, his lipsunsealed, lingered in the open: but Renouard did not listen tothat man's talk. He looked after that man's daughter--if indeedthat creature of irresistible seductions were a daughter ofmortals. The very intensity of his desire, as if his soul werestreaming after her through his eyes, defeated his object ofkeeping hold of her as long as possible with, at least, one of hissenses. Her moving outlines dissolved into a misty colouredshimmer of a woman made of flame and shadows, crossing thethreshold of his house.The days which followed were not exactly such as Renouard hadfeared--yet they were not better than his fears. They wereaccursed in all the moods they brought him. But the general aspectof things was quiet. The professor smoked innumerable pipes withthe air of a worker on his holiday, always in movement and lookingat things with that mysteriously sagacious aspect of men who areadmittedly wiser than the rest of the world. His white head ofhair--whiter than anything within the horizon except the brokenwater on the reefs--was glimpsed in every part of the plantationalways on the move under the white parasol. And once he climbedthe headland and appeared suddenly to those below, a white speckelevated in the blue, with a diminutive but statuesque effect.Felicia Moorsom remained near the house. Sometimes she could beseen with a despairing expression scribbling rapidly in her lock-updairy. But only for a moment. At the sound of Renouard'sfootsteps she would turn towards him her beautiful face, adorablein that calm which was like a wilful, like a cruel ignoring of hertremendous power. Whenever she sat on the verandah, on a chairmore specially reserved for her use, Renouard would stroll up andsit on the steps near her, mostly silent, and often not trustinghimself to turn his glance on her. She, very still with her eyeshalf-closed, looked down on his head--so that to a beholder (suchas Professor Moorsom, for instance) she would appear to be turningover in her mind profound thoughts about that man sitting at herfeet, his shoulders bowed a little, his hands listless--as ifvanquished. And, indeed, the moral poison of falsehood has such adecomposing power that Renouard felt his old personality turn todead dust. Often, in the evening, when they sat outside conversinglanguidly in the dark, he felt that he must rest his forehead onher feet and burst into tears.The professor's sister suffered from some little strain caused bythe unstability of her own feelings toward Renouard. She could nottell whether she really did dislike him or not. At times heappeared to her most fascinating; and, though he generally ended bysaying something shockingly crude, she could not resist herinclination to talk with him--at least not always. One day whenher niece had left them alone on the verandah she leaned forward inher chair--speckless, resplendent, and, in her way, almost asstriking a personality as her niece, who did not resemble her inthe least. "Dear Felicia has inherited her hair and the greatestpart of her appearance from her mother," the maiden lady used totell people.She leaned forward then, confidentially."Oh! Mr. Renouard! Haven't you something comforting to say?"He looked up, as surprised as if a voice from heaven had spokenwith this perfect society intonation, and by the puzzled profundityof his blue eyes fluttered the wax-flower of refined womanhood.She continued. "For--I can speak to you openly on this tiresomesubject--only think what a terrible strain this hope deferred mustbe for Felicia's heart--for her nerves.""Why speak to me about it," he muttered feeling half chokedsuddenly."Why! As a friend--a well-wisher--the kindest of hosts. I amafraid we are really eating you out of house and home." Shelaughed a little. "Ah! When, when will this suspense be relieved!That poor lost Arthur! I confess that I am almost afraid of thegreat moment. It will be like seeing a ghost.""Have you ever seen a ghost?" asked Renouard, in a dull voice.She shifted her hands a little. Her pose was perfect in its easeand middle-aged grace."Not actually. Only in a photograph. But we have many friends whohad the experience of apparitions.""Ah! They see ghosts in London," mumbled Renouard, not looking ather."Frequently--in a certain very interesting set. But all sorts ofpeople do. We have a friend, a very famous author--his ghost is agirl. One of my brother's intimates is a very great man ofscience. He is friendly with a ghost . . . Of a girl too," sheadded in a voice as if struck for the first time by thecoincidence. "It is the photograph of that apparition which I haveseen. Very sweet. Most interesting. A little cloudy naturally. .. . Mr. Renouard! I hope you are not a sceptic. It's so consolingto think. . .""Those plantation boys of mine see ghosts too," said Renouardgrimly.The sister of the philosopher sat up stiffly. What crudeness! Itwas always so with this strange young man."Mr. Renouard! How can you compare the superstitious fancies ofyour horrible savages with the manifestations . . . "Words failed her. She broke off with a very faint primly angrysmile. She was perhaps the more offended with him because of thatflutter at the beginning of the conversation. And