VIIIThe storm increased; the air was thick with snow, cold with the breath of Arctic winter. In the middle of the night, the foresail and mainsail blew out of the bolt-ropes. They bent and set the heavy new sails. Soon the spanker went, and was replaced. Captain Bradley was driving the ship without mercy; for the wind was hauling inch by inch into the east, heading them off toward the dangerous lee shore. TheVikingstood the strain; her seaworthiness had never been put to a harder test, had never shown itself so handsomely. She had been built in a day when work and honour had gone hand in hand.The morning dawned on a wild scene. Great waves rushed at the ship, lifted her high in air, broke above her bows, and stopped her progress as if she had run against a wall. It was high time to heave her to. They lowered the mainsail, foresail and jib, and managed somehow to get them furled. The quarter-deck was comparatively dry; they had no difficulty in double-reefing the spanker. In his specifications to the sailmaker, Captain Bradley had insisted on a double row of reef-point for this sail.To this tiny patch of canvas theVikingrode hove-to for the next forty-eight hours, while the storm howled down on them from the waste of waters. The decks were piled with snow, the ropes and sails were clogged with ice; slowly, mile after mile, the ship drifted against a pitiless lee shore. Captain Bradley constantly kept the deck. There was nothing more to be done—but he had to see the business through.When the storm broke, they were less than five miles off the Jersey shore at Atlantic City—so close had been their call. The drive through the night at the beginning of the storm had saved them; without the offing made at that time, they would long since have landed in the breakers at Barnegat. The wind jumped into the southwest, the clouds quickly rolled away. They chopped the gaskets, cleared the ice away from the booms and sheets and halyards, and set all sail. The ship paid off, heading up the coast; from the frozen and snowbound shore the sweet land-smell, always a miracle to sailors nearing port in winter, came off to them. Night fell, the air grew crystalline, stars sparkled white and big in the cloudless sky. Minute by minute the easterly swell decreased, knocked down by the offshore wind, as the old barge crept northward. She sunk the lights of Atlantic City, picked up Barnegat, brought it abeam, dropped it on her port quarter. Then Captain Bradley left the deck, for almost the first time in three days.He could not have kept on his feet any longer. The pain in his chest, that had set in the night before and grown by leaps and bounds during the last day of the storm, had now become so intense, at spasmodic intervals, that he felt unable to conceal his distress. At times it was well-nigh unbearable. His heart seemed trying to burst out of his body. Perhaps rest would ease the pain. At any rate, he wanted to sit down somewhere, alone, in an effort to face and compass this new development. He wanted to give his courage an overhauling.They had sounded the pumps at sunset, with no result; the splendid old hull had not leaked a drop throughout the storm. But at midnight they found two feet of water in the hold. The mate, frightened half out of his wits, rushed below with the news. Captain Bradley sat like a statue in the big chair, gripping the arms, his face white and drawn. In his excitement, the mate did not notice his extraordinary pallor and rigidity."Captain, Captain, she's sprung a leak! There's two feet of water in the hold already!"Two feet of water? ... Impossible!"The old man heaved himself to his feet and stumbled on deck, walking slowly and carefully, holding tight to the rail. The shock of the news had loosed the terrible pain again; at every breath he drew, something seemed to be stabbing him with daggers. He sounded the pumps with his own hands, to find that the mate's discovery was only too true."What can have happened, what can have happened?" he kept muttering "The change of tack must have done it. That's it!—the change of tack" Now that he had found an explanation, he could face the issue. They manned the pumps at once—this was before the day of steam pumps aboard coal barges. But the leak gained steadily on them, in spite of all they could do.It was a race with time now—for both of them. Captain Bradley gave a bitter laugh; he and theVikingwere throwing up the sponge together. The breeze had freshened, but the old ship was pitifully slow. He swore to himself as he clung to the weather rail, watching the water drag past. He was thinking of the speed that she would have shown under her former canvas; twelve to fifteen knots, she would easily have reeled off with sky-sails set in this smashing breeze. While he watched, the swift stabbing went on in his chest, as if some