ToWILBERFORCE LECHWORTHY, Esquire,Justice of the Peace and Member of Parliamentfor South Loamshire,on the Occasion of his Retirement fromthat Businesswhich his Genius and his Untiring Industryhave with the Blessing of the AlmightyCreated.
The presentation of this rather portentous volume was to take place on a Saturday evening. On the afternoon of that day every employee of the company was invited to tea by Lechworthy. A number of vast marquees were erected for the purpose on the cricket-field; and the return match between Setton Park and the Hanley Wanderers was in consequence postponed. TheEvening Newsheaded its paragraph on the subject: “Lechworthy packing—who made the portmanteau?” But the paragraph itself dealt seriously with statistics supplied by the firm of caterers, informing the curious how many hams or how many pats of butter had been thought sufficient. The Setton Park Band performed on the occasion. The antique show of Punch and Judy was to be seen freely, and swings were prevalent. Wilberforce Lechworthy went from one marquee to another, joined in the audience that witnessed the flagrant immoralities of Mr Punch, and chatted with the crowds that waited for their turn at the swings. He displayed a king-like memory for faces and the geniality of a headmaster on Speech-day. The presentation of the address took place some hours later in a hall which, though it was the largest at the company’s disposal, could not provide seating accommodation for one third of its workers. Heads of departments had tickets, and seniority of service counted. For those who were of necessity omitted, Mr Lechworthy had provided a fine display of fireworks. Inside the hall the Bishop of Merspool was in the chair, Mr Albert Grice, M.P., was ready to speak, and the address was to be presented by Mr Hutchinson, supported by speeches from Mr Wallis, Mr Salter and Mr Bailey. In spite of this, either from altruism or from want of thought, several of the privileged workmen offered their tickets freely to comrades who had otherwise to be content with the display of fireworks; nor were these offers invariably accepted. Some observations by the Bishop on the influences of religion in our commerciallife occupied five lines in the papers next morning, concluding, “The presentation then took place.” TheMorning Guidewas more explicit and gave nearly a column. It reported the Bishop, Mr Grice, and Mr Hutchinson; it summarised Mr Wallis and Mr Salter, and asserted that Mr Bailey (who had spoken for twenty-five minutes) “added a few words of graceful eulogy.” All it said of Mr Lechworthy was the bald statement that he returned thanks. Thus, indeed, had Mr Lechworthy directed.
None of the papers noted the presence on the platform of Miss Hilda Auriol, the niece of Mr Lechworthy, nor can it be pretended that she constituted an item of public interest. But, for the idle purposes of this story, something must be said of her, even if, in consequence, it become necessary to suppress any detailed account of Mr Bailey’s words of graceful eulogy, or of the Bishop’s rediscovery that it is better to be good.
Wilberforce Lechworthy, childless and a widower, had been glad to adopt Hilda Auriol, one of his married sister’s very numerous family. At the age of six he professed to have detected in her a decided character.She was now twenty-three, and her uncle was very fond of her, but she was perhaps the only person of whom he was much afraid. Let it not be supposed that her temper was either sour or dictatorial. She was sunniness itself, and her criticism of life—including her uncle—was fresh and breezy. Her perspicacity detected and her soul abhorred anything that was specious and plausible; in practical politics and in the conduct of a great modern business the specious and the plausible have unfortunately their place, and Wilberforce did occasionally say things after which he experienced a momentary reluctance to meet his niece’s eye. She had a sense of humour and she was by nature a fighter. Her uncle himself was not a keener politician, and it was perhaps fortunate that in most respects their politics were identical. If she had asserted her independence she had not lost her femininity; she did take much thought as to the wherewithal she should be clothed, and she liked admiration. And she got it. If she had not already refused six offers of marriage, it was merely because she had not allowed six men to go quite as far as they had intended. Heart-whole, she had not yet met a man whomuch interested her, nor was she trying to arrange the meeting. She paid no great attention to athletics, but she could swim a mile, could sit a horse, and was a really good shot with a revolver. Of the last item her uncle had not entirely approved. “Why not?” said Hilda. “It’s a question of instinct. Instinct wouldn’t let me play football or smack a policeman’s face, but it does let me learn to shoot and want to vote.” She explained that she was only ready to use violence if it were not her own violence but the violence of the other sex. “For instance, when young Bruce Chalmers had the cheek to try to address your men, I would not have thrown stones myself, but—if I had been there—I would have encouraged the men who did throw them.”
“For goodness’ sake don’t say that,” said her uncle. “It was a lamentable occurrence, and it was most unfortunate that it was a woman who was hurt. It has done us more harm than good.”
Hilda laughed. She had a rather disconcerting laugh.
At the presentation she had looked charming. In the afternoon she had made friends with adozen babies and played games with them, and she still wore her afternoon dress. But she looked fresh, cool, unruffled, delicately tended. Her mutinous little mouth remained firm and quiet, but a wicked brightness came into her eyes whenever a speaker achieved unconscious humour—and this was a calamity which occurred to most of the speakers. On the other hand, when Mr Grice recalled “an intensely amusing anecdote related to me by an old Scottish lady,” Hilda sighed gently and seemed to be thinking of far-off sad things. To such an extent may feminine perversity be carried.
Mr Grice, Mr Hutchinson and Mr Wallis were all directors of the company, and returned to London in Mr Lechworthy’s special saloon carriage. The express stopped at Setton Park by arrangement to pick it up. The Bishop had already spread his ecclesiastical wings in another direction. Supper was served at a little flower-decked table in the carriage for the party of eight. The three who have not already been mentioned were Lechworthy’s elderly unmarried sister, who was nervous and good-natured; Burton, his secretary, who had obligingly taken a short-hand note;and Mr Harmer, quite recently of Corpus, Oxford, and at present a leader-writer on theMorning Guide. Mr Harmer wore at first the air of a man who had got the little party together and meant to be kind to them, even if they did not quite reach his level. Later he had a brief conversation with Hilda Auriol, to whom he wished to say complimentary things; Hilda, metaphorically speaking, smote him between the eyes, and thereafter he wore the air of a dead rabbit. Yet she addressed her uncle’s secretary as Tommy, and went into fits of laughter over his excellent but irreverent imitation of the Bishop of Merspool, done for her private delectation. She was polite and charming to Mr Hutchinson and Mr Wallis, who admired her intensely; and to Mr Grice, who admired her quite as much as a married and middle-aged Member of Parliament had any business to do. Altogether, it was a cheerful little party. Mr Lechworthy, his sister and his niece did not touch the dry champagne to which the others did justice; but Mr Lechworthy’s ginger-ale, taken in a champagne-glass, presented a colourable imitation of festivity. At the moment of the cigarette, Miss Lechworthyand her niece retired to rest with instructions that they were not to be called before London.
