It seems incredible and yet it is a fact that Bainbridge never knew that young Mrs. Spence had run away. Full credit for this must be given to Miss Caroline Campion, who never really believed it herself—a mental limitation which lent the necessary air of unemphasized truth to her statement that Desire had been summoned suddenly to her father.
Miss Campion had, in her own mind, built up an imaginary Dr. Farr in every way suited to be the father-in-law of a Spence. This creation she passed on to Bainbridge as Desire's father. "Such a fine old gentleman," she would say. "And so devoted to his only daughter. Quite a recluse, though, my nephew tells me. And not at all strong." This idea of delicacy, which Miss Campion had added to the picture from a sense of the fitness of things, proved useful now. An only daughter may be summoned to attend a delicate father at a moment's notice, without unduly straining credulity.
One feels almost sorry for Bainbridge. It would have enjoyed the truth so much!
"Is Desire going to have no breakfast at all?" asked Aunt Caroline, from behind the coffee-urn on the morning following the garden-party. It was an invariable custom of hers to pretend that her nephew was fully conversant with his wife's intentions.
"She may be tired," said Benis.
"No. She has been up some time. The door of her room was open when I came down."
"Then she is probably in the garden. I'll ask Olive to call her."
"Why not call her yourself? I have a feeling—"
The professor rose from his untasted coffee. When Aunt Caroline "had a feeling" it was useless to argue.
"Are you sleeping badly again, Benis?" asked Aunt Caroline. "Your eyes look like burnt holes in a blanket."
"Nothing to bother about, Aunt." He stepped out quickly into the sunny garden. But Desire was not among the flowers, neither was she on the lawn nor in the shrubbery. A few moments' search proved that she was not out of doors at all. Benis returned to his coffee. He found it quite cold and no waiting Aunt Caroline to pour him another cup. "I wonder," he pondered idly, "why, when one really wants coffee, it is always cold."
Then he forgot about coffee suddenly and completely, for Aunt Caroline came in with the news that Desire was gone.
"Gone where?" asked Spence stupidly.
"That," said Aunt Caroline, "she leaves you to inform me."
With the feeling of being someone else and acting under compulsion he took the few written lines which she held out to him. "Dear Aunt Caroline," he read, "Benis will tell you why I am going. But I cannot go without thanking you. I'll never forget how good you have been—Desire."
"I had a feeling," said Aunt Caroline with mournful triumph. "It never deceives me, never! As I passed our dear girl's room this morning, I said, 'She is not there'—and she wasn't!"
"I think you mentioned that the door was open."
"That has nothing to do with it. I—"
"Where did you find this note?"
"On her dressing table. When you went into the gar-den, I went upstairs. I had a feeling—"
"Was there nothing else? No note for me?"
"No," in surprise. "She says you know all about it. Don't you?"
"Something, not all."
Aunt Caroline was, upon occasion, quite capable of meeting a crisis. Remembering the neglected coffee, she poured a cup for each of them.
"Here," said she, "drink this. You look as if you needed it. I must say, Benis, that you don't act as if you knew anything, but if you do, you'd better tell me. Where is Desire?"
"I don't know."
"Umph! Then what you do know won't help us to find her. Finding her is the first thing. I wonder," thoughtfully, "if she told John?"
A wintry smile passed over the professor's lips.
"I shall ask him," he said.
Aunt Caroline proceeded with her own deducing. "There is no one else she could have told," she reasoned. "She did not tell you. She did not tell me. Naturally, she would not tell Mary. And a girl nearly always tells somebody. So it must be John. I hope you are sufficiently ashamed of yourself, Benis? I told you Desire wouldn't understand your attentions to Mary. Though I admit I did not dream she would take them quite so seriously. I don't envy you your explanations."
"Aunt—"
"Wait a moment, Benis. On second thought, if I were you I would not explain at all. Simply tell her she is mistaken and stick to that. She may believe you. Promise her that you will never see Mary again—and you won't" (grimly) "if I have anything to say about it. Desire will come around. I have a feeling—"
"My dear Aunt!"
"Let me proceed, Benis. I have a feeling that she will forgive you—once. But let this be a lesson. Desire is not a girl who will forgive twice."
"You are all wrong, Aunt," with weary patience. "But it doesn't matter. Say nothing about this. I am going to see John."
"Not before you drink that coffee."
Benis obediently drank. Hurry would not mend what had happened.
"She has taken her travelling coat and hat," pursued Aunt Caroline. "Her train slippers, that taupe jersey-cloth suit, some fresh blouses, her dressing case, her night things and your photo off the dressing table."
Benis smiled, a wry smile, and pushed back his cup.