invisible enemy were taking full and cruel satisfaction. Was he not to be permitted to bring his old ship to port? Was this final insignificant success to be denied him?The winking eye of Navesink came in sight just before dawn. At eight o'clock, they were abreast the Highland lightship. The old barge was very low in the water, but she still retained a margin of buoyancy. With Captain Bradley, conditions for the last hour had been a little better. He had kept the deck since the pumps began, refusing to give up to a physical encumbrance; and the pain had eased away, as if temporarily succumbing to his invincible will.Soon after passing the lightship, a towboat approached them, hauling up alongside."Barge ahoy! What barge is that?""Viking. Broke adrift from a tow—three days ago—off Montauk Point""The devil you say! I'll send a hawser right aboard""You'd better. Snatch us—up the bay—quick as you can. Five feet of water—in the hold""Perhaps I'd better beach you somewhere inside the Hook?""No—tow us in. I guess—the leak will stop—in quiet water"Whether it was judgment or prescience, Captain Bradley's surmise proved correct. As they towed up the bay, pumping continually, the water in the hold at first remained for a while at a constant level, then began slowly to fall, enough to show that they were gaining on the leak.Below the Narrows, the tugboat dropped astern, ranging up on theViking'squarter."Well, old man, where have you decided to go?"Captain Bradley stood in the starboard alley-way, one hand grasping the rail, the other the corner of the after house. It was the only way that he could hold himself upright. In the last half hour the pain had returned with fresh violence. Since its return, he had known what he would have to do. The ship was all right now; but, for him, little time remained."Anchor us—at Tompkinsville—close inshore. Send word to my office. Get some men—my crew are—worn out. Bring off a doctor—for God's sake!..." The strained voice broke in a shrill cry.The mate ran aft along the alley-way. "Captain!—what's the matter, sir?""Sick" Captain Bradley's hand flew to his breast, clutching his coat in a great handful. His face turned deathly white, his eyes closed, his mouth twisted in the intensity of the pain. For an instant he swayed; then opened his eyes again, and pulled himself upright against the rail."I brought her in!" he cried loudly "My old ship ... under sail"The mate was just in time to catch him as he pitched forward insensible.IXThe doctor came out of the captain's stateroom with a grave look on his face. The mate stood in the middle of the cabin floor, nervous and unstrung; he had been fond of Captain Bradley. The afternoon sun streamed through the cabin skylight. For several hours they had been watching the old man struggle for breath. The mate's gaze roved uneasily over the top of the chart table, where, according to his invariable habit, the captain had that morning spread the tablecover that he used in port, and had set out a few pictures and ornaments, to make the cabin look more homelike. He had done it between spasms of pain, while they had been towing up the bay; had done it for something to occupy his mind. He always tried to arrange the things as he remembered his wife used to do."He can't last much longer" said the doctor "His heart is practically gone"The mate nodded without looking up. "Is he suffering much pain?""Not now. I've just given him another hypodermic. That's all we can do for him"They went together into the stateroom. Captain Bradley lay quietly against a heap of pillows, with his eyes half closed. He had regained consciousness as soon as they had brought him below. As the mate bent above him, he opened his eyes and stared dully around the room. He was muttering to himself. The mate leaned closer—then drew back sharply, realizing that the words were only the product of delirium."Hello, hello! ... that you, Sargent? When did you arrive? Let's get a couple of chairs this afternoon, and go along Glenealy Road. I want to see Hong Kong harbour again through the bamboo trees.... Remember that day we had a picnic on Glenealy Road? You had your wife with you that voyage. My Frankie got tired: I had to carry him in my arms.... Frankie never grew up. No.... He died"The mate shook his head violently, as if to throw off the mortality of the scene. He turned away from the bunk. "Why does the old man have to wander so?" he demanded sharply."The opiate" said the doctor "Don't worry—he isn't suffering now"Captain Bradley regarded his officer with a long and profound stare. Suddenly, recognition dawned in his eyes."Oh, Foster!