In the little saloon, when the supper-table had been cleared, the men sat round and chatted, Mr Harmer alone being taciturn—which was unusual with him. If the conversation was now more serious it was quite optimistic. Mr Grice removed a faded malmaison from his button-hole, jerked it into the outer darkness, and remarked that it must be difficult for a man of Mr Lechworthy’s splendid energy to get himself to take a holiday at all.
Mr Lechworthy was smoking the briar pipe which he permitted himself after dark. His figure was lean, and at this late hour of night did not show any sign of fatigue. He sat upright. His hair was grey, but he had no tendency to baldness. He did not wear spectacles or false teeth. He certainly seemed for a man of his age unusually strong and healthy. But he made his customary observation that he was not as young as he had been. He spoke of his holiday plans.
“Let me see,” said Mr Wallis. “I suppose you go to Sydney first?”
“Sydney and then Auckland. Might go on by one of the Union boats from there. ButI want to get a little off the usual lines, and I think that I should do better to buy or hire a schooner there. I know very little about such things, but I have friends at Auckland who would help me. I’m fond of sailing.”
“You’re to be envied,” said Grice. “No business, no House of Commons. Nothing to do but enjoy yourself.”
Lechworthy fixed his rather fanatical eyes on him. “Nothing to do but enjoy myself? That would be a poor kind of life, Grice. No, no. Let me use my holiday as I have tried to use politics, journalism, and even the business with which I have just disconnected myself—to the highest service of all.”
“Quite so,” said Hutchinson. “The rest—the gain in health and strength—will be valuable to you, because they will enable you to resume that service.”
“Yes, yes. True enough. But I had thought of something beyond that. A voyage without an end in view would not greatly interest me, and even if one does not work one must at least have some sort of occupation. Our friend, Mr Harmer, will laugh at me, but I am proposing to write a pamphlet—it may even be a little book.”
It should surely be abhorrent to a leader-writer to laugh at his proprietor’s ambitions. Mr Harmer did not laugh. He left his taciturnity and his brandy-and-soda to observe that he was convinced that Mr Lechworthy already possessed materials for a dozen books—interesting books too. If there was any difficulty about getting the thing into literary shape Mr Harmer would only be too happy, etc., etc.
“Thank you very much. If I don’t ask you, it won’t be because I don’t know your capabilities in that way. But, you see, Mr Harmer, I’m not going to try to do anything literary. I couldn’t. And if you did it for me under my name, I should be wearing borrowed plumes. Tell you what I’m going to do—I’m going to make notes of the different missions in the islands I visit. I can only touch the fringe of the subject, of course. Goodness knows how many inhabited islands there are where I’m going—Eastern and Southern Pacific—and I shall only have six or eight months there. Still I want to wake up our people about South Sea Missions. The ordinary man knows nothing about the islands. What could you, Tommy, for instance, tell us about them?”
“I dunno,” said Tommy, reflectively. “I read some yarns about them when I was a kid. All coral and cokernuts, ain’t they?”
“Ah! There are human souls there too. Yes, and I’m told that in one group at any rate Roman Catholicism is rampant. There’s work to be done.”
“Well,” said Grice, “if we hadn’t been fools enough to let the French slip in and grab what theywanted—”
“Grice, my friend, let us be proud that in one instance, at any rate, this country has not done all the grabbing. I’m not going to suggest that we should add one square foot to our possessions. We have too much—territorially, we’re gorged. No, let us see rather what we can do to spread the true religion in place of the false. That’s what I feel. If I can do one little thing for the cause of true religion, then my holiday won’t be entirely wasted.”
“No, indeed,” said Mr Wallis, who suddenly felt that his cigar and the glass in front of him had been inappropriate.
Mr Lechworthy’s fist descended solemnly on the table before him. “True religion—that’s the only thing. I’ve kept it before mein my business. I’ve tried to show that it is possible to treat the workman as a brother, to consider his soul’s eternal salvation, and yet to make a fair profit. I’ve dared to bring practical religion into journalism.The Morning Guideloses me so much every day, so much every year. The money’s set aside for it—to produce a paper which will never print a divorce case or an item of racing news—a paper in which everyfeuilletonclearly and distinctly enforces a good moral—a paper which will be the sworn foe of this blatant self-styled imperialism. In the House I venture to say that I belong to the religious party. You’ll find little religion among the Conservatives—and what there is, is largely tainted with ritualism. Unprofitable servant that I am, little though I have done, I have at least kept my faith and carried it into my life.”
There were a few seconds of silence. Then somewhere at the back of the saloon a fool of a servant opened a bottle of soda-water. It went off with a loud and ironical pop. The gurgle of the fluid seemed to utter a repeated tut-tut. But Mr Lechworthy was unperturbed. Gliding easily into another subject, he beganto talk about cameras. His book or pamphlet, whichever it might be, was to be profusely illustrated. Mr Wallis, an amateur photographer of some experience, was lavish with his advice. Later, a possible title for the book was discovered. Mr Grice, who had been a little sleepy, grew suddenly alert again and almost disproportionately enthusiastic. “A magnificent and noble enterprise that could only have occurred to yourself, Lechworthy,” was a phrase that possibly overstated the facts. Tommy Burton slept peacefully—poor Tommy Burton—much in love with Hilda Auriol and condemned to perpetual cheerfulness and brotherhood.
Thus it happened that the schooner which Cyril Mast had sighted bore with it to the island of Faloo Mr Lechworthy and his niece. He had never intended to take Hilda with him at all, but then Hilda had always intended to go. Faloo had never been part of his programme, and all that the skipper could tell him about it was that it was wrongly charted; but Hilda had caught a glimpse of it in the evening light and decided that she must spend an hour or two there. It was immediatelydiscovered that the ship needed oranges and taro, and that Faloo might as well provide them. Lechworthy still had a will of his own, but then the captain knew so much more and Hilda cared so much more, and the sweet content of the South Seas had settled down upon him. He had eaten peach-flavoured bananas and he was learning the mango. The expressed juice of the fresh lime, mingled with ice and soda-water, seemed to him the best drink that had ever been found. As to the missions—well, he was getting a general impression (which bothered him a little, because it was not quite the impression that he had meant to get), and he would fill in the bare facts later. He had taken many photographs and would develop the rolls of film as soon as he could find the time—unless he came upon somebody who would do them for him.
At dawn theSnowflakelay in a dead calm just outside the reef. Cyril Mast took a good look at her. The snowy decks, the brilliant white paint and the polished metal showing a hundred bright points of light in the sunshine, told that this was no ordinary trader. Had the retreat of the exiles been discovered at last? No, for the ship to come in that casewould be something sterner than this pretty toy. In a few minutes he had changed his clothes; and now his collar, his necktie and his waistcoat proclaimed his calling. He could manage a canoe excellently himself—it was his favourite pastime when sober—but now his dignity demanded that a couple of natives should propel him out through the opening in the reef to the schooner’s side. The natives—as curious as Mast—were eager for the work. At the moment the mad idea which Mast subsequently carried out had not yet entered his head. All that he wanted was to find out what the schooner was, and if possible to get some break in the accursed monotony of his island life. He wanted, pathetically, to exchange a few civilities with some white man who did not know too much about him—to catch a glimpse of the outside world that had been closed to him. That was why he wore the starched dog-collar that was so uncomfortable, and the frayed black alpaca jacket, and the waistcoat of clerical cut. He had not worn them for ages; but he meant now, for an hour perhaps, to get back to the old time, before certain events had made Faloo the only place in the world for him.