"You don't look fit to go anywhere," said Aunt Caroline irritably. "Why can't you call John on the 'phone?"
"That would be quite modern," said Benis. "But—I think I'll see him. I shan't be long."
It never once occurred to the professor, you will notice, that he might find John vanished also. His obsessing thought had not been able to change his essential knowledge of either Desire or John. If Desire had gone, she had gone because she could not stay. But she had gone alone. Just what determining thing had happened to make her flight imperative, Benis could not guess. But he would not have been human if he had not blamed the other man. "The fool has bungled it!" he thought. "Lost control of his precious feelings, perhaps—broken through—said something—frightened her." We may be sure that he cursed John in his heart very completely.
But when he entered John's office and saw John he began to doubt even this. There was no guilt on the doctor's face—no sign of apprehension or regret, no tremor of knowledge. An angry-eyed young man looked up from a letter he was reading with nothing more serious than injured wonder in his gaze.
"Can you beat it?" asked John disgustedly, waving the letter. "Aren't women the limit? Here's this one going off without a word, or an excuse, or anything. Just gone! And a silly note thrown on my desk. I tell you women have absolutely no sense of business obligation—positively not!"
Spence restrained himself.
"You are speaking of—?"
"That nurse of mine, Miss Watkins. Never a word about leaving yesterday, and today vanished—vamoosed—simply non est! Look at what she says.—"
Spence pushed the letter aside.
"There is something more important than that, John," he said quietly, "Desire has left me."
The two men stared at each other. Spence was the first to speak.
"There is no doubt about it. She is gone. She has not told us where. I see that you do not know."
John shook his head.
"There may be a note for you in the morning's mail." Benis was coldly brief. "I must know where she is. If you can help me, let me know." He turned to the door.
With difficulty John found his voice.
"I knew nothing of this, Benis."
"I realize that," dryly. "But you may be responsible for it. She had no idea of leaving yesterday."
"Benis, I swear—"
"It is not necessary. Besides," bitterly, "you could afford to be patient. You felt fairly—sure, didn't you?"
"Sure! No, I—"
"You mean you merely hoped?"
"Oh—damn!"
"Quite so. There is nothing to say. Not being a sentimentalist, I shan't pretend to love you, John. But I gambled and I've lost. I have always admired a good loser."
Upon reaching home Benis found Aunt Caroline waiting for him just inside the outer gate.
"I thought," she explained, "that we might talk while strolling up the drive. Then Olive would not overhear."
The professor had quite neglected to consider Olive.
"I have told Olive," went on Aunt Caroline, "that Mrs. Spence had received news of her father which was far from satisfactory and that she had left for Vancouver by the early morning train. The morning train is the only one she could have left by, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"Then that's all right. I also let Olive know, indirectly, that you were remaining behind to attend to a few matters. After which you would follow."
Admiration for this generalship pierced even the deep depression of the professor.
"Does John know where she is?" pursued Aunt Caroline.
"No."
"Then she has gone home to her father. She said something the other day which puzzled me. I can't remember just what it was but she seemed to have some fatalistic idea, about her old life having a hold upon her which she couldn't shake off. Pure morbidity, as I pointed out. But she has gone back. I have a feeling that she has."
"You may be right, Aunt. It will be easy to find out. If I can make the necessary inquiries without arousing gossip. There was nothing in the mail—for me?"
"No. The man has just been. But there is something for Desire, an odd looking package done up in foreign paper. I have it here."
Spence took from her hand a slim, yellowish packet, directed in the crabbed writing of Li Ho.
"I can't make out whether it is 'Hon. Mrs. Professor Spence' or whether the 'Mrs.' is 'Mr.' Perhaps you had better open it, Benis."
"Perhaps, later." Spence slipped the packet into his pocket. "It 'can't have anything to do with our present problem.... I must make some telephone inquiries. But if Desire has gone, Aunt, we may as well face facts. She does not want me to follow her."
"Doesn't she?" Aunt Caroline surveyed him with a pitying smile. "How stupid men are! But go along to the library. You've had no decent breakfast. I'll send you in something to eat. As for Bainbridge—leave that to me." ...
How curiously does a room change with the changing mind of its occupant. Benis Spence had known his library in many moods. It had been a refuge; it had been a prison; it had been a place of dreams. He had liked to fancy that something of himself stayed there—something which met him, warm and welcoming, when he came in at the door. He had liked to play that the room had a soul. And, after he had brought Desire home, the idea had grown until he had seemed to feel an actual presence in its cool seclusion. But if presence there had been, it was gone now. The place was empty. The air hung dull and lifeless. The chairs stood stiff against the wall, the watching books had no greeting. Only Yorick swung and flapped in his cage, his throat full of mutterings.