—what do you say? How much water do the pumps give now? Any chance of the leak drying up?""Only a couple of feet left in her, Captain. Four men have come off from shore to relieve our crew. We'll soon have her as dry as a bone, sir""No use" Captain Bradley rolled his head on the pillow "You'll find her larboard strake started—port side of the keel. She's finished. She'll have to go to the junk heap now" He lay quiet a moment, thinking. "If I had my way, she should be towed to sea, and sunk in deep water. I ought to go along with her.... But I suppose she's worth a few dollars as junk" Suddenly he sat up in bed, threw off the clothes, and raised his clenched hands above his head. "Oh, my God!" he screamed "I've been working all my life, and I haven't a few dollars to redeem my old ship!""Lie down, Captain. You must keep quiet. Lie down, sir. You'll feel better in a little while""Yes, yes" The paroxysm passed; the old man fell back exhausted. Again his mind wandered; he seemed to be sinking off into a doze. Like a child at the end of the day, half way between sleeping and waking, he babbled of endeavours on the playground of the world."After that typhoon, I rigged a jury rudder and brought her into Manila.... Oh, yes, they said it was.... You wouldn't expect an accident in the trade winds. The fore-topmast went at the head of the lower mast, carrying the jibboom with it; but in a couple of weeks you couldn't have told that anything had happened.... Pleasant weather, pleasant weather.... I looked up, and saw his green light almost hanging over my bow.... Funny, isn't it, how things come round?..."Gradually he stopped muttering. The doctor took his pulse, then beckoned the mate to follow him into the cabin. "It can't be long now" he whispered "Who was the old fellow, anyway? He seems to have a strange assortment on his mind""I don't know much about him. He was a fine man.... Say, you stand in the door, there, and tell me when he's finished. I can't bear to watch him any longer"They had been waiting some time in silence, when a quick movement in the bunk started them running toward the stateroom. Captain Bradley was sitting up in bed again. All trace of pain had left his features. His hands lay quietly on the coverlet, his eyes were fixed on something far away. The faint shadow of a smile crossed his face, illuminating it with an expression of wisdom and serenity."Grace! Frankie!Under sail!" he cried in a loud voice—then settled slowly back among the pillows.When they reached him, the old man was dead.ANJERANJERI"Do you see that mass of trees in the deep shadow?" asked Nichols, pointing toward the shore "There's a house behind them—the old consulate bungalow. Years ago, when the China trade was flourishing, all ships used to stop at Anjer for mail and orders; for this reason, I suppose, our government used to keep a consul here, though he wasn't much but a postmaster. Anjer was the first port of call after the long outward passage; every man who has sailed to the East remembers it with affection. You crossed the Indian Ocean in the 'roaring forties' then swung abruptly north through the southeast trades. At length, one morning, fresh from a three months' chase of the empty horizon, you sighted Java Head, that black old foreland looming out of the water like a gigantic sperm whale; and before the day had gone, you'd entered the Straits of Sunda, with Java to starboard, close aboard, and Sumatra in the distance to port; had passed Princess Island, sighted and drawn abreast of Krakatoa, taken your cross-bearings on the Button and the Cap, turned off at Twart-the-Way; and, toward sunset, had drifted into Anjer Roads, before the last puffs of the sea-breeze."You had reached the land again. Reached it?—you'd plunged into its very heart. And such a heart—and such a land. The Gateway of the East, the Portal of the Dawn—a scene of love and longing, the ecstasy of life, rich with tumultuous growth, and charged with the passionate odour of blooming flowers. You had come to it from the ocean, remember; from wide expanses of waste and emptiness, from the high sky and the brooding night and the homeless wind, from the mental standpoint of one who had forgotten his measure of comparison, who had lost his grip on reality. The very strangeness of the limited and circumscribed sea, with shores on every hand, with mountains piling the whole horizon, inspired a sensation of wonder and curiosity, as if this had been your first view of the terrestrial world. But ere this sensation, the breaking of the sea-habit, the shortening of the focus, the opening of the door, had fairly possessed you, other allurements were striving for the mastery. There was the hand of the East, held out in alien greeting; there was the breath of romance in the nostrils, the call of love in the heart, the smells, the voices, the colours, the whisper of adventure, the touch of magic and mystery. All this, in the old days, was meant to you by Anjer, by that cluster of bamboo houses beyond the fringe of the banyan trees, that