Already there were many natives on the beach, adorned with wreaths and necklaces of flowers, wearing holiday clothes. It might be of course that the schooner was merely waiting for a wind, but perhaps a boat would come ashore and there would be much festivity. Possibly some order had come to them from King Smith, for a few of the natives who would have launched their canoes were restrained by the others; and the two men who had taken Cyril Mast out did not attempt to go on board. Of King Smith himself nothing was to be seen. The white men still slept peacefully in their bedrooms at the club, or in their own houses. The schooner was Cyril Mast’s own discovery; none of the others knew of its arrival.
On the deck of theSnowflakeMr Lechworthy came forward with hand outstretched.
“I don’t know your name, sir,” he said, “but I am glad and proud to meet you. Missionary enterprise is a subject in which I take the deepest interest. My name’s Lechworthy—you may have come across it in connection with my business.”
Cyril Mast stammered his own name. He was astounded. He, the pariah, the outcast, had been mistaken for a missionary. Thisman of wealth and position was admiring his heroic self-sacrifice. And that beautiful girl with the laughingeyes—
“Permit me, sir, to present you to my niece, Miss Auriol.”
Miss Auriol took one glance at his pimply, blotchy complexion, and in great charity remembered that there was a complaint called prickly heat and that a prolonged sojourn in the tropics must be unhealthy for a European. She chatted freely. They expected to sail again later in the morning, but were sending a boat ashore to see if they could get some fresh fruit. Her uncle and she had thought of going in the boat and getting an hour, perhaps, in Faloo.
As she spoke, Cyril Mast made up his mind. He would act the part that had been given him. The deception could not be kept up for any length of time, but it might be managed for one hour. It was simple enough to call the club the mission-house. Few if any of the members would be about at this hour, and he could manage to get breakfast served at a table on the lawn outside the house. An hour in which to see this beautiful Englishgirl—
He found himself speaking rapidly. Theymust certainly come ashore and have breakfast at the mission-house. His canoe would pilot their boat. It would be the greatest pleasure for him to show them something of the island. See, that was the mission-house there among the orange trees.
Hilda Auriol and her uncle agreed that it looked charming; the invitation was at once accepted. Preparations for their departure and the arrangements for their return were made at once. Cyril Mast’s canoe flew over the water, the schooner’s boat following. Speaking partly in the native tongue and partly in English he explained to the crowd on the beach that the ship was “Mikonaree.” He would take the “Mikonaree” and his daughter up to the club, where they wished to go. The others—they must entertain them as best they could—would be going up to the stores to buy things and the King would direct what was to be done.
On their way up from the beach to the club-house Mr Lechworthy asked if Mr Mast had been long on the island.
“Four years.”
“And never a holiday?”
“No,” said Mast, who every moment feltmore like a real missionary, “no, I have needed no holiday.”
“Rather lonely, I should think,” said Hilda.
“Well, one has one’s work. There are other white men on the island too—traders and planters. You may possibly see some of them up at the mission-house.”
Lechworthy began on the subject of his book—his projected work on the missions of the South Seas. A native girl ran up with a necklace of flowers for Hilda. Mast began to talk more easily and fluently, falling into the part that had been assigned to him. He described King Smith, that prodigy among natives, with accuracy and with some humour. He was sketching the French Mission for his guests as they entered, with exclamations of delight, the beautiful garden of the Exiles’ Club. Somewhere at the back of his head Mast was wondering why King Smith had not appeared. The arrival of a schooner constituted a great event. What could he be doing?
Just at present the King sat in his office, deep in thought. Another event had happened which made the schooner’s arrival of comparatively little importance in his eyes. It was the first sign that his power might nothold back the native outbreak, and it had come before he expected it. In the early morning, while it was still dark, the King as he lay awake had heard a scream—brief, agonised. It seemed to be fairly near—a hundred yards or so away. He had lighted a lantern and searched the scrub at the back of the stores. There he had found the dead body of a white man with a native knife sticking in his throat. The white man was Duncombe, and no complaint against him had ever reached the King’s ears. It was a private revenge, and might not end there.
The King decided and acted quickly. Already the body was buried out of sight, covered with quicklime in a shallow grave. Hundreds of the natives were in a state of angry ferment, held back by the King with difficulty; if they saw that the first step had already been taken, it would be impossible to hold them back at all. The King himself had been the grave-digger and had kept his own counsel. Duncombe would be missed at the Exiles’ Club that day. On the morrow his friends would be anxiously searching for him. Meanwhile, the King would have found out the assassin and would have used the strange giftwith which the natives credited him. He would talk to the man seriously in the melodious native tongue, and say that he wished for his death. No other step would be necessary. The man would go back to his hut, refuse food, remain obstinately silent, and presently draw a cloth over his face and die. In what way the death was caused the King could not have told you, though once before he had used this gift. Modern science may choose between an explanation by hypnotic suggestion, or a blunt denial of a fact which has been credibly witnessed and reported.
In a few days the strange disappearance of Duncombe would be forgotten. The King felt sure that for a while at any rate no further provocation would come from the white men. The natives would quiet down again, and their King would be free to follow the line of his own ambitions.
For the moment nothing else could be done. The King roused himself and went out to look at the schooner. Word had already been brought to him that this was not a trader. His interest was no more than idle curiosity. He did not know that already there reclined in a lounge-chair on the lawn of the Exiles’Club the man for whom he had been seeking. Lechworthy proposed to enjoy his hour or two in Faloo; he also did not know. He did not know that he was destined to remain in Faloo for days, and to meet with incidents that were but little enjoyable.
The Rev. Cyril Mast left his guests for a few minutes on the lawn, while he went into the club to order breakfast. The hour was early, but not unusually early, and the Exiles’ Club never closed. For a few hours after midnight the staff was much diminished, and only one of the white servants was on duty, but even then a member could always get anything he wanted. At least two-thirds of the members had bedrooms at the club.
But to-day the club did not wear its air of morning freshness. The soiled glasses and laden ash-trays of the night before were left still on the little tables on the verandah and in the hall. Not enough windows had been opened, and the sour smell of stale cigar-smoke poisoned the place. Even the Rev. Cyril Mast, who was by no means particular, noticed it. A reluctant native servant was sent to find Thomas, and failed; a minute later Thomas arrived of his own volition fromthe bedrooms, looking hurried and worried. His quick eye noticed Mast’s clerical clothes.