It is all very well to be a good loser. But loss is bitter. Here was loss, stark and staring.
Spence walked over to the neatly tidied desk and there, for an instant, the cold finger lifted from his heart. A letter was lying on the clean blotter—she had not gone without a word, then! She had slipped in here to say good-bye.... A very little is much to him who has nothing.
The letter was brief. Only a few words written hurriedly with a spluttering pen:
"I am going, Ben-is. I think we are both sure now. But please—please do not pity me. Love is too big for pity. You have given me so much, give me this one thing more—the understanding that can believe me when I say that I, too, am glad to give.
"Desire."
Benis laid the letter softly down upon the ordered desk. No, he need not pity her. She had had the courage to let little things go. She, who had demanded so royally of life, now made no outcry that the price was high. Well, ... it need not be so high, perhaps. He would make it as easy as might be.
The parrot was trying to attract him with his usual goblin croaks. Benis rubbed its bent, green head.
"You'll miss her, too, old chap," he said, adding angrily, "dashed sentimentality!"
The sound of his own voice steadied him. He must be careful. Above all, he must not sink into self-pity. He must go back to his work. It had meant everything to him once. It must mean everything to him again. If he were a man at all he must fight through this inertia. Life had tumbled him out of his shell, played with him for an hour, and now would tumble him back again—no, by Jove, he refused to be tumbled back! He would fight through. He would come out somewhere, some-time.
It occurred to him that he ought to be thankful that Desire at least was going to be happy. But he did not feel glad. He was not even sure that she was going to be happy. Something kept stubbornly insisting that she would have been much happier with him. Quite with-out prejudice, had they not been extraordinarily well suited? He put the question up to fate. The hardest thing about the whole hard matter was the insistent feeling that a second mistake had been made. John and Desire—his mind refused to see any fitness in the mating. Yet this very perversity of love was something which he had long recognized with the complacence of assured psychology.
He heard Mary's voice in the hall. He had forgotten Mary. He hoped she would not tap upon the library door—as she sometimes did. No, thank heaven, she had gone upstairs! That was an odd idea of Aunt Caroline's. If he had felt like smiling he would have smiled at it. Desire jealous of Mary? Ridiculous....
"Here comes old Bones," said Yorick conversationally.
The professor started. It was a phrase he had him-self taught the bird during that time of illness when John's visit had been the bright spot in long dull days. It had amused them both that the parrot seldom made a mistake, seeming to know, long before his master, when the doctor was near.
But today? Surely Yorick was wrong today. John would not come today. Would never come again—but did anyone save John race up the drive in that abandoned manner? Benis frowned. He did not want to see John. He would not see him! But as he went to leave the library by one door John threw open the other and stood for an instant blinded by the comparative dimness within.
"Where are you, Benis?"
"Here."
Spence closed the door. His brief anger was swallowed up in something else. Never, even in France, had he seen John look like this.
"We're a precious pair of dupes!" began John in a high voice and without preliminaries. "Prize idiots—imbeciles!"
"Very likely," said Benis. "But you're not talking to New York."
He made no move to take the paper which John held out in a shaking hand.
"What is the matter with you?" he asked sternly.
"What's the matter with me? Oh, nothing. What's the matter with all of us? Crazy—that's all! Here—read it! It's from Desire. Must have posted it last night."
Spence put the letter aside.
"If you have news, you had better tell it. That is if you can talk in an ordinary voice."
John laughed harshly. "My voice is all right. Not so dashed cool as yours. Read it!"
Spence took the sheet held out to him; but he had no wish to> read Desire's words to John.
"If it is a private letter—" he began.
"Oh, don't be a bigger fool than you have been! Unless," with sudden suspicion, "you've known all along? Perhaps you have. Even you could hardly have been so completely duped."
"If you will tell me what you are talking about—"
"Read it. It is plain enough."
The professor slowly opened the folded sheet. It was a longer note than the one she had left for him.
"Dear John," he read, "if I I'd known yesterday that I would leave so soon I could have said good-bye. But my decision was made suddenly. I think you must have seen how it is with Benis and Mary and I can't go without telling you that I knew about it from the first. I don't want you to blame Benis. He told me about it before we were married, and I took the risk with my eyes open. How could he, or I, have guessed that he had given up hope too soon?—and anyway, it wasn't in the bargain that I should love him.—It just happened.—He is desperately unhappy. Help him if you can.—Your affectionate Desire."
"My affectionate Desire!" mocked John, still in that high, strained voice which now was perilously near a sob. "That—that is what I was to her, a convenient friend! You—you had it all. And let it go, for the sake of that blond-haired, deer-eyed, fashion plate—"
"That's enough! You are not an hysterical girl. Sit down.... I can't understand this, John. I thought—"
The two men looked at each other, a long look in which distrust at least was faced and ended. The excited flush, died out of John's cheek. He looked weary and shame-faced.