point, that lighthouse, those hills climbing the eastern sky, and this secluded anchorage, where we happened to drift before the tide—deserted now, as you see it, and quite forgotten, but once the toll-keeper of the sailing fleets of the world"Nichols waved a hand."What about the old consulate bungalow?" someone asked,"Oh, yes; I'll tell you" The captain of theOmegapulled himself up abruptly "I knew it first as a boy before the mast. My maiden voyage was made into the East; I came to Anjer, saw the native dugouts gather around the ship, examined their wares of fruit and birds and monkeys, rolls of painted cloth and wonderful shells; I saw the consul's boat bring off the old tin post-box that visited every ship calling at Anjer—it disgorged for my delight, I remember, a letter from my mother, the first home letter that I had ever received at sea; and later in the day, I pulled bow oar in the captain's, boat when he went ashore to pay the consul a social call. From that time onward, hardly a year passed that I didn't see the consulate bungalow. When I became master of a vessel, I always used to go ashore and visit the place; it's beautifully situated among palm trees, with an open view of the roadstead and a winding path leading up from the landing. Old Reardon was glad to see a fellow countryman; we'd have a drink or two, chat for an hour over some month-old piece of news that had just reached this outpost of civilization; then part for another interval, he to hold the lodge of the Orient, I to continue an endless pilgrimage."Yes, I felt that I knew the consulate bungalow of Anjer pretty well. But, in these quick lands, a house is a mere incident, is nothing but its inhabitants; and my familiarity with this structure in Reardon's time didn't exactly prepare me for what I was afterwards to meet between its walls.... And now I'll have to begin at the beginning"IIHe waited so long in silence that we began to grow impatient. A faint evening breeze drew across the water, bringing the heavy scent of the land. Above the Anjer hills hung a full golden moon, beneath which, in vague, translucent shadow, the shores of Java seemed sunk in an enchanted calm."I was wondering whether I could show you the sort of man Bert Mackay was" Nichols resumed suddenly "It's difficult enough to lay down the lines of any human being; and Bert was a doubly complex subject, chiefly, perhaps, because the key to his nature was so simple. Simplicity seems the most erratic of qualities to a world trained in suppression and negation. He was one of those startling fellows whom people instinctively like, but daren't approve of. He was brilliant but not entirely well balanced, let us put it; as primitive a soul as I've ever come in contact with. In fact, he was really wild, like nature—didn't attempt to pause or reckon, but let life come and go; and like nature, too, his growth was a series of instinctive processes. A man of the open, swift-minded, magnetic, and sincere, he was a tremendous vital force, stirring life violently wherever he touched it; while a romantic conscience, which plunged him into moods of contrition and despair, seemed to bring him out of every experience with a clear eye and an innocence apparently unimpaired."You can imagine, with all this, that his way with women was rash, sudden, appalling, and awfully fascinating. He couldn't talk well, but had a presence and manner that spoke for him louder than words. He was tall and dark and virile, a devilishly handsome chap. In fact, he possessed the secret of power that can't be cultivated or affected, the emanation of love, a glorious and terrible inheritance. Something quite different, you know, from any trace of carnality; he wasn't a sensual man at all. He broke many hearts, I'm afraid; how, in the ordinary course of life and days, could it have been otherwise? I used to warn him to watch out; to tell him that some day, in a stroke of divine retribution, his own heart would be broken past mending."'I hope so, Nichols!' he used to fling out, with the serious gaiety that was one of his most charming characteristics 'You can't imagine what a lost soul I am. Nothing else will save me'"I'd known Bert Mackay since college days, when for a couple of years we had roomed together and established one of the priceless understandings of life. The affection that lay between us was closer than that of brothers, close enough mutually to excuse our faults in each other's eyes. He became an electrical engineer, went to New York, and rose rapidly in his profession; while I, as you know, followed the sea. Every now and then I'd come to New York; and while in port, would move my things uptown and live with him. He was well connected, knew many groups of interesting people, and seemed, to my eye, to be living the richest sort of life. Our intermittent relation was an ideal one for two friends; our intimacy grew closer, as voyage followed voyage, and I supposed there wasn't an adventure of his that I didn't know about. But I might have realized, of course, that when the bolt of divine retribution actually struck him, it would be the last subject on which he'd give me his confidence."However that may be, I wasn't aware of any trouble, hadn't anticipated disaster, and was both shocked and alarmed, on my arrival in New York one summer, to find a brief note from him saying that he had gone away. He gave no address, and told me not to hunt for him. The letter was four or five months old. 