“I say, Thomas,” said Mast, “this place is in a hell of a mess.”
“Yes, sir,” said Thomas, and gave a rapid order to two native servants. “Very sorry, sir, but it’s all the schooner.”
“How do you mean?”
“It’s made so many of the gentlemen unusually early. Quite a little excitement, when we first heard about it, sir. Seems it’s just a chance visit from some missionary, but it’s meant more for us to do here—gentlemen requiring baths and breakfasts. Three orders to give at this moment.”
“Do that first, and then I can talk.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Thomas, and called down the speaking-tube. “Drinking cokernut, large gin, ice and dry biscuit to Lord Charles. Got that? Right. Tea and boiled eggs, Mr Bassett. Got that? Right. Those two lots in the bedrooms at once. Coffee, two pork chops and stewed pineapple to Mr Mandelbaum downstairs in twenty minutes. Yes, that’s all. Now, sir, I’m ready.”
“I have two guests from the schooner—one of them is a lady—and I want breakfastfor them in the garden. And, look here, Thomas, they’re here for only an hour or so, and we’ve got business, and if possible I don’t want to be interrupted by any of the gentlemen. Put the table in some secluded corner. See?”
“Certainly, sir. Sir John and Dr Soames Pryce are out already, sir, but they will probably have gone to the beach, and I think there’s no other gentleman down yet.”
As they settled the details of the breakfast more windows were opened and a strong, fresh breeze blew in from the sea. Under the eye of Thomas the native servants moved more quickly and order began to be restored.
“You manage those beggars pretty well,” said Mast.
But Thomas was pessimistic. Four gallons of methylated spirits had been stolen from the club stores, and for the life of him he couldn’t find out which of his boys had got it. It was his belief that the only man who could really manage them was King Smith.
The Rev. Cyril Mast had been careful to place chairs for his guests where the orange-trees screened them from any view of the house. Mr Lechworthy was perfectly contented to stay where he had been put. He was quite happy,and he promised himself that presently he would acquire valuable material for a sketch of a Protestant mission on one of the smallest, the loneliest, and the most beautiful of the South Sea islands. Meanwhile he had risen very early, and he had some ability for the five-minute snooze. His head went back and the brim of his black felt hat shaded his eyes. But Hilda Auriol had sighted a big parrot, swaying on its perch in a patch of sunshine, and it was her wont to make friends with all tame birds and beasts.
She went up and spoke to the parrot. The bird gave a husky cough, imitated the act of expectoration, and began to say the three worst things it knew. Then it sat blinking and thinking in silence. As Hilda passed the verandah, the French windows of the card-room were flung wide open, and she caught one glimpse of it—precisely as it had been left the night before. She returned and roused Mr Lechworthy.
“There are at least sixteen missionaries here, uncle, which seems a good many for such a small island. The sixteen play cards, drink, and teach a parrot bad language. I don’t think I like them.”
Mr Lechworthy was much startled. “What do you mean, my dear?”
Hilda told him precisely what she had seen—the card-room with the four tables, at all of which play had taken place, and the other tables piled with glasses, gazogenes, and tiny decanters. She pointed out the parrot, and once more the bird became clearly articulate and quite reprehensible.
“I cannot understand it,” said Mr Lechworthy. “The thing’s incomprehensible. I must see into this—there may be something which I shall have to put a stop to. I ought not to have brought you here, Hilda. You must leave me and get back to the boat at once.”
Hilda laughed. “Oh, no. We’ll see it through together. Here comes our host.”
“Well, he shall have his chance to explain. He spoke of other white men—traders and planters. They may be responsible. It is impossible to believe that a minister of the true religion would—No, he will explain.”
Hilda and her uncle went forward to meet Mast. They stood now in full view of the house and close to the entrance to the garden. Mast was voluble in his apologies. He wassorry to have kept them so long, but he was afraid his native servants were not very intelligent. He feared that breakfast would be rather primitive when it did arrive. But they would have it in a spot from which one of the loveliest views in the island could be obtained.
Mr Lechworthy smiled pleasantly. He and his niece preferred to live quite simply, and it was most kind of Mr Mast to entertain them in any case. “While we are waiting for breakfast, perhaps you will show us the mission-house. We should particularly like to see that—the church, too, that you built for the natives.”
Cyril Mast made three different excuses in three different sentences. Lechworthy watched him narrowly, and drew one or two correct conclusions. His pleasant smile vanished, and beneath their heavy brows his eyes looked serious.
And then Bassett’s curious little figure appeared on the verandah. He had hurried through his breakfast and was hastening down to the beach to find out what he could of the schooner. But he was scarcely outside the doors before the wind, blowing now with increasing force, caught up his big felt hat andwhirled it into the bushes. Bassett chased his hat, and for the moment did not notice the little group by the orange-trees. But Lechworthy’s quick eye had already recognised him.
“That man over there—is he also engaged in missionary work?”
“Yes. In a sense, yes,” stammered Mast. “He—”
“It will be interesting to talk to him about it. I happen to know him, and I will call him. Bassett!”
Bassett was startled and turned sharply. He came very slowly across the lawn, much as a dog comes to his master for punishment. What on earth was Lechworthy doing in Faloo? Was he, too, flying from justice? That would explain the arrival of the schooner and the fact that he was evidently on friendly terms with Cyril Mast. But Bassett had to put that notion aside. Knowing Lechworthy, he knew that it was not possible. And Bassett was very much afraid. What did Lechworthy mean to do? Well, he must put the best face on it he could. A defence that would be torn to rags in court might seem plausible enough in Faloo.
“Good-morning, Mr Lechworthy,” said Bassett. “This is a great surprise. Morning, Mast.”
“Bassett,” said Lechworthy, “Mr Mast, whom I had not met before, brought us here from my schooner. He has told me that you are associated with him in his missionary work here. Now you, Bassett, I have met many times before, and I know your history.”
But it was not Bassett who answered; it was Cyril Mast, whose face was white and twitched curiously.
“This is my fault, Mr Lechworthy,” said Mast. “I had not meant to represent myself to you as a missionary. But you made the mistake, and I was tempted to go on with it.”
“Yes,” said Lechworthy, quietly. “I don’t think I see why. You hardly seem to be enjoying a practical joke.”
“Don’t you? For four years I have not spoken with a decent white man or woman. We are all the same here—and we’re here because there’s no other place left. If you had known about me—the truth about me—you would not have spoken to me at all. That’s all. Don’t ask me any questions, please. I’m going to leave you now. Get back to theschooner at once; any of the natives on the beach will find a canoe for you.”
Without a word to Bassett Mast raised his hat and turned away. He went up the steps of the verandah and into the club-house.
“I think,” said Hilda, “that his advice is good. It’s blowing hard now, and theSnowflakecan’t lie where she is—with the reef on her lee.”
“Yes, my dear, we will go. But I must have a few words with Mr Bassett in private. Go on ahead of us a little.”
