The Ragged Edge Part 35

She formed a habit which embarra.s.sed Spurlock greatly, but at first he dared not complain. She would come and sit cross-legged just beyond the bamboo curtain and silently watch him at work. One night she apparently fell asleep. He could not permit her to remain in that position. So, very carefully, he raised her in his arms and carried her to her bed. The moment he was out in the hall, Ruth sat up hugging and rocking her body in delight. This charming episode was repeated three times. Then he sensed the trap.

"Ruth, you must not come and sit on the threshold. I can't concentrate on my work. It doesn't annoy me; it only disturbs me. I can't help looking at you frequently. You don't want me to spoil the story, do you?"

"No. But it's so wonderful to watch you! Whenever you have written something beautiful, your face shows it."

"I know; but ..."

"And sometimes you say out loud: 'That's great stuff!' I never make any sound."

"But it is the sight of you!"

"All right, Hoddy. I promise not to do it again." She rose. "Good night."

He stared at the agitated curtain; and slowly his chin sank until it touched his chest. He had hurt her. But the recollection of the warm pliant body in his arms ...!

"I am a thief!" he whispered. He had only to recall this fact (which he did in each crisis) to erect a barrier she could not go around or over.

Sometimes it seemed to him that he was an impostor: that Ruth believed him to be one Howard Spurlock, when he was only masquerading as Spurlock. If ever the denouement came--if ever the Hand reached him--Ruth would then understand why he had rebuffed all her tender advances. The law would accord her all her previous rights: she would return to the exact status out of which in his madness he had taken her. She might even forgive him.

He thanked G.o.d for this talent of his. He could lose himself for hours at a time. Whatever he wrote he was: he became this or that character, he suffered or prospered equally. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. There was a fourth story; but he never told either Ruth or McClintock about this. He called it "The Man Who Could Not Go Home." Himself. He did not write this with lead but with his heart's blood.

By the middle of July he was in full health. In the old days he had been something of an athlete--a runner, an oarsman, and a crack at tennis. The morning swims in the lagoon had thickened the red corpuscle. For all the enervating heat, he applied himself vigorously to his tasks.

Late in July he finished the fourth story. This time there wasn't any doubt. He had done it. These were _yarns_! As he was about to slip the ma.n.u.scripts into the envelope, something caught his eye: by Howard Spurlock. Entranced, he stared at the name. Suddenly he understood what had happened. A wrathful G.o.d was watching him.

Howard Spurlock. The honey on his tongue turned to ashes. To write under a pseudonym!--to be forced to disown his children! He could not write under his own name, enjoy the fruits of fame should these tales prove successful.

Here was a thundering blow. All his dreams shattered in an instant.

What is the supreme idea in the heart and mind of youth? To win fame and fortune: and particularly to enjoy them. Spurlock slumped in his chair, weak and empty. This was the bitterest hour he had ever known. From thoughts of fame to thoughts of mere bread and b.u.t.ter! It seemed to Spurlock that he had tumbled off the edge of Somewhere into the abyss of Nowhere.

At length, when he saw no escape from the inevitable, he took the four t.i.tle pages from the ma.n.u.scripts and typed new ones, subst.i.tuting Taber for Spurlock. A vast indifference settled down upon him. He did not care whether the stories were accepted or not.

He was so depressed and disheartened that he did not then believe he would ever write again.

Both Ruth and McClintock came down to the launch to wish him G.o.d-speed and good luck. Ruth hugged the envelope and McClintock, with the end of a burnt match, drew a cabalistic sign. Through it all Spurlock maintained a gaiety which deceived them completely. But his treasured dream lay shattered at his feet.

And yet--such is the buoyancy of youth--within a fortnight he began his first novel, pretending to himself that it was on Ruth's account. To be alone with her, in idleness, was an intolerable thought.

Coconuts grew perpetually. There will often be six growths in a single palm. So proas loaded with nuts were always landing on the beach. _The Tigress_ went prowling for nut, too. Once, both Ruth and Spurlock accompanied McClintock far south, to an island of blacks; and Spurlock had his first experience with the coconut dance and the booming of wooden tom-toms.

At first Spurlock tasted coconut in his eggs, in what meat he ate; it permeated everything, taste and smell. For a long time even the strong pipe tobacco (with which McClintock supplied him) possessed a coconut flavour. Then, mysteriously, he no longer smelled or tasted it.

On the day he carried the ma.n.u.script to Copeley's he brought back a packet of letters, magazines, and newspapers. McClintock never threw away any advertising matter; in fact, he openly courted pamphlets; and they came from automobile dealers and great mail-order houses, from haberdashers and tailors and manufacturers of hair-tonics, razors, gloves, shoes, open plumbing. In this way (he informed Spurlock) he kept posted on what was going on in the strictly commercial world. "Besides, lad, even an advertis.e.m.e.nt of a cough-drop is something to read." So there was always plenty of mail.

Among the commercial enticements McClintock found a real letter. In privacy he read and reread it a dozen times, and eventually destroyed it by fire. It was, in his opinion, the most astonis.h.i.+ng letter he had ever read. He hated to destroy it; but that was the obligation imposed; and he was an honourable man.

Not since she had discovered it had Ruth touched or opened the mission Bible; but to-night (the same upon which the wonderful ma.n.u.scripts started on their long and circuitous voyage to America) she was inexplicably drawn to it. In all these weeks she had not once knelt to pray. Why should she? she asked rebelliously. G.o.d had never answered any of her prayers. But this time she wanted nothing for herself: she wanted something for Hoddy--success. So, not exactly hopefully but earnestly, she returned to the feet of G.o.d.

