The Ragged Edge Part 32

Out of the dark unruffled sapphire of the lagoon came vertical flashes of burning silver, singly and in groups.

"What in the world is it?" he asked.

"Flying fish. Something is feeding upon them. I thought you might like to see. You might be able to use the picture some day."

"I don't know." He bent his head to his knees. "Something's wrong.

I can't invent; the thing won't come."

"Shall I tell you a real story?"

"Something you have seen?"

"Yes."

"Tell it. Perhaps what I need is something to bite in."

So she told him the adventure of the two beachcombers in the typhoon, and how they became regenerated by their magnificent courage.

"That's tremendous!" he cried. "Lord, if I can only remember to write it exactly as you told it!" He jumped to his feet. "I'll tackle it to-night!"

"But it's after ten!"

"What's that got to do with it? ... The roofs of the native huts scattering in the wind! ... the absolute agony of the twisting palms!.... and those two beggars laughing as they breasted death!

Girl, you've gone and done it!"

He leaned down and caught her by the hand, and then raced with her to the bungalow.

Five hours later she tiptoed down the hall and paused at the threshold of what they now called his study. There were no doors in the bungalow; instead, there were curtains of strung bead and bamboo, always tinkling mysteriously. His pipe hung dead in his teeth, but the smoke was dense about him. His hand flew across the paper. As soon as he finished a sheet, he tossed it aside and began another. Occasionally he would lean back and stare at the window which gave upon the sea. But she could tell by the dullness of his eyes that he saw only some inner vision.

Un.o.bserved, she knelt and kissed the threshold: for she knew what kisses were now. The curtain tinkled as her head brushed it, but he neither saw nor heard.

CHAPTER XXII

Every morning at dawn it was Spurlock's custom to take a plunge in the lagoon. Ruth took hers in the sea, but was careful never to go beyond her depth because of the sharks. She always managed to get back to the bungalow before he did.

As she came in this morning she saw that the lamp was still burning in the study; so she stopped at the door. Spurlock lay with his head on his arms, asleep. The lamp was spreading soot over everything and the reek of kerosene was stronger than usual. She ran to the lamp and extinguished it. Spurlock slept on. It was still too dark for reading, but she could see well enough to note the number of the last page--fifty-six.

Ruth wore a printed cotton kimono. She tied the obi clumsily about her waist, then gently laid her hand on the bowed head. He did not move. Mischief bubbled up in her. She set her fingers in the hair and tugged, drawing him to a sitting posture and stooping so that her eyes would be on the level with his when he awoke.

He opened his eyes, protestingly, and beheld the realization of his dream. He had been dreaming of Ruth--an old recurrency of that dream he had had in Canton, of Ruth leading him to the top of the mountain. For a moment he believed this merely a new phase of the dream. He smiled.

"The Dawn Pearl!" he said, making to recline again.

But she was relentless. "Hoddy, wake up!" She jerked his head to and fro until the hair stung.

"What?... Oh!... Well, good Lord!" He wrenched loose his head and stood up, sending the chair clattering to the floor. Rollo barked.

"Go and take your plunge while I attend to breakfast."

He started to pick up a sheet of ma.n.u.script, but she pushed him from the table toward the doorway; and he staggered out of the bungalow, suddenly stretched his arms, and broke into a trot.

Ruth returned to the table. The tropical dawn is swift. She could now see to read; so she stirred the ma.n.u.script about until she came upon the first page. "The Beachcombers."

Romance! The Seven Seas are hers. She roves the blue fields of the North, with the clean North Wind on her lips and her blonde head jewelled with frost--mocking valour and hardihood! Out of the West she comes, riding the great s.h.i.+ps and the endless steel ways that encompa.s.s the earth, and smoke comes with her and the glare of furnace fires--commerce! From the East she brings strange words upon her tongue and strange raiment upon her shoulders and the perfume of myrrh--antiquity! But oh! when she springs from the South, her rosy feet trailing the lotus, ripe lequats wreathing her head, in one hand the bright torch of danger and in the other the golden apples of love, with her eyes full of sapphires and her mouth full of pearls!

"With her eyes full of sapphires and her mouth full of pearls." All day long the phrase interpolated her thoughts.

A week later the ma.n.u.script was polished and typewritten, ready for the test. Spurlock felt very well pleased with himself. To have written a short story in a week was rather a remarkable feat.

It was at breakfast on this day that he told Ruth he had sent to Batavia for some dresses. They would arrive sometime in June.

"That gown is getting shabby."

Ruth spread out the ruffled skirt, sundrily torn and soiled. "I haven't worn anything else in weeks. I haven't touched the other."

"Anything like that?"

"Yes; but the colour is lavender."

"Wear that to-night, then. It fits your style. You are very lovely, Ruth."

She wanted to dance. The joy that filled her veins with throbbing fire urged her to rise and go swinging and whirling and dipping.

She sat perfectly still, however.

"I am glad you think that," she replied. "Please tell me whenever I am at fault."

"I wish you did have some faults, Ruth. You're an angel of goodness."

"No, no! I have had wicked thoughts."

He laughed and pushed back his chair. "So has the b.u.t.terfly evil thoughts. We're to be given a treat to-night. McClintock will be tuning up the piano to-day. I say, I'll take the yarn over and read it to McClintock. That old chap has a remarkable range in reading.

But, hang it, I know it's good!"

"Of course it is!"

In the afternoon he began work on another tale. It was his purpose to complete four or five stories before he sent any away. But to-day he did not get beyond half a dozen desultory start-offs. From McClintock's came an infernal _tinkle-tinkle, tump-tump_! There was no composing with such a sound hammering upon the ear. But eventually Spurlock laughed. Not so bad. Battle, murder, and sudden death--and an old chap like McClintock tuning his piano in the midst of it. He made a note of the idea and stored it away.

He read "The Beachcombers" to McClintock that night after coffee; and when he had done, the old trader nodded.

"That's a good story, lad. You've caught the colour and the life.

But it sounds too real to be imagined. You've never seen a typhoon, have you?"

"No."

"Well, imagination beats me!"