And now Bassett found his tongue. “You must not pay any attention to what Mast said, Mr Lechworthy. Mast is a good fellow, but he suffers from fits of morbid depression in which he believes himself to have done horrible things—the life here is very lonely, you know—no amusements of any kind—nobody to speak to.”
Lechworthy thought of the card-tables. “Bassett,” he said, “it’s not about Mast but about yourself that I wish to speak. Many have looked for you and have not found you. I have found you unwittingly—I think because I was sent to find you. You are a thief, Bassett. You are a murderer, for one of thosepoor women whose property you stole took her own life.”
“I am absolutely innocent, Mr Lechworthy. I have a complete explanation. You—should be careful, sir. I have seen men shot dead on this island for saying less than you have said to me.”
“Do not try to frighten me, Bassett. I am ready for death when God wills, and death will come no sooner than that. You are coming back home with me, Bassett. You’ve fled to the far corner of the earth, and it’s no use; your sin has found you out. You are coming back to take your trial, and, if need be, your punishment. Do that, and I will help you by all the means in my power. I will help you to make your peace with man and to something better—your peace with God. It’s the one way to happiness. You’ll find no way here. Turn back for nothing. Come now, this moment.”
Even as he spoke Bassett had made his plan. Hilda, a few yards in front of them, turned round. “Which way?” she called.
“The little track to the right, if you please,” called Bassett, “it’s the shortest.” Then he turned to Lechworthy. “I will come,” hesaid. “I put myself in your hands unreservedly.”
The little track to the right was very narrow and led through thick scrub, damp and odorous with the scent of the frangipani bushes. Hilda, well on ahead, fought her way through a tangle of lianas. Behind her came Lechworthy, crouching and going gingerly, serenely happy. Behind him at a little distance came Bassett, his hat under his arm, sweating profusely, the revolver which he had taken out from his pocket held clumsily in his shaking right hand.
And some way behind Bassett, going far faster than any of them, and unseen by any of them, came the lithe figure of King Smith.
Just as Bassett fired the King’s club came down heavily on his head. Hilda turned with a cry, as she heard the report, and struggled back again to her uncle. Mr Lechworthy had at last found a place where he could stand upright and ease his aching back. He held his black felt hat in his hand, and examined the bullet-hole in the rim with a mild, inquiring benevolent eye.
“You are not hurt, uncle?”
“Not in the least, my dear, thanks to this gentleman.”
“Get up,” said King Smith to Bassett.
Dazed, rubbing his sore head with one hand, Bassett staggered to his feet. He looked from one to the other bewildered. In this wind, that gave a voice to every bush, he had not heard the approach of King Smith. And now his revolver lay on the ground, and the King’s foot was on it, and it was the King who spoke in a way that Bassett had not heard before.
“I have finished with you. Go where you like and do what you like. And a little before midnight you will die.”
It was the definite sentence of death, and Bassett knew it. Half-stunned as he was, he could still lie and make a defence.
He began an explanation. He had taken out the revolver to draw the cartridges and stumbled. The thing was a pure accident. But of course King Smith was not in earnest. He could not sentence a white man to death like that. He would be elected to the white men’s club in a few days. The white men were his partners in business,and—
The King cut him short. “It is to the King and not to the trader that you speaknow,” he said, as he picked up Bassett’s revolver. “Do not compel me to shoot you where you stand. It is better that you should have a few hours to arrange your affairs. Shortly before midnight, remember.”
Bassett turned away in silence. Certainly the white men would act together and stop an outrage of this kind. He must see Sir John and Dr Pryce at once.
The King was transformed immediately from a stern judge into a courteous man. He made many apologies to Lechworthy. He brought news from theSnowflake, from which he had just returned. The wind had got up so suddenly that there had been no time to send for Lechworthy; the schooner had run for the lee of the island.
“I think, Mr Lechworthy, that the English have a proverb that it is an ill wind which blows nobody any good. I confess that I am very glad to get this opportunity of speaking with you. You can help us very much in this island if you will. Of course my palace in the interior will be entirely at the disposal of yourself and your niece. A guard will be placed there, and I can guarantee your personal safety. I will do my best for yourcomfort. And in a day or two, when the hurricane has blown itself out, you shall go on your way again if you will.”
“We owe you our lives, sir,” said Mr Lechworthy with some dignity. “And now we must thank you for your hospitality as well. It is as though God had sent you to save us. We shall come to you willingly and with the utmost gratitude.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Hilda.
“Perhaps,” said the King, “you will do me a greater service than anything I am able to do for you. Now, if you will follow me back to the next clearing, some of my people will be waiting for us.”
“There’s just one thing,” said Hilda, hesitatingly. She had never spoken to a King before, and she was rather shy about it.
“Yes?” said the King, smiling. “The schooner? It will be quite safe.”
“I’m afraid,” said Hilda, “that I meant—er—clothes.”
“I foresaw that,” said the King. “Everything in that way that could be got together in the few minutes that we had to spare has already been brought ashore in my canoes. If there is anything further that you would like,another canoe will go out to the schooner as soon as it is practicable.”
“Thanks so much,” said Hilda, fervently.
They retraced their steps to the clearing, for the path by which Bassett had taken them led only into the scrub. Many natives were in waiting, full of smiles and excitement. To one group after another the King gave rapid yet careful directions. Some sped inland and others down to the beach. Presently some twenty of the native boys were racing on bicycles up the road to the King’s house. Soon only two of the natives remained, two girls of surpassing beauty, chosen by the king from many aspirants. The King turned to Hilda.
“Miss Auriol, these two girls wish to be your friends, and to do everything that you want while you are on the island. They will be in attendance upon you while you are at my house, if you will let them come. They are of my kin, and they speak a little English. If you will have them, you will make them very happy.”
Hilda had already been watching the girls with frank admiration. “Oh, yes, please,” she said eagerly. “There is nothing I should have liked better.”
Tiva and Ioia flew to her side at once. Hilda made in them pleasant discoveries of shyness,naïveté, curiosity, the utmost friendliness, and a delicious sense of humour. Their questions were many and amazing, their broken English made her laugh, and their laughter echoed her own. Even in the short descent to the beach, these fascinating people made her forget how near she had been to tragedy. The beautiful island of Faloo that had begun to be dark and hateful to her took up its charm again.
Behind the group of girls walked Mr Lechworthy in placid converse with the King.
“Events happen quickly here,” said Lechworthy. “A bogus missionary—a meeting with an absconding solicitor, whom I knew in his better days—an attempt to murder me—my escape, for which I thank you, sir, and, unhappily, the sentence of death.” He hesitated, and then ventured to point out that in England an attempt to murder was punished less severely.
To the ignorant native the English practice seemed to be illogical and to put a premium on bad shooting. But he did not raise this point. He said that he had never pronounced sentence on a white man before, though the white men in his island had done much wrong. This was not the only offence that Bassett had committed, and it was necessary that he should die. “Here, you see, I am the King and the law—and my island is not England. It is all different. You will see later.”