She did not open the Bible but laid it on the edge of the bed, knelt and rested her forehead upon the worn leather cover.

It was not a long prayer. She said it audibly, having learned long since that an audible prayer was a concentrated one. And yet, at the end of this prayer a subconscious thought broke through to consciousness. "And someday let him care for me!"

She sprang up, alarmed. This unexpected interpolation might spoil the efficacy of all that had gone before. She hadn't meant to ask anything for herself. Her stifled misery had betrayed her. She had been fighting down this thought for days: that Hoddy did not care, that he did not love her, that he had mistaken a vagary of the mind for a substance, and now regretted what he had done--married a girl who was not his equal in anything. The agony on the sands now ceased to puzzle her.

All her tender lures, inherent and acquired, had shattered themselves futilely against the reserve he had set between them.

Why had he offered her that kiss on board _The Tigress_? Perhaps that had been his hour of disenchantment. She hadn't measured up; she had been stupid; she hadn't known how to make love.

Loneliness. Here was an appalling fact: all her previous loneliness had been trifling beside that which now encompa.s.sed her and would for years to come.

If only sometimes he would grow angry at her, impatient! But his tender courtesy was unfailing; and under this would be the abiding bitterness of having mistaken grat.i.tude for love. Very well. She would meet him upon this ground: he should never be given the slightest hint that she was unhappy.

She still had her letter of credit. She could run away from him, if she wished, as she had run away from her father; she could carry out the original adventure. But the cases were not identical. Her father--man of rock--had never needed her, whereas Hoddy, even if he did not love her, would always be needing her.

Love stories!... A sob rushed into her throat, and to smother it she buried her face in a pillow.

Spurlock, filled with self-mockery, sat in a chair on the west veranda. The chair had extension arms over which a man might comfortably dangle his legs. For awhile he watched the revolving light on Copeley's. Occasionally he relit his pipe. Once he chuckled aloud. Certain phases of irony always caused him to chuckle audibly. Every one of those four stories would be accepted.

He knew it absolutely, as if he had the check in his hand. Why?

Because Howard Spurlock the author dared not risk the liberty of Howard Spurlock the malefactor; because there were still some dregs in this cup of irony. For what could be more ironical than for Howard Spurlock to see himself grow famous under the name of Taber?

The ambrosia of which he had so happily dreamt!--and this gall and wormwood! He stood up and rapped his pipe on the rail.

"All right," he said. "Whatever you say--you, behind those stars there, if you are a G.o.d. We Spurlocks take our medicine, standing.

Pile it on! But if you can hear the voice of the mote, the speck, don't let her suffer for anything I've done. Be a sport, and pile it all on me!"

He went to bed.

There is something in prayer; not that there may be any noticeable result, any definite answer; but no human being can offer an honest prayer to G.o.d without gaining immeasurably in courage, in fort.i.tude, in resignation, and that alone is worth the effort.

On the morrow Spurlock (who was unaware that he had offered a prayer) let down the bars to his reserve. He became really companionable, discussed the new story he had in mind, and asked some questions about colour. Ruth, having decided a course for herself--that of renunciation--and having the strength to keep it, met these advances in precisely the mood they were offered. So these two young philosophers got along very well that day; and the succeeding days.

She taught him all the lore she had; about bird-life and tree-life and the changing mysteries of the sea. She taught him how to sail a proa, how to hack open a milk-coconut, how to relish bamboo sprouts. Eventually this comrades.h.i.+p (slightly resented by Rollo) reached a point where he could call out from the study: "Hey, Ruth!--come and tell me what you think of this."

Her att.i.tude now entirely sisterly, he ceased to be afraid of her; there was never anything in her eyes (so far as he could see) but friendly interest in all he said or did. And yet, often when alone, he wondered: had McClintock been wrong, or had she ceased to care in that way? The possibility that she no longer cared should have filled him with unalloyed happiness, whereas it depressed him, cut the natural vanity of youth into shreds and tatters. Yesterday this glorious creature had loved him; to-day she was only friendly. No more did she offer her forehead for the good-night kiss. And instead of accepting the situation gratefully, he felt vaguely hurt!

One evening in September a proa rasped in upon the beach. It brought no coconut. There stepped forth a tall brown man. He remained standing by the stem of the proa, his glance roving investigatingly. He wore a battered sun-helmet, a loin-cloth and a pair of dilapidated canvas shoes. At length he proceeded toward McClintock's bungalow, drawn by the lights and the sound of music.

Sure of foot, noiseless, he made the veranda and paused at the side of one of the screened windows. By and by he ventured to peer into this window. He saw three people: a young man at the piano, an elderly man smoking in a corner, and a young woman reclining in a chair, her eyes closed. The watcher's intake of breath was sibilant.

It was she! The Dawn Pearl!

He vaulted the veranda rail, careless now whether or not he was heard, and ran down to the beach. He gave an order, the proa was floated and the sail run up. In a moment the brisk evening breeze caught the lank canvas and bellied it taut. The proa bore away to the northwest out of which it had come.

James Boyle O'Higgins knew little or nothing of the South Seas, but he knew human beings, all colours. His deduction was correct that the beauty of Ruth Enschede could not remain hidden long even on a forgotten isle.

CHAPTER XXIV

Spurlock's novel was a tale of regeneration. For a long time to come that would naturally be the theme of any story he undertook to write. After he was gone in the morning, Ruth would steal into the study and hurriedly read what he had written the previous night.

She never questioned the motives of the characters; she had neither the ability nor the conceit for that; but she could and often did correct his lapses in colour. She never touched the ma.n.u.script with pencil, but jotted down her notes on slips of paper and left them where he might easily find them.