"I thought she loved you," said Spence simply.
The doctor's eyes fell. It was his honest admission that he, too, had thought this possible.
"Even now," went on the professor haltingly, "I can-not believe ... it doesn't seem possible ... me? ... John, does the letter mean that Desire loves me?"
John Rogers nodded, turning away.
Silence fell between them.
"What will you do—about the other?" asked the doctor presently.
"What other? There is no other. I loved Desire from the very first night I saw her. I didn't know it, then. It was all new. And," with a bitter smile, "so different from what one expects. Mary was never any-thing but the figure of straw I told you of. I thought," naively, "that Desire had forgotten Mary."
"Did you?" said John. "Why man, the woman doesn't live who would forget! And Miss Davis filled the bill to the last item—even the name 'Mary'."
"Oh what a pal was M-Mary!" croaked Yorick obligingly.
"The bird, too!" said John. "Everyone doing his little best to sustain the illusion—even, if I am any judge, the lady herself."
But Benis Spence had never wasted time upon the lady herself. And he did not begin now. With a face which had suddenly become years younger he was searching frantically in his desk for the transcontinental time-table.
The train crawled.
Although it was a fast express whose speed might well provoke the admiration of travellers, in one traveller it provoked nothing save grim endurance. Beside the consuming impatience of Benis Hamilton Spence, its best effort was a little thing. When it slowed, he fidgeted, when it stopped he fumed. He wanted to get out and push it.
Five days—four—three—two—a day and a half—the vastness of the spaces over which it must carry him grew endless as his mind continually tried to span them. He felt a distinct grievance that any country should be so wide.
"Making good time!" said a genial person, travelling in the tobacco trade. The professor eyed him with suspicion, as a man deranged by optimism.
The train crawled.
Spence removed his eyes from the passing landscape and tried to forget how slowly it was passing. He saw himself at the end of his journey. He saw Desire. He saw a grudging moment, or second perhaps, devoted to explanation. And then—How happy they were going to be! (If the train would only forget to stop at stations it might get somewhere.) How wonderful it would be to feel the empty world grow full again! To raise one's eyes, just casually, and to see—Desire. To speak, in just one's ordinary voice, and to know she heard. To stretch out one's hand and feel that she was there. (What were they doing now? Putting on more cars? Outrageous!) He would even write that book presently, when he got around to it. (When one felt sure one could write.) But first they would go away, just he and she, east of the sun and west of the moon. They would sit together somewhere, as they used to sit on the sun-warmed grass at Friendly Bay, and say nothing at all.... How nearly they had missed it ... but it would be all right now. Love, whom they had both denied, had both given and forgiven. It would be all right, it must be all right, now! (But how the train crawled.)
Poor John, poor old Bones! What a blow it had been for him. Although he should certainly have had more sense than to fancy—Well, of course, a man can fancy anything it he wants it badly enough. Spence was honestly sorry for John—that is, he would be when he had time to consider John's case. But John, too, would be all right presently. (Why under heaven do trains need to wait ten minutes while silly people walk on platforms without hats?) John would marry a nice girl. Not a girl like Desire—not that type of girl at all. Someone quite different, but nice. A fair girl, like that nurse he had had in his office. John might be very happy with a wife like that ...
It was not until the fourth night out that the professor remembered the packet from Li Ho. It had loomed so small among the events of that day of revelations that he had completely forgotten it. He did not even remember putting it in his pocket—but there it was, still unopened, and promising some slight distraction from the wearying contemplation of the crawling train. It would shut out, too, the annoyance of the tobacco traveller, smoking with an offensive leisureliness, and declaring, in defiance of all feeling, that they were "Sharp on time and going some!"
With a reviving interest in something outside the time-table, Spence cut the string and opened the yellow packet. A small note-book fell out and a letter—two letters, and one of them in the unmistakable writing of Li Ho him-self. This latter, the professor opened first.
"Honorable Spence and Esteemed Professor, dear Sir," wrote Li Ho. "Permit felicity to include book belong departed parent of valued wife. Deceased lady write as per day. Li Ho extract and think proper missy to know. Honorable Boss head much loony. Secure that missy remain removed if desiring safety. Belong much danger here since married as per also enclosed. Exalted self be insignificantly warned by person of no intelligence, Li Ho."
Farther down, in a corner of the sheet was this sentence:
"Permit to notably add that respected lady departed life Jan. 14."