There was a pause, and then the King said, “I already know something of you, Mr Lechworthy. I read your speeches at the time of the South African war, and an article about you which appeared a year or more ago in a paper called theSpectator. I have your pamphlet about Setton Park, and I have many copies of theMorning Guidecontaining articles signed by you. I cannot tell you with what joy I found it was you that theSnowflakehad brought. You, perhaps more than any other Englishman, can help us here.”
“Every minute, sir, I become more surprised. Here, many hundreds of miles from civilisation, I find a native king who speaks English like an Englishman, procures and reads the English papers, even knows something of such a seventh-rate politician and busy-body as myself. But, sir, with the bestwill in the world to help you in any way that my conscience permits, I don’t see what I am to do.”
“If you are kind enough to permit me to dine with you to-night, I will explain everything.”
They had reached the beach, and once more the King changed the subject.
“You breakfasted at the Exiles’ Club? No? I thought perhaps that might be so. Well, it is all ready here.” The King led the way to a broad balcony of his unofficial residence, well sheltered from the wind. “You will be more comfortable at my house inland—here there is not much.”
Certainly, the plates and cups were of various patterns and had seen service; the forks and spoons were not coated with a precious metal, and the use of the Union Jack as a cloth to the low breakfast-table could only be excused by those who saw that a compliment was intended. But Mr Lechworthy drank the best coffee he had met in the islands, and devoured in blind faith delicious fruits of which he did not even know the names. “Also very good,” he murmured at every fresh experiment. King Smith had business needing his attention elsewhere, and it was Tiva and Ioia who waited upon his guests. Nominally these two girls did not breakfast, but Tiva ate sugar when she happened to come across it, and Ioia drank coffee out of Hilda’s cup when Hilda had finished with it. In the intervals they learned the word “Hilda,” and exchanged the story of the robber-crab for hints on hair-dressing. Of their own toilette they spoke with an innocent freedom, utterly open-air and natural, which to some European girls might have been disconcerting. But Hilda had picked up the right point of view, an invaluable possession to the traveller anywhere. She had talked and played with native girls in Tahiti and other islands, but she had found nothing so charming as Tiva and Ioia.
“When shall we go on to the palace?” Hilda asked.
“Sometime—plenty quick,” said Tiva. The answer was not precise; but then to Tiva the question was idle, for what on earth does time matter?
“I wonder,” said Mr Lechworthy, “if you could tell us anything about this palace? It must be an interesting place.”
Mr Lechworthy inspired the girls with someawe. It was quite clear to them that he was a very great chief indeed, and possibly King Edward VII. Never before had King Smith received any white man in this way. Wherefore Tiva hid her face in Hilda’s shoulder. Ioia said thoughtfully that the palace was a “plenty-plenty big house.” She had thoughts of adding a few picturesque inventions—it was so hard for her not to give everybody everything they wanted—but she refrained. It subsequently transpired, in talk with Hilda, that neither Tiva nor Ioia had ever seen the King’s official residence. It stood in a big garden, hidden by trees, and the whole place had been taboo to all native women. A few of the native men had charge of it, and no one else had been allowed to enter. This would be changed now. Tiva and Ioia were to reside there as long as Hilda remained, and it was clear that they looked forward with delight to this privilege and, possibly, to the satisfaction of their curiosity.
King Smith himself announced that all was now ready for the drive to his house in the interior. There were two light, well-built buggies, with island ponies harnessed to them. Hilda and her two attendants went in the firstvehicle, followed by the King and Mr Lechworthy. The luggage had already gone on, borne on the heads of natives. The drive was along a wide, white-powdered road, bordered on either side by groves of palms. Glorious bougainvilleas made streams and splashes of colour. The tall utu scattered its graceful plumes of rose and white. Sheltered though the road was, the travellers could hear the roar of the wind, and now and then a soft thud, as a nut heavily-husked thumped to the ground.
As they went, the King told Lechworthy all that he wished to know about the Exiles’ Club.
“But how can you permit it, sir—this lazar-house, this refuge for the worst scum of Europe polluting your beautiful kingdom?”
“I have not only permitted it, I have even—in vain—tried to become a member of the club. I have done even worse. My friend, if a man wishes to escape from a prison, he will use good tools, if he has them, to break through the walls. And if he has not good tools, he will use anything that comes to his hand—rusty iron, old nails, anything. And he will use them even if they hurt his hand and put a festering wound in it.”
“Yes, sir, I see what you mean. I will not judge hastily. To-night, I think yousaid—”
“To-night I tell you everything. You will find much to condemn, much that is hateful to you. But you love liberty and you will help my people in spite of all. Then I shall no longer need the bad tools, and I shall put them down. And as for the festering wound in my hand, I shall burn it with a little gunpowder and in time it will be made whole again.”
Lechworthy, watching him as he spoke, was conscious that he had found here a master among men, clear in purpose, indomitable in pursuit of it. But where was the man’s Christianity? What were his political purposes? Was there no danger in being drawn into them? Well, that night he would see. He had already found that the King could be inexorable, and that it seemed impossible to procure postponement of the execution of Bassett even by one single hour.
Bassett himself was horribly frightened, but he did not believe that the sentence of death would be carried out. For the moment King Smith was angry; later in the day Bassett would see him again, or would get Sir John todo it for him. He would persist, of course, that the shot was accidental. Besides, King Smith might be pleased to say that he did not speak as a trader, but he still was a trader, and on the trader the members of the Exiles’ Club could bring very stringent and serious pressure to bear. If the King still persisted—well, it was easy enough for him to pronounce sentence, but he would find it impossible to carry it out.
In the hall of the club Mr Bassett found the Rev. Cyril Mast and Lord Charles Baringstoke. The latter was shivering in pale blue pyjamas and an ulster; he had not yet bathed, neither had he brushed his yellow hair. The two men were getting on well with a bottle of doubtful champagne.
“Hullo, Mr damned Bassett,” said his lordship. “You’ve got a lot of blood on your collar. Somebody been crackin’ your egg for you?”
Bassett took no notice of him. He turned upon Mast and swore hard at him. So choked was he with rage that he could hardly articulate. He repeated himself over and over again. Had Mast gone clean out of his mind? What had he done it for? What hadhe brought Lechworthy there for? Lechworthy of all people! He stormed and spluttered his abuse.
“Lechworthy was my guest and you can mind your own business,” said Mast, sullenly, and refilled his glass. “If you swear at me again, I’ll hit you.”
“My business?” screamed Bassett—but he did not swear this time. “Why, wait till you’ve heard. We’re done—every man of us—and all the result of your folly. You haven’t seen King Smith, but I have—and he means to take my life to-night. Oh, what’s the good of talking to you boozers? Where’s Pryce? Where’s Sir John?”
“Ask the waiter,” said Mast.