'I am trying to do the right thing' he wrote 'God knows, I've done enough wrong things. Perhaps you'll hear from me again, perhaps you won't. It will depend on how I feel. I'm throwing up the whole game here. Something pretty hard has come into my life, and I have got to go. I must work this out alone. There isn't much of a chance—but that doesn't matter. The price has to be paid just the same' Then, after a few instructions about some of his private affairs, he asked me to forgive him, said I was not to worry, and assured me of his unfailing affection."You can imagine how the news took hold of me. The nature of the affair was unmistakeable; a tragedy of the heart had overtaken him—the fate that I'd often lightly predicted, and that he as often had expressed a willingness to find. Well, he was saved now, it would seem. I wondered.... Searching the past for a clue to this untoward development, I recalled his air of mingled restraint and melancholy at the time of our last meeting, the year before. I had noticed it only to put it down to one of his many incomprehensible moods. The night of my departure, I remembered, after we'd come in from the theatre, he had spent hours, it seemed, on the couch in the studio living-room, strumming on an old guitar and singing to himself in an incoherent form of improvisation, a habit of his when he was feeling especially blue. I'd been trying to write some letters, and the maddening mournful sounds, with the notes of the guitar picking through, had at length driven me to desperation."'For God's sake, sing something!' I cried, dashing out of my room—he was a brilliant musician. 'But if you go on whining like the wind through a knothole, I can't be answerable for the consequences'"'All right, Nicky, I'll stop' he had answered with a grin 'I'm a selfish ass, I know. But I'm not whining.... No, I don't feel like singing to-night' I realized now that, even then, he must have been in the toils of the tragedy."So this was the end of a comradeship all too brief, as life goes. Friends are scarce enough, heaven knows, without a fellow's losing one in such vague circumstances. But the years went by, and I didn't hear a word from Bert. At first, I missed and worried about him acutely; then, little by little, he faded off into the background, as even the sharpest details of the great picture of life do if we keep moving. Perspectives change, too. I continued, of course, to think of him now and then, wondering what he might have lost or found. But I never felt occasion to doubt the nature of his quest; he had come into that heritage foreordained at the launching of his sensitive and romantic soul. Something had called him down the wind, some note, some fragrance, some face of beauty, some revelation of delight; and he'd gone out to find the answer and consummation—love or death—that hearts like his pursue"IIINichols reached for a cigar. "Ten years and more had gone by" he went on slowly "when, one voyage, I reached the Straits of Sunda, bound for Hong Kong and Amoy. The southwest monsoon was on the point of breaking; for several days we'd been treated to baffling winds. It was in the latter part of the afternoon that, favoured by an unexpected slant of offshore wind, I managed to fetch the anchorage here, slipped into Anjer Roads with quite a rush, and dropped my anchor in a berth abreast of the landing. I hadn't been through Sunda for a couple of years."The first boat that came off from shore—Reardon's old whaleboat—brought me disappointing news. Reardon himself, it seemed, had been transferred to Batavia the year before, and the consulate had been discontinued; my letters, if any had been sent to Anjer, were being held in Batavia or Singapore. Old Sa-lee, Reardon's boatswain, was still in charge of the boat, but seemed to be merely following a lifelong habit in coming off to every ship that called. He wanted to see his old friends, to gossip, and to bemoan the decline of human institutions. While we talked, leaning across the rail, he told me in the course of conversation that, some time after Reardon had left Anjer, the consulate bungalow had been occupied by a stranger. The fact wasn't of sufficient interest to