in a moment withperfect tact and dignity she got up from her chair and left himalone.Renouard didn't even look up. It was not the displeasure of thelady which deprived him of his sleep that night. He was beginningto forget what simple, honest sleep was like. His hammock from theship had been hung for him on a side verandah, and he spent hisnights in it on his back, his hands folded on his chest, in a sortof half conscious, oppressed stupor. In the morning he watchedwith unseeing eyes the headland come out a shapeless inkblotagainst the thin light of the false dawn, pass through all thestages of daybreak to the deep purple of its outlined mass nimbedgloriously with the gold of the rising sun. He listened to thevague sounds of waking within the house: and suddenly he becameaware 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 I take him his bath water he speakto me. He ask me--he ask--when, when, I think Mr. Walter, he comeback."The half-caste's teeth chattered slightly. Renouard got out of thehammock."And he is here all the time--eh?"Luiz nodded a scared affirmative, but at once protested, "I no seehim. I never. Not I! The ignorant wild boys say they see . . .Something! 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?""I say I don't know--and I clear out. I--I don't like to speak ofhim.""All right. We shall try to lay that poor ghost," said Renouardgloomily, going off to a small hut near by to dress. He was sayingto himself: "This fellow will end by giving me away. The lastthing that I . . . No! That mustn't be." And feeling his handbeing forced he discovered the whole extent of his cowardice.CHAPTER XThat morning wandering about his plantation, more like a frightenedsoul than its creator and master, he dodged the white parasolbobbing up here and there like a buoy adrift on a sea of dark-greenplants. The crop promised to be magnificent, and the fashionablephilosopher of the age took other than a merely scientific interestin the experiment. His investments were judicious, but he hadalways some little money lying by, for experiments.After lunch, being left alone with Renouard, he talked a little ofcultivation and such matters. Then suddenly:"By the way, is it true what my sister tells me, that yourplantation boys have been disturbed by a ghost?"Renouard, who since the ladies had left the table was not keepingsuch a strict watch on himself, came out of his abstraction with astart and a stiff smile."My foreman had some trouble with them during my absence. Theyfunk working in a certain field on the slope of the hill.""A ghost here!" exclaimed the amused professor. "Then our wholeconception of the psychology of ghosts must be revised. Thisisland has been uninhabited probably since the dawn of ages. Howdid a ghost come here. By air or water? And why did it leave itsnative haunts. Was it from misanthropy? Was he expelled from somecommunity of spirits?"Renouard essayed to respond in the same tone. The words died onhis lips. Was it a man or a woman ghost, the professor inquired."I don't know." Renouard made an effort to appear at ease. Hehad, he said, a couple of Tahitian amongst his boys--a ghost-riddenrace. They had started the scare. They had probably brought theirghost with them."Let us investigate the matter, Renouard," proposed the professorhalf in earnest. "We may make some interesting discoveries as tothe state of primitive minds, at any rate."This was too much. Renouard jumped up and leaving the room wentout and walked about in front of the house. He would allow no oneto force his hand. Presently the professor joined him outside. Hecarried his parasol, but had neither his book nor his pipe withhim. Amiably 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 Ihave been like sister Anne in the story. But I cannot see anythingcoming. Anything that would be the least good for anybody--Imean."Renouard had recovered sufficiently to murmur coldly his regret ofthis waste of time. For that was what, he supposed, the professorhad in his mind."Time," mused Professor Moorsom. "I don't know that time can bewasted. But I will tell you, my dear friend, what this is: it isan awful waste of life. I mean for all of us. Even 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 maymeditate 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 itis short. Think of that, my young friend."He released Renouard's arm and stepped out of the shade opening hisparasol. It was clear that there was something more in his mindthan mere anxiety about the date of his lectures for fashionableaudiences. What did the man mean by his confounded platitudes? ToRenouard, scared by Luiz in the morning (for he felt that nothingcould be more fatal than to have his deception unveiled otherwisethan by personal confession), this talk sounded like encouragementor a warning from that man who seemed to him to be very brazen andvery subtle. It was like being bullied by the dead and cajoled bythe living into a throw of dice for a supreme stake.Renouard went away to some distance from the house and threwhimself down in the shade of a tree. He lay there perfectly stillwith his forehead resting on his folded arms, light-headed andthinking. It seemed to him that