“Look here, old friend, I’ll tell you. Pryce and Sir John went out to find Duncombe,” said Lord Charles. “Duncombe’s been stopping out all night. Naughty, naughty! And won’t he catch it from Sir Jonathan Gasbags? Jaw, jaw, jaw! Lordy, I had some of it yesterday! I say, Bassett, has anything really been happening? Because, if so, I should like to be in it. Why, there they are!”
Sir John and Dr Soames Pryce entered from the verandah. Mast and Bassett both beganto speak at once, angrily and in a high voice. Lord Charles Baringstoke gave a quite good imitation of a north-country pitman encouraging a dog-fight. The noise was terrific. Members came out from the reading-room to see what was happening. Servants paused on the stairs to watch.
Sir John’s walking-cane came down with a crack on the table before him. “Silence!” he roared. And he got it.
“Now then,” he said severely, “is this a club or a bear-garden? You—members of the committee—behaving like this? Now, Mr Bassett. Now, sir, I’ll hear you first. And don’t shout, please.”
“A most serious thing has happened, Sir John. I fear that we’re done for. I must see you and Dr Pryce in private about it. And the whole thing’s due to the damned folly of this man Mast.”
The champagne bottle whizzed past his head, missing him by a hair’s-breadth and smashing on the opposite wall. Mast would have followed up the attack, but he met a quick fist with the weight of Dr Pryce behind it; the lounge-chair on which he fell collapsed under him, and he lay sprawling on the floor.
“You all seem very excited,” said Dr Pryce, cheerfully. “I would suggest, Sweetling, that you and Mr Bassett go off to his room, and I’ll join you there in a minute.”
“Very well,” said Sir John. “Come on, Mr Bassett. This must be discussed quietly.”
“Get up, old cockie,” said Dr Pryce, extending a hand to Mast. “Made up your mind to bring disgrace on the cloth this morning, haven’t you? You’ve been drinking too much. Go and lie down for a bit—you can’t stand it, you know.”
“You’re a good chap, Pryce,” said Mast. “Perhaps I can stand it and perhaps I can’t. But I’m going on with it for this day anyhow. Thomas, I say, where’s Thomas?”
“Go to the devil your own way then,” said Pryce, and followed Sir John and Mr Bassett.
Lord Charles Baringstoke turned to the on-lookers. “Seem very cross, don’t they?” he said. “Now is anybody going to stand me one little brandy before I go up to bathe my sinful body?”
In the secretary’s room Bassett’s story was told at length. Sir John listened to it with gravity and Dr Soames Pryce with a sardonic smile. In the main Bassett stuck to the facts,but he lied when he said that Mast was drunk when he brought Lechworthy to the club. “I left Lechworthy with King Smith, and he can’t have got back to theSnowflake. So I suppose that he’s with the King now.”
“Most likely,” said Sir John, drumming on the table with his nails. “See, Pryce? Remember what I said? Well, the King’s got into touch at last. Lord knows what Lechworthy was doing here, though.”
“Yes,” said Pryce. “That is so. The illustrious visitor will stop at His Majesty’s official residence. That is why we met that gang of boys cycling up there.”
“It was the worst of luck,” whined Bassett. “If King Smith hadn’t come up just at that moment I should have saved the situation. You see that, of course.”
“No, I don’t,” said Sir John.
“Bassett, my poor friend,” said Dr Pryce, “you’ve made every possible blunder. I can’t think of one that you’ve left out. I’m not going to argue about it, but it is so. So don’t brag about saving situations.”
“You express my own opinion,” said Sir John. “And the consequences of your blunders, Bassett, are likely to be serious.”
“Anyhow, the consequences are serious. The most serious of all is that my life is threatened.”
Dr Pryce laughed.
“You’ll pardon us if we don’t think so,” said Sir John. “But you can cheer up, Bassett. Threatened men sometimes live long. Remain in the club. It will be well guarded to-night. Every precaution will be taken. Smith simply can’t get at you—short of a general attack on the white men by the natives, and he won’t risk that. It wouldn’t suit his book at all just now. Meanwhile, you appeal to Lechworthy.”
“Surely he’s the last man in the worldto—”
“He’s the only man who’s likely to have much influence with King Smith just now, and he won’t approve of irregular executions. If he asks to be allowed to take you back to England, he’ll probably get you. And it’s better to go than to die—also, you can probably give him the slip somewhere or other on the way.”
“Yes,” said Bassett, rubbing his chin. “There’s that. There’s always that.”
“Look here, Bassett,” said Dr Pryce,suddenly, “we shall want four or five good men to patrol outside from sunset to midnight—sober men who can shoot and know when to shoot—Hanson and Burbage are the right type. Go now and find them.”
“I’ll do it at once. Shall I bring them here?”
“No. Just get their names. I’ll talk to them later.”
“And, I say, wouldn’t it be a good thing if we elected King Smith a member now?”
“Might as well offer a mad buck-elephant a lump of sugar. You go and find those men.”
“Now,” said Dr Pryce, as soon as Bassett had gone.
“Smith will tell Lechworthy everything. Lechworthy goes home with our names in his pocket. Therefore he must not go home.”
“Certainly. Nor must other people go home with similar information.”
“They must not,” said Sir John. “Therefore we must get a man on board theSnowflake. That ship must be lost with crew and passengers. Our man may be able to save himself or he may not. It’s a devilishrisky business. Still, money will tempt people.”
“I wouldn’t trust a paid man on that job,” said Pryce. He reflected a minute. “My lot’s thrown in with the sinners. Tell you what, Sweetling—I’ll do it myself.”
The societies that are to be permanent grow without plan, much as a coral island grows. The schemed Utopia never lives; it leaves no room for compromise and becomes pot-bound; it guards with wise foresight against numberless events which never happen, and the unforeseen event blows in upon it and kills it.
The Exiles’ Club had never been planned at all. The first of its members to arrive at Faloo—Sir John Sweetling—had not the slightest intention of starting such a club. He was a man of considerable ability and he had been clever enough to see that the smash of his tangled operations was inevitable, and that any defence would be wasted speciousness. Recalling to himself a voyage which he had once made as a young man, he left before the smash came and while he still had considerable means at his disposal, even if he had no legal claim upon them. A chance of that early voyagehad shown him Faloo, and it was his intention to lie concealed in Faloo for two or three years and then under a different name to resume his business career in San Francisco.
He found himself hospitably received by the priests of a small French mission and by the King of the island. With the former he never became on intimate terms, and he took occasions to tell them more than once that he was by education and conviction a member of the Church of England. But he found the King interesting—in his ambitions and energetic character, as well as in his education and appearance, totally unlike any island native of whom Sir John had ever heard.