Li Ho had certainly surpassed himself. The bewildered professor forgot about the time-table entirely. What Chinese meaning lay behind this jumble of dictionary words? That they were not used at haphazard Spence knew. Li Ho had some distinct meaning to convey—had indeed already conveyed it in the one outstanding word "danger." For an instant the professor's mind sickened with that weakness which had been his dreadful legacy of war. But it passed immediately. Something stronger, deeper in, took quiet command. Desire was in danger! Shock has a way at times of giving back what shock has taken.—Spence became his own man once more—cool, ready.
With infinite care he went over the Chinaman's disjointed sentences. They had been written under stress.
That much presented no difficulty. Li Ho, the imperturbable, had permitted himself a fit of nerves ... Something must have happened. Something new. Something which threatened a danger not sufficiently emphasized before. In his former letter Li Ho had indeed intimated that a return was not desirable, but it had been an intimation based on general principles only. This was different. This had all the marks of urgent warning. "No more safe being married as per inclosed." This cryptic remark might mean that further enlightenment was to be sought in the enclosures.
Spence picked up the second letter. It was addressed to Dr. Herbert Farr at Vancouver, and was merely a formal notice from a firm of English solicitors—post-marked London—a well-known firm, probably, from the address on their letterhead.
"Dr. Herbert Farr, Vancouver, B. C.
Dear Sir:
As executors in the estate of Mrs. Henry Strangeways we beg to inform you that the allowance paid to you for the maintenance of Miss Desire Farr is hereby discontinued. This action is taken under the terms of our late clients will,—whereby such allowance ceases upon the marriage of the said Desire Farr or her voluntary removal from your roof and care.
Obediently yours, Hervey & Ellis."
The professor whistled. Here was enlightenment indeed! A very sufficient explanation of the old man's grim determination to block any self-dependence on Desire's part which would mean "removal from" his "care." Here was someone paying a steady (and perhaps a fat) allowance for the young girl's maintenance—someone of whom she herself had certainly never heard and of whose bounty she remained completely ignorant. It was easy enough now to follow Li Ho's reasoning. If it was for this allowance, and this alone, that the old doctor had kept Desire with him, long after her presence had become a matter of indifference or even of distaste, the ending of the allowance meant also the ending of his tolerance. "No more safe, being married." The difference, in Li Ho's opinion, was all the difference between comparative safety and real danger. Money! As long as Desire had meant money there had been an instinct in the old scoundrel which, even in his moon-devil fits, had protected the goose which laid the golden eggs. But now—now this inhibition was removed, Desire, no longer valuable, was no longer safeguarded. And who could tell what added grudge of rage and vengeance might be darkly harbored in the depths of that crafty and unbalanced mind?
And Desire, unwarned, was even now almost within the madman's reach.... Spence sternly refused to think of this ... there was time yet ... plenty of time.... The thing to do was to keep cool ... steady now!
"Kind of pretty, going through these here mountains by moonlight," observed the tobacco traveller, inclined to be genial even under difficulties. "She'll be full tomorrow night. Queer thing that them there prohibitionists can't keep the moon from getting full!" He laughed in hearty appreciation of his own cleverness.
The professor, a polite man, tried to smile. And then, suddenly, the meaning of what had been said came home to him.
Tomorrow night would be full moon!
He had forgotten about the moon.
"Queer cuss," thought the travelling man. "Stares at you polite enough but never says anything. No conversation. Just about as lively as an undertaker."
But if Benis had forgotten to remove his eyes from the travelling man, he did not know it. He did not see him. He saw nothing but moonlight—moonlight across an uncovered floor and the white dimness of a bed in the shadow! ... But he must keep cool ... was there time to stop Desire with a telegram? She was only a day ahead ... no—he was just too late for that. He knew the time-table by heart. Her train was already in ... impossible to reach her now!
Fear having reached its limit, his mind swung slowly back to reason.... There was, he told himself, no occasion for panic. Li Ho might have exaggerated. Besides, a danger known is almost a danger met And Li Ho knew. Li Ho would be there. When, Desire came he would guard her.... A few hours only ... until he could get to her.... She was safe for tonight at least. She would not attempt to cross the Inlet, until the morning. She would have to hire a launch—a thing no woman would attempt to do at that hour of night. She was in no hurry. She would stay somewhere in the city and get herself taken to Farr's Landing in the morning.... Through the day, too, she would be safe ... and, to-morrow night, he, Benis, would be there.... But not until late ... not until after the moon ... better not think of the moon ... think of Li Ho ... Li Ho would surely watch ...
He lay in his berth and told himself this over and over. The train swung on. The cool, high air of the mountains crept through the screened window. They were swinging through a land of awful and gigantic beauty. The white moon turned the snow peaks into glittering fountains from which pure light cascaded down, down into the blackness at their base ... one more morning ... one more day ... Vancouver at night ... a launch ... Desire!