he must be on fire, then that hehad fallen into a cool whirlpool, a smooth funnel of water swirlingabout with nauseating rapidity. And then (it must have been areminiscence of his boyhood) he was walking on the dangerous thinice of a river, unable to turn back. . . . Suddenly it parted fromshore 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 hebeen a gambler he would have perhaps been supported in a measure bythe mere excitement. But he was not a gambler. He had alwaysdisdained that artificial manner of challenging the fates. Thebungalow came into view, bright and pretty, and all abouteverything was peace, stillness, sunshine. . . .While he was plodding towards it he had a disagreeable sense of thedead man's company at his elbow. The ghost! He seemed to beeverywhere but in his grave. Could one ever shake him off? hewondered. At that moment Miss Moorsom came out on the verandah;and at once, as if by a mystery of radiating waves, she roused agreat tumult in his heart, shook earth and sky together--but heplodded on. Then like a grave song-note in the storm her voicecame to him ominously."Ah! Mr. Renouard. . . " He came up and smiled, but she was veryserious. "I can't keep still any longer. Is there time to walk upthis headland and back before dark?"The shadows were lying lengthened on the ground; all was stillnessand peace. "No," said Renouard, feeling suddenly as steady as arock. "But I can show you a view from the central hill which yourfather has not seen. A view of reefs and of broken water withoutend, and of great wheeling clouds of sea-birds."She came down the verandah steps at once and they moved off. "Yougo first," he proposed, "and I'll direct you. To the left."She was wearing a short nankin skirt, a muslin blouse; he could seethrough the thin stuff the skin of her shoulders, of her arms. Thenoble delicacy of her neck caused him a sort of transport. "Thepath begins where these three palms are. The only palms on theisland.""I see."She never turned her head. After a while she observed: "This pathlooks as if it had been made recently.""Quite recently," he assented very low.They went on climbing steadily without exchanging another word; andwhen they stood on the top she gazed a long time before her. Thelow evening mist veiled the further limit of the reefs. Above theenormous and melancholy confusion, as of a fleet of wreckedislands, the restless myriads of sea-birds rolled and unrolled darkribbons on the sky, gathered in clouds, soared and stooped like aplay of shadows, for they were too far for them to hear theircries.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, thetopmost pinnacle of Malata, resembling the top of a buried tower,rose a rock, weather-worn, grey, weary of watching the monotonouscenturies of the Pacific. Renouard leaned his shoulders againstit. Felicia Moorsom faced him suddenly, her splendid black eyesfull on his face as though she had made up her mind at last todestroy his wits once and for all. Dazzled, he lowered his eyelidsslowly."Mr. Renouard! There is something strange in all this. Tell mewhere 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 amoment, then: "Ohhh! . . . You buried him! . . . What sort of manare you? . . . You dared not tell! . . . He is another of yourvictims? . . . You dared not confess that evening. . . . You musthave killed him. What could he have done to you? . . . Youfastened on him some atrocious quarrel and . . ."Her vengeful aspect, her poignant cries left him as unmoved as theweary rock against which he leaned. He only raised his eyelids tolook at her and lowered them slowly. Nothing more. It silencedher. And as if ashamed she made a gesture with her hand, puttingaway from her that thought. He spoke, quietly ironic at first."Ha! the legendary Renouard of sensitive idiots--the ruthlessadventurer--the ogre with a future. That was a parrot cry, MissMoorsom. I don't think that the greatest fool of them all everdared 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 countryI was told, and was doing nothing. I saw him sitting there lonelyin a corner like a sick crow, and I went over one evening to talkto 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 oneof Renouard's victims. It didn't take me long to judge that he wasdrugging himself. Not drinking. Drugs.""Ah! It's now that you are trying to murder him," she cried."Really. Always the Renouard of shopkeepers' legend. Listen! Iwould never have been jealous of him. And yet I am jealous of theair you breathe, of the soil you tread on, of the world that seesyou--moving free--not mine. But never mind. I rather liked him.For a certain reason I proposed he should come to be my assistanthere. He said he believed this would save him. It did not savehim from death. It came to him as it were from nothing--just afall. A mere slip and tumble of ten feet into a ravine. But itseems he had been hurt before up-country--by a horse. He ailed andailed. No, he was not a steel-tipped man. And his poor soulseemed 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 continuedmercilessly."That's the story. He rallied a little one night and said hewanted to tell me something. I, being a gentleman, he said, hecould confide in