Sir John noted, too, that the island had considerable natural resources, and that these were capable of development; labour was in any case cheap and plentiful, and, if he worked in with the King, forced labour would also be available. The King was a poor man, owning nothing but the land which he had inherited, within sight of wealth but unable to reach it for want of the knowledge and capital without which it was impossible to trade. Sir John had always assimilated quickly and eagerly any kind of business knowledge, and he hadpicked up a good deal of useful information about the island trade; his capital was safe and at his command. Before long he had entered into a partnership with the King, and had purchased from him land and plantations in one of the most delightful spots in the island.
Of natural and inherent vice Sir John had very little. Crimes of violence and passion were distasteful to him. A love of money and position had drawn him gradually into a career of gross and abominable fraud, but it is doubtful if he ever saw it as fraud himself—technical error, committed with the best intentions, is how he would have characterised it. In the days of his prosperity at home he had been rather a generous man. A church in a London suburb boasted a pulpit of coloured marble, which had been the gift of Sir John Sweetling, and the munificence of the donor had been the subject of a complimentary reference in a sermon; nor would it be safe to say that at the time he made this presentation, though it was practically paid for with stolen money, he was altogether a hypocrite. He loved decency and order. He was always anxious that the proper form should beobserved. He loathed that slackness of fibre which leads men to unshaven chins or made-up neckties. His orderly characteristics remained fairly constant, even in a soft and enervating climate, although in other respects, as we have already seen, circumstances and the Exiles’ Club considerably modified him. At the time of his arrival at Faloo he did not realise that he was cornered. He prepared a return to the outside world.
He was soon convinced that not in two or in twenty years would it be safe for him to show himself. He had trusted friends in England who knew at least where letters could be addressed to him, and they kept him informed. At his own request he was sent copies of what the Press had to say about his disappearance. He read it all with amazement and with extreme but temporary depression. These writers, it seemed to him, were actuated by spite and expressed themselves with virulence. They ignored facts which should have told, more or less, in his favour. They credited him with no honest desire to restore money, had his speculations been more successful. They put the worst constructions on these “technical” lapses. In the case of a prospectus they seemed to be unable to distinguish between deliberate lies and an overstatement incidental to a sanguine temperament. He had never said to himself, “Let us steal this money”; he had merely said, “Let us make this investment look as attractive as we can.” And does not every tradesman try to make his goods look attractive? Is there any close and ungarnished accuracy about the ordinary advertisement? Sir John felt angry and sore at the view which had been taken; but he put his San Francisco scheme aside.
And then gradually were interwoven the cords which bound him to Faloo for ever. Two men, who had been personal friends of Sir John’s and associated with him in business, skipped their bail and joined him at Faloo. It was natural and convenient that the three men should live together, and their house was the nucleus of the building which afterwards became the Exiles’ Club. Through them came a further widening of the circle. The secret was kept for the discreet, and among them was a city solicitor. He knew when to talk about it. He had among his clients families of the highest respectability, and all such families have their black sheep. TheColonies might prove inhospitable and America too inquisitive, but there was always Faloo—for people who could afford to get there and to live there. To Sir John belonged the prestige of the explorer and pioneer; it was to him that the new-comer came for advice, and occasionally for investment. Sir John sold part of his interest in the island trade to a syndicate, and part of his land to the white community, taking in each case such profit as his conscience allowed. His abilities, too, were admitted. He was a born organiser. It pleased and amused him to undertake the work of providing European luxuries in an almost unknown island hundreds of miles from anywhere. His judgment was unerring in welcoming any desirable addition to the fraternity and in arranging for the speedy deportation of the undesirable. Men with no money or education were as a rule excluded. “We want gentlemen here,” said Sir John, and struck the right note at once. But he saw the usefulness of that ex-waiter from the Cabinet Club, and Thomas had no trouble in making good his position on the island.
The position of director and adviser ratherpleased Sir John; the position of President of the Exiles’ Club pleased him far more and sealed him to Faloo. It was a chance suggestion which led to the formation of the club. Six men sat over their Sauterne and oysters one evening and listened to the music of the surf. Presently one of them (nobody afterwards remembered which one) said, “Sort of little club of exiles, ain’t we?”
There was a moment’s pause, and then Sir John, already with a foretaste of the presidential manner, said, “Well, gentlemen, it rests with you. I’m ready to put my money down if you others are. The thing can be done, and done well. Club-house and grounds, decent service, everything comfortable and in order. Why not?”
They discussed it during the greater part of that night, and they all worked very hard at it during the month that followed, planning and superintending the construction of the only two-storied building on the island. Sir John had always been a great gardener, and Blake, one of the earliest arrivals, had made a hobby of his workshop. The special knowledge proved very useful. Sir John was told that English turf was impossible. “We shallhave our lawn just the same,” said Sir John. And ultimately, at great trouble and expense, they did have it.
The club never had any other President than Sir John. If Smith, as the white men called him, was the hereditary king of the natives, Sir John was by common consent the symbol of authority for the white men. Lord Charles Baringstoke had not a respectful manner, and frequently alluded to Sir John Sweetling as Jonathan Gasbags, but he would never have dreamed of opposing his annual re-election to the presidency.
Customs grew as convenience demanded, and rules were made as they were wanted. The rules were kept almost invariably by every member of the club; a reprimand from Sir John was sufficient to prevent the repetition of any lapse, and the feeling of the majority of members was always against the transgressor. At first sight this may seem extraordinary. There was but one man in the club who was not wanted by the police. It included men like Lord Charles Baringstoke, who did not possess, and never had possessed, any moral sense. There were others, like Cyril Mast, who had killed what was good inthem and become slaves to the most ignoble indulgences. There were members who seemed for ever on the verge of an outbreak of maniacal violence, and there were some who were at times sunk in a suicidal melancholy. It might have been foretold that such a club would be doomed to destruction by the riot and rebellion of its own members. But that forecast would have proved incorrect.
It is, after all, a commonplace that when anarchy has removed all existing laws and government, the construction of a fresh government and new laws will next have to occupy its attention. Those who had rebelled against an elaborate legal system, bore with patience the easier yoke which was devised for their own special needs, and often at their own suggestion and instigation, in the island of Faloo. Too high an ideal was not set for them. Every form of gambling was permitted, except gambling on credit. Among the exiles there was neither bet nor business unless the money was in sight. Intoxication was frequent with some of the members, and was not condemned, but it was recognised that its propriety was a matter of time and place. As ritual survives religion, etiquette survivesmorality, and no member of the Exiles’ Club would have committed the offence of tipping a club servant; nor would he have stormed at a waiter however bad the service might have been, but would simply have backed his bill. There was no definite rule against profanity, and its use was common enough, but there were two or three men in the club—one of them murdered his own mother—in whose presence the rest kept a certain check on their tongues. The principle was generally accepted that the life of a member, so far as it concerned other members, began with his arrival at Faloo. Confidences were not sought; if, as rarely happened, they were volunteered they were not welcomed, lest they should demand confidences in return. Briefly, the men, troubled no longer with a complex civilisation, had made for themselves their simple conditions of life, and such law as was involved by those conditions they respected.