The Ragged Edge Part 16

"Didn't the natives have a name for you?"

She blushed. "It was silly."

"Go on, tell me," he urged, enchanted. Never was there another girl like this one. He blushed, too, spiritually, as it were. He had invited himself to dine with her merely to watch her table manners.

They were exquisite. Knowing the South Seas from hearsay and by travel, he knew something of that inertia which blunted the fineness, innate and acquired, of white men and women, the eternal warfare against indifference and slovenliness. Only the strong survived. This queer father of hers had given her everything but his arms. "Tell me, what did they call you?"

"Well, the old Kanaka cook used to call me the Golden One, but the natives called me the Dawn Pearl."

"The Dawn Pearl! Odd, but we white folks aren't half so poetical as the yellow or the black. What did you do when your father went on trips to other islands?"

"Took off my shoes and stockings and played in the lagoon."

"He made you wear shoes and stockings?"

"Always."

"What else did you do when alone?"

"I read the encyclopaedia. That is how I learned that there were such things as novels. Books! Aren't they wonderful?"

The blind alley of life stretching out before her, with its secret doorways and hidden menaces; and she was unconcerned. Books; an inexplicable hunger to be satisfied. Somewhere in the world there was a book clerk with a discerning mind; for he had given her the best he had. He envied her a little. To fall upon those tales for the first time, when the mind was fresh and the heart was young!

He became aware of an odd phase to this conversation. The continuity was frequently broken in upon by diversory suppositions.

Take the one that struck him at this moment. Supposing that was it; at least, a solution to part of this amazing riddle? Supposing her father had made her a.s.sist him in the care of the derelicts solely to fill her with loathing and abhorrence for mankind?

"Didn't you despise the men your father brought home--the beachcombers?"

"No. In the beginning was afraid; but after the first several cases, I had only pity. I somehow understood."

"Didn't some of them ... try to touch you?"

"Not the true unfortunates. How men suffer for the foolish things they do!"

"Ay to that. There's our young friend upstairs."

"There's a funny idea in my head. I've been thinking about it ever since morning. There was a loose b.u.t.ton on that coat, and I want to sew it on. It keeps dangling in front of my eyes."

"Ah, yes; that coat. Probably a sick man's whim. Certainly, there wasn't a thing in the pockets. But be very careful not to let him know. If he awoke and caught you at it, there might be a set-back.

By the way, what did he say when he was out of his head?"

"The word 'Fool.' He muttered it continually. There was another phrase which sounded something like 'Gin in a blue-serge coat'. I wonder what he meant by that?"

"The Lord knows!"

The patient was restless during the first watch of the night. He stirred continually, thrusting his legs about and flinging his arms above his head. Gently each time Ruth drew down the arms. There was a recurrence of fever, but nothing alarming. Once she heard him mutter, and she leaned down.

"Ali Baba, in a blue-serge coat!... G.o.d-forsaken fool!"

CHAPTER XIII

One day Ruth caught the patient's eyes following her about; but there was no question in the gaze, no interest; so she pretended not to notice.

"Where am I?" asked Spurlock.

"In Canton."

"How long have I been in bed?"

"A week."

"My coat, please."

"It is folded under your pillow."

"Did I ask for it?"

"Yes. But perhaps you don't know; there was nothing in the pockets.

You were probably robbed in Hong-Kong."

"Nothing in the pockets."

"You see, we didn't know but you might die; and so we had to search your belongings for the address of your people."

"I have no people--anybody who would care."

She kindled with sympathy. He was all alone, too. n.o.body who cared.

Ruth was inflammable; she would always be flaring up swiftly, in pity, in tenderness, in anger; she would always be answering impulses, without seeking to weigh or to a.n.a.lyse them. She was emerging from the primordial as Spurlock was declining toward it.

She was on the rim of civilization, entering, as Spurlock was on the rim, preparing to make his exit. Two souls in travail; one inspired by fresh hopes, the other, by fresh despairs. Both of them would be committing novel and unforgettable acts.

"How long shall I be here?" he asked.

"That depends upon you. Not very long, if you want to get well."

"Are you a nurse?"

"Yes. Don't ask any more questions. Wait a little; rest."

There was a pause. Ruth flashed in and out of the suns.h.i.+ne; and he took note of the radiant nimbus above her head each time the suns.h.i.+ne touched her hair.

"Haven't I seen you somewhere before?"

"The first day you came. Don't you remember? There were four of us, and we went touring in the city."

"As in a dream." There was another pause. "Was I out of my head?"