me. I told him that he was mistaken. That therewas a good deal of a plebeian in me, that he couldn't know. Heseemed disappointed. He muttered something about his innocence andsomething that sounded like a curse on some woman, then turned tothe wall and--just grew cold.""On a woman," cried Miss Moorsom indignantly. "What woman?""I wonder!" said Renouard, raising his eyes and noting the crimsonof her ear-lobes against the live whiteness of her complexion, thesombre, as if secret, night-splendour of her eyes under thewrithing flames of her hair. "Some woman who wouldn't believe inthat poor innocence of his. . . Yes. You probably. And now youwill not believe in me--not even in me who must in truth be what Iam--even to death. No! You won't. And yet, Felicia, a woman likeyou and a man like me do not often come together on this earth."The flame of her glorious head scorched his face. He flung his hatfar away, and his suddenly lowered eyelids brought out startlinglyhis resemblance to antique bronze, the profile of Pallas, still,austere, bowed a little in the shadow of the rock. "Oh! If youcould only understand 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 someunspoken aspersion, "It's I who stand for truth here! Believe inyou! In you, who by a heartless falsehood--and nothing else,nothing else, do you hear?--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--mourningfor 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 ifthe earth had fallen away from under their feet."Are you grieving for your dignity? He was a mediocre soul andcould have given you but an unworthy existence."She did not even smile at those words, but, superb, as if lifting acorner of the veil, she turned on him slowly."And do you imagine I would have devoted myself to him for such apurpose! Don't you know that reparation was due to him from me? Asacred debt--a fine duty. To redeem him would not have been in mypower--I know it. But he was blameless, and it was for me to comeforward. Don't you see that in the eyes of the world nothing couldhave rehabilitated him so completely as his marriage with me? Noword of evil could be whispered of him after I had given him myhand. As to giving myself up to anything less than the shaping ofa man's destiny--if I thought I could do it I would abhor myself. .. ." She spoke with authority in her deep fascinating, unemotionalvoice. Renouard meditated, gloomy, as if over some sinister riddleof 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.""Oh! I don't mean that you are like the men and women of the timeof armours, castles, and great deeds. Oh, no! They stood on thenaked soil, had traditions to be faithful to, had their feet onthis earth of passions and death which is not a hothouse. Theywould have been too plebeian for you since they had to lead, tosuffer with, to understand the commonest humanity. No, you aremerely of the topmost layer, disdainful and superior, the mere purefroth and bubble on the inscrutable depths which some day will tossyou out of existence. But you are you! You are you! You are theeternal love itself--only, O Divinity, it isn't your body, it isyour soul that is made of foam."She listened as if in a dream. He had succeeded so well in hiseffort to drive back the flood of his passion that his life itselfseemed to run with it out of his body. At that moment he felt asone dead speaking. But the headlong wave returning with tenfoldforce flung him on her suddenly, with open arms and blazing eyes.She found herself like a feather in his grasp, helpless, unable tostruggle, with her feet off the ground. But this contact with her,maddening like too much felicity, destroyed its own end. Fire ranthrough his veins, turned his passion to ashes, burnt him out andleft him empty, without force--almost without desire. He let hergo before she could cry out. And she was so used to the forms ofrepression enveloping, softening the crude impulses of old humanitythat she no longer believed in their existence as if it were anexploded legend. She did not recognise what had happened to her.She came safe out of his arms, without a struggle, not even havingfelt afraid."What's the meaning of this?" she said, outraged but calm in ascornful way.He got down on his knees in silence, bent low to her very feet,while she looked down at him, a little surprised, withoutanimosity, as if merely curious to see what he would do. Then,while he remained bowed to the ground pressing the hem of her skirtto his lips, she made a slight movement. He got up."No," he said. "Were you ever so much mine what could I do withyou without your consent? No. You don't conquer a wraith, coldmist, stuff of dreams, illusion. It must come to you and cling toyour 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 myconsideration after having decoyed me here for the vile purpose,apparently, of gloating over me as your possible prey, I will tellyou 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 answered. "At a sign from youI would climb up to the seventh heaven to bring you down to earthfor 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 anincomparable jewel on my breast. And that's love--true love--thegift and the curse of the gods. There