Meanwhile one must keep steady. The professor drew from its yellow wrapping the little note-book which had been the second of Li Ho's enclosures. It had belonged, if Li Ho's information were correct, to Desire's mother—a diary, probably. "Deceased lady write as per day." Spence hesitated. It was Desire's property. He felt a delicacy in examining it. But so many mistakes had already been made through want of knowledge, he dared not risk another one. And Li Ho had probably other than sentimental reasons for sending the book.
He shut out the mountains and the moonlight, and clicking on the berth-light, turned the dog-eared pages reverently. Only a few were written upon. It was a diary, as he had guessed, or rather brief bits of one. The writing was small but very clear in spite of the fading ink. The entries began abruptly. It was plain that there had been another book of which this was a continuation.
The first date was November 1st—no year given.
"It is raining. The Indians say the winter will be very wet. Desire plays in the rain and thrives. She is a lovely child, high-spirited—not like me."
"November 10th—He was worse this month. I think he gets steadily a little worse. I dare not say what I think. He would say that I had fancies. No one else sees anything save harmless eccentricity,—except perhaps Li Ho. But I am terrified.
"December 7th—I tried once more to get away. He found me quickly. It isn't easy for a woman with a child to hide—without money. For myself I can stand it—my own fault! But—my little girl!
"December 15th—I have been ill. Such a terrible experience. My one thought was the dread of dying. I must live. I cannot leave Desire—here.
"December 20th—He bought Desire new shoes and a frock today. It is strange, but he seems to take a certain care of her. Why? I do not know. I have wondered about his motives until I fancy things. What motive could he have ... except that maybe he is not all evil? Maybe be cares for the child. She is so sweet—No. I must not deceive myself. Whatever his reason is, I know that it is not that.
"January 9th—A strange thing happened today. I found a torn envelope bearing the name of Harry's English lawyers. I have seen the same kind of envelope in Harry's hands more than once. They used to send him his remittance, I think. What can this man have to do with English lawyers? I am frightened. But for once I am more angry than afraid. I must watch. If he has dared to write to Harry's people—"
The writing of the next entry had lost its clearness. It was almost illegible.
"January 13th—How could he! How could he sink so low! I have seen the lawyer's letter. He has taken money. From Harry's mother—for Desire. And this began within a month of our marriage. It shames me so that I cannot live. Yet I must live. I can't leave the child. But I can stop this hateful traffic in a dead man's honor. I will write myself to England."
This was the last fragment. Spence looked again at the almost erased date—January 13th. He felt the sweat on his forehead for, beside that date, the unexplained postscript of Li Ho's letter took on a ghastly significance.
"Respected lady depart life on January 14th."
She had not lived to write to England!
It seemed to Benis Spence afterward that during that last day, while the train plunged steadily down to sea level, he passed every boundary ever set for the patience of man. It was a lovely, sparkling day. The rivers leaped and danced in sunshine. Long shadows swept like beating wings along the mountain sides. The air blew cool and sweet upon his lips. But for once he was deaf and blind and heedless of it all. He thought only of the night—of the night and the moon.
It came at last—a night as lovely as the day. Benis sat with his hand upon his watch. They were running sharp on time. There could be nothing to delay them now—barring an accident. Instantly his mind created an accident, providing all the ghastly details. He saw himself helpless, pinned down, while the full moon climbed and sailed across the skies....
But there was no accident. A cheery bustle soon began in the car. Suitcases were lifted up, unstrapped and strapped again. Women took their hats from the big paper bags which hung like balloons between the windows. There was a general shaking and fixing and sorting of possessions. Only the porter remained serene. He knew exactly how long it would take him to brush his car and did not believe in beginning too soon. Benis kept his eye on the porter. He stirred at last.
"Bresh yo' coat, Suh?"
The professor allowed himself to be brushed and even proffered the usual tip, so powerful is the push of habit. In the narrow corridor by the door he waited politely while the lady who wouldn't trust her suitcase to the porter got stuck sideways and had to be pried out. But when once his foot descended upon the station platform, he was a man again. The killing inaction was over.
With the quiet speed of one who knows that hurry defeats haste, he set about materializing the plans which he had made upon the train. And circumstance, repentant of former caprice, seemed willing to serve. The very first taxi-man he questioned was an intelligent fellow who knew more about Vancouver than its various hotels. A launch? Yes, he knew where a launch might be hired, also a man who could run it. Provided, of course—
Spence produced an inspiring roll of bills. The taxi-man grinned.
"Sure, if you've got the oof it's easy enough," he assured him. "Wake up the whole town and charter a steamer if you don't care what they soak you." He considered a moment. "'Tisn't a dope job, is it?"