is no other."The truth vibrating in his voice made her recoil slightly, for shewas not fit to hear it--not even a little--not even one single timein her life. It was revolting to her; and in her trouble, perhapsprompted by the suggestion of his name or to soften the harshnessof expression, for she was obscurely moved, she spoke to him inFrench."Assez! J'ai horreur de tout cela," she said.He was white to his very lips, but he was trembling no more. Thedice 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:"And your dream is to influence a human destiny?""Yes!" she answered curtly, unabashed, with a woman's completeassurance."Then you may rest content. You have done it."She shrugged her shoulders slightly. But just before reaching theend of the path she relented, stopped, and went back to him."I don't suppose you are very anxious for people to know how nearyou came to absolute turpitude. You may rest easy on that point.I shall speak to my father, of course, and we will agree to saythat he has died--nothing more.""Yes," said Renouard in a lifeless voice. "He is dead. His veryghost shall be done with presently."She went on, but he remained standing stock still in the dusk. Shehad already reached the three palms when she heard behind her aloud peal of laughter, cynical and joyless, such as is heard insmoking-rooms at the end of a scandalous story. It made her feelpositively faint for a moment.CHAPTER XISlowly a complete darkness enveloped Geoffrey Renouard. Hisresolution had failed him. Instead of following Felicia into thehouse, he had stopped under the three palms, and leaning against asmooth trunk had abandoned himself to a sense of an immensedeception and the feeling of extreme fatigue. This walk up thehill and down again was like the supreme effort of an explorertrying to penetrate the interior of an unknown country, the secretof which is too well defended by its cruel and barren nature.Decoyed by a mirage, he had gone too far--so far that there was nogoing back. His strength was at an end. For the first time in hislife he had to give up, and with a sort of despairing self-possession he tried to understand the cause of the defeat. He didnot ascribe it to that absurd dead man.The hesitating shadow of Luiz approached him unnoticed till itspoke timidly. Renouard started."Eh? What? Dinner waiting? You must say I beg to be excused. Ican't come. But I shall see them to-morrow morning, at the landingplace. Take your orders from the professor as to the sailing ofthe schooner. Go now."Luiz, dumbfounded, retreated into the darkness. Renouard did notmove, but hours afterwards, like the bitter fruit of hisimmobility, the words: "I had nothing to offer to her vanity,"came from his lips in the silence of the island. And it was thenonly that he stirred, only to wear the night out in restlesstramping up and down the various paths of the plantation. Luiz,whose sleep was made light by the consciousness of some impendingchange, heard footsteps passing by his hut, the firm tread of themaster; and turning on his mats emitted a faint Tse! Tse! Tse! ofdeep concern.Lights had been burning in the bungalow almost all through thenight; and with the first sign of day began the bustle ofdeparture. House boys walked processionally carrying suit-casesand dressing-bags down to the schooner's boat, which came to thelanding place at the bottom of the garden. Just as the rising sunthrew its golden nimbus around the purple shape of the headland,the Planter of Malata was perceived pacing bare-headed the curve ofthe little bay. He exchanged a few words with the sailing-masterof the schooner, then remained by the boat, standing very upright,his eyes on the ground, waiting.He had not long to wait. Into the cool, overshadowed garden theprofessor descended first, and came jauntily down the path in alively cracking of small shells. With his closed parasol hooked onhis forearm, and a book in his hand, he resembled a banal touristmore than was permissible to a man of his unique distinction. Hewaved the disengaged arm from a distance, but at close quarters,arrested before Renouard's immobility, he made no offer to shakehands. He seemed to appraise the aspect of the man with a sharpglance, and made up his mind."We are going back by Suez," he began almost boisterously. "I havebeen looking up the sailing lists. If the zephirs of your Pacificare only moderately propitious I think we are sure to catch themail boat due in Marseilles on the 18th of March. This will suitme excellently. . . ." He lowered his tone. "My dear youngfriend, 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 nextboat, mightn't you? . . . I don't thank you for your hospitality.You can't be angry with me for saying that I am truly thankful toescape from it. But I am grateful to you for what you have done,and--for being what you are."It was difficult to define the flavour of that speech, but Renouardreceived it with an austerely equivocal smile. The professorstepping into the boat opened his parasol and sat down in thestern-sheets waiting for the ladies. No sound of human voice brokethe 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 passon; but there was such a look of entreaty in the blue gleam of hissunken eyes that after an imperceptible hesitation she laid herhand, which was ungloved, in his extended palm."Will you condescend to remember me?" he asked, while an emotionwith which she was angry made her pale cheeks flush and her blackeyes sparkle."This is a strange request for you to make," she said exaggeratingthe coldness of her tone."Is it? Impudent perhaps. Yet I am not so 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 forthe offence against my feelings--and my person; for what reparationcan be adequate for your odious and ridiculous plot so scornful inits implication, so humiliating to my pride. No! I don't want toremember 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 before he had time torelease it. Felicia Moorsom stepped into the boat, sat down by theside of her father, and breathed tenderly on her crushed fingers.The professor gave her a sidelong look--nothing more. But theprofessor's sister, yet on shore, had put up her long-handle doubleeye-glass to look at the scene. She dropped it with a faintrattle."I've never in my life heard anything so crude said to a lady," shemurmured, passing before Renouard with a perfectly erect head.When, a moment afterwards, softening suddenly, she turned to throwa good-bye to that young man, she saw only his back in the distancemoving towards the bungalow. She watched him go in--amazed--beforeshe too left the soil of Malata.Nobody disturbed Renouard in that room where he had shut himself into breathe the evanescent perfume of her who for him was no more,till late in the afternoon when the half-caste was heard on theother side of the door.He wanted the master to know that the trader Janet was justentering the cove.Renouard's strong voice on his side of the door gave him mostunexpected instructions. He was to pay off the boys with the cashin the office and arrange with the captain of the Janet to takeevery worker away from Malata, returning them to their respectivehomes. An order on the Dunster firm would be given to him inpayment.And again the silence of the bungalow remained unbroken till, nextmorning, 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. Thenapproaching cringingly the keyhole, in a propitiatory tone heasked:"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 healso, like those "ignorant savages," the plantation boys, was onlytoo glad to leave an island haunted by the ghost of a white man.He backed away noiselessly from the mysterious silence in theclosed room, and only in the very doorway of the bungalow allowedhimself to give vent to his feelings by a deprecatory and pained -"Tse! Tse! Tse!"CHAPTER XIIThe Moorsoms did manage to catch the homeward mail boat all right,but had only twenty-four hours in town. Thus the sentimentalWillie could not see very much of them. This did not prevent himafterwards from relating at great length, with manly tears in hiseyes, 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 talkof 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 professionalincontinence, perhaps, he thirsted for a full cup of harrowingdetail. And when he noticed Renouard's schooner lying in port dayafter day he sought the sailing master to learn the reason. Theman told him that such were his instructions. He had been orderedto lie there a month before returning to Malata. And the month wasnearly 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 foundpeace, stillness, sunshine reigning everywhere, the doors andwindows of the bungalow standing wide open, no sight of a humanbeing anywhere, the plants growing rank and tall on the desertedfields. For hours the Editor and the schooner's crew, excited bythe mystery, roamed over the island shouting Renouard's name; andat last set themselves in grim silence to explore systematicallythe uncleared bush and the deeper ravines in search of his corpse.What had happened? Had he been murdered by the boys? Or had hesimply, capricious and secretive, abandoned his plantation takingthe people with him. It was impossible to tell what had happened.At last, towards the decline of the day, the Editor and the sailingmaster discovered a track of sandals crossing a strip of sandybeach on the north shore of the bay. Following this trackfearfully, they passed round the spur of the headland, and there ona large stone found the sandals, Renouard's white jacket, and theMalay sarong of chequered pattern which the planter of Malata waswell known to wear when going to bathe. These things made a littleheap, 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 milefrom 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 inthe main inexplicable. For to whom could it have occurred that aman would set out calmly to swim beyond the confines of life--witha steady stroke--his eyes fixed on a star!Next evening, from the receding schooner, the Editor looked backfor the last time at the deserted island. A black cloud hunglistlessly over the high rock on the middle hill; and under themysterious silence of that shadow Malata lay mournful, with an airof anguish in the wild sunset, as if remembering the heart that wasbroken there.Dec. 1913.[From Within the Tides]
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