Spence looked blank.
"What I mean to say is, what kind of man do you want?"
"Any man who will take me where I want to go."
The taxi-man nodded. "All right. That's easy."
In less time than even to the professor seemed possible the required boat-man was produced and bargained with. That is to say he was requested to mention his terms and produce his launch, both of which he did without hesitancy. And again circumstance was kind.
"If it's Farr's Landing you want," said the boat-man, leading a precarious way down a dark wharf, "I guess you've come to the right party. 'Taint a place many folks know. But I ran in there once to borrow some gas. Queer gink that there Chinaman! Anyone know you're coming? Anyone likely to show a light or anything?"
The professor said that his visit was unexpected. They would have to manage without a light.
The boat-man feared that, in that case, the terms might "run to" a bit more. But, upon receiving a wink from the taxi-man, did not waste time in stating how far they might run, but devoted himself to the encouragement of a cold engine and the business of getting under way.
Once more Spence was reduced to passive waiting. But the taste of the salt and the smell of it brought back the picture of Desire as he had seen her first—strong, self-confident. He had thought these qualities ungirlish at the time; now he thanked God for the memory of them.
It had been dark enough when they left the wharf but soon a soft brightness grew.
"Here she comes!" said his pilot with satisfaction. "Some moon, ain't she?"
"Hurry!" There was an urge in the professor's voice which fitted in but poorly with the magic of the night. The boat-man felt it and wondered. He tried a little conversation.
"Know the old Doc. well?" he inquired. "Queer old duck, eh? And that Li Ho is about the most Chinky Chinaman I ever seen. Come to think of it, I never paid him back that gas I borrowed."
"Hasn't he been across lately?" asked Spence, controlling his voice.
"Haven't seen him. But then 'tisn't as if I was out looking for him. Used to be a right pretty girl come over sometimes, the old Doc's daughter. Hasn't been around for a long time. Maybe you're a relative or some-thing?"
"See here," said Spence. "It's on account of the young lady that I am going there tonight. I have reason to fear that she may be in danger."
"That so?" The boat-man's comfortably slouched shoulders squared. He leaned over and did something to his engine. "In that case we'll take a chance or two. Hold tight, we're bucking the tide-rip. Lucky we've got the moon!"
Yes, they had the moon! With growing despair the professor watched her white loveliness drag a slipping mantle over the dark water. The same light must lie upon the clearing on the mountain ... where was Li Ho? Was he awake—and watching? Had he warned the girl? Or was she sleeping, weary with the journey, while only one frail old Chinaman stood between her and a terror too grim to guess ...
A long interval ... the sailing moon ... the swish of parting water as the launch cut through ...
"Must be thereabouts now," said the boat-man suddenly. "I'll slow her down. Keep your eye skinned for the landing."
A period of endless waiting, while the launch crept cautiously along the rocky shore—then a darker shadow in the shadows and the boat-man's excited "Got it!" The launch slipped neatly in beside the float.
"Want any help?" asked the boat-man curiously as his passenger sprang from the moving launch.
Spence did not hear him. He was already across the sodden planks. Only the up-trail now lay between him and the end—or the beginning. The shadows of the trees stretched waving arms. He felt strong as steel, light as air as he sprang up the wooded path....
It was just as he had pictured it—the cottage in its square of silver ... the sailing moon!
But the cottage was empty.
He knew at once that it was empty. He dared not let himself know it. With a doggedness which defied conviction, he dragged his feet, suddenly heavy, across the rough grass. The door on the veranda was open. Why not?—the door of an empty house.... He went in.
The moonlight showed the old familiar things, the chinks in the wall, the rickety table, the couch, the stairway! ... He stumbled to the stairway. He forced his leaden feet to mount it.... It was pitch dark there. The upper doors were shut.... "Her door—on the right." He said this to himself as if prompting a stupid little boy with a lesson ... In the darkness his hand felt for the door-knob ... but why open the door? ... There was no life behind it. He knew that.... There was no life anywhere in this horrible emptiness.... "Death, then." He muttered, as he flung back the door.
There was nothing there ... only moonlight ... nothing ... yes, something on the floor ... some-thing light and lacy, crushed into shapelessness ... Desire's hat.
He picked it up. The wires of its chiffon frame, broken and twisted, fell limp in his hand.
There was no other sign in the room. The bed was untouched. The Thing which had wrecked its insatiate rage upon the hat had not lingered. Spence went out slowly. There would be time for everything now—since time had ceased to matter. He laid the hat aside gently. There might be work for his hands to do.
With mechanical care he searched the cottage. No trace of disturbance met him anywhere until he reached the kitchen. Something had happened there Over-turned chairs and broken table—a door half off its hinge. Someone had fled from the house this way ... fled where?
There were so many places!
In his mind's eye Spence saw them ... the steep and slippery cliff, with shingle far below ... the clumps of dense bracken ... the deep, dark crevices where water splashed! ...
He went outside. It was not so bright now. There were clouds on the moon. One side of the clearing lay wholly in shadow. He waited and, as the light brightened, he saw the thing he sought—trampled bracken, a broken bush.... He followed the trail with a slow certitude of which ordinarily he would have been incapable.... It did not lead very far. The trees thinned abruptly. A rounded moss-covered rock rose up between him and the moon ... and on the rock, grotesque and darkly clear, a crouching figure—looking down....
A curious sound broke from Spence's throat. He stooped and sprang. But quick as he was, the figure on the rock was quicker. It slipped aside. Spence heard a guttural exclamation and caught a glimpse of a yellow face.
"Li Ho!"
The Chinaman pulled him firmly back from the edge of the moss-covered rock.
"All same Li Ho," he said. "You come click—but not too dam click."
"I know. Where is he?"
It was the one thing which held interest for Bern's Spence now.
Li Ho stepped gingerly to the edge of the rounded rock. In the clear light, Spence could see how the moss had been scraped from the margin.
"Him down there," said Li Ho. "Moon-devil push 'um. Plenty stlong devil!" Li Ho shrugged.
Spence's clenched hands relaxed.
"Dead?" he asked dully.
"Heap much dead," said Li Ho. "Oh, too much squash!" He made a gesture.
Benis was not quite sure what happened then. He remembers leaning against a tree. Presently he was aware of a horrible smell—the smell of some object which Li Ho held to his nostrils.
"Plenty big smell," said Li Ho. "Make 'urn sit up."
Benis sat up.
"Where is—" he began. But his throat closed upon the question. He could not ask.
"Missy in tent," said Li Ho stolidly. "Missy plenty tired. Sleep velly good."
Spence tried to take this in ... tent ... sleep ...
"Li Ho tell missy house no so-so," went on the China-man, pressing his evil-smelling salts closer to his victim's face. "Missy say 'all light'—sleep plenty well in tent; velly fine night."
Benis tried feebly to push the abomination away from his nose.
"Desire ... alive?" he whispered.
"Oh elite so. Velly much. Moon-devil velly smart but Li Ho much more clever. Missy she no savey—all light."
Spence began to laugh. It was dangerous laughter—or so at least Li Ho thought, for he promptly smothered it with his "velly big smell." The measure proved effective. The professor decided not to laugh. He held himself quiet until control came back and then stood up.
"I thought she was dead, Li Ho," he said.
In the half light the inscrutable face changed ever so little.
"Li Ho no let," said the Chinaman simply. "You better now, p'laps?" he went on. "We go catch honor-able Boss before missy wake." Spence nodded. He felt extraordinarily tired. But it seemed that tiredness did not matter, would never matter. The empty world had become warm and small again. Desire was safe.
Together he and Li Ho slid and scrambled down the mountain's face, by ways known only to Li Ho. And there, on a strip of beach left clean and wet by the receding tide, they found the dead man. Beside him, and twisted beneath, lay the green umbrella.
"How did it really happen, Li Ho?" asked Spence. Not that he expected any information.
"Moon-devil velly mad," said Li Ho. "Honorable Boss no watch step. Moon-devil push—too bad!"
"And the fight in the kitchen? And on the trail?"
Li Ho shook his head.
"No fight anywhere," he said blandly.
"And this long rip in your coat?"
"Too much old coat—catch 'um in bush," said Li Ho.
So when they lifted the body and it was found that the arm beneath the torn coat was useless, Spence said nothing. And somehow they managed to carry the dead man home.
It was dawn when they laid him down. Birds were already beginning to twitter in the trees. Desire would be waking soon. The world was going to begin all over presently. Spence laid his hand gently on the Chinaman's injured arm.
"You saved her, Li Ho," he said. "It is a big debt for one man to owe another."
The Chinaman said nothing. He was looking at the dead face—a curious lost look.
"He velly good man one time," said Li Ho. "All same before moon-devil catch 'um."
"You stayed with him a long time, Li Ho. You were a good friend."
Li Ho blinked rapidly, but made no reply.
"Will you come with us, Li Ho?" The inscrutable, oriental eyes looked for a moment into the frank eyes of the white man and then passed by them to the open door—to the dawn just turning gold above the sea. The uninjured hand rose and fell in an indescribable gesture.
"Li Ho go home now!"
The words seemed to flutter out like birds into some vast ocean of content.