me just then to elicit an inquiry. I had just reached the realization, with a shock of deep regret, that Anjer the beautiful had taken its place with the rest of the world's lost glories, that another page in the romantic annals of seafaring had closed."The air was hot and heavy that evening—one of those nights of threatening showers that never come. After supper, I had settled myself morosely in a deck-chair; it seemed quite unaccountable not to be going ashore in this familiar situation. The moon was high and full above the hills, as it is to-night, but clouded by a faint mist like descending veils of dew. The ship seemed resting after the long passage; on the forecastle-head a couple of men were singing, accompanied by an old accordion. Across the water, as if in answer, floated the voices of natives somewhere in the jungle, lifted in wild and startling melodies. The same breeze fanned down from the land—the breeze that seems always to be blowing here in the early evening, filling the straits with the overpowering sweetness of bloom and decay."It must have been quite late—the moon had risen overhead, and the singing had died out forward and ashore—when I first noticed lights in the old consulate bungalow. I at once thought of the stranger whom Sa-lee had mentioned. Who could he be? What misanthrope had chosen that house of solitude for his habitation? How did he manage to pass the time? It went without saying that he was a European; Sa-lee would not have mentioned him otherwise. I kept my eye on the light, which seemed to travel about, vanishing now and then as if behind a closed door. As I watched, my interest became more and more awakened. I began to imagine all sorts of people in that bungalow; a tremendous failure, a fellow who'd fled from the wreck of a tragic past; an exile, for some romantic reason or other, who had seen my ship in the offing, had hurried home, and was making ready for a visit, longing for the sight of a strange face and a word from the outside world; a criminal, who feared my presence in the roadstead, who was even now busy concealing evidence, sweeping tables, locking drawers."Suddenly it occurred to me to go ashore and satisfy my curiosity. Why hadn't I thought of it before? I called my mate. 'Mr. Hunter' said I 'send some men aft and throw the dingey overboard. Then haul her up to the side-ladder'"Handling the tiller-ropes of the dingey, with two men rowing, I directed her bow toward Reardon's old landing. Under the hills the land loomed high. You know that feeling of strangeness, of transmutation, which comes at the end of a voyage at sea, when for the first time you step from the ship's deck into a small boat, when you look across the water from a lower level, see the shore approach, and hear the hum of waves on a beach close at hand. There's a trace almost of apprehension mingled with it, the instinct of the sailor warning him of shallow water and danger in proximity. I felt it, a nameless tingling excitement; besides, I had by this time worked myself to quite a pitch of fancy over Sa-lee's stranger."Reardon's landing was already dilapidated; I scrambled up it and picked my way to the shore, telling the men to wait there for me without fail, for I didn't want them straying to the village. Striking the path at the head of the pier, I hurried forward, keeping myself as much as possible in the deep shadow of palm trees that lined the up-hill slope. I wanted to catch this fellow napping, whoever he was, wanted to observe his face in a moment of surprise. Then I should be better able to place him. The air under the trees was thick with the reek of tropic earth; sounds made themselves distinctly heard in the great silence. I advanced up the path noiseless and unseen, and in a few minutes arrived in plain sight of the bungalow."The little house, with its broad flanking verandahs, stood surrounded by trees and underbrush. It had a neglected appearance; even in the night I could make out how the jungle had closed around it in the two years since Reardon's departure. The light inside the bungalow was gone; heavy shadows filled the verandahs, so that I couldn't have seen a person sitting there. I began to wonder whether the tenant had turned in for the night; stepped aside from the path, and started to skirt the house, with the instinct that invariably leads a man to the rear when he's eavesdropping; and was about to strike across a patch of bright moonlight toward the side porch, when a strange sound broke the intense stillness and knocked me back into the shadow as if by a physical blow."Someone had begun to play a guitar on the verandah. The next moment a voice came out on the night, soft and suppressed, a voice like an echo, that seemed to lose itself in the silken chamber of the night. Either a baritone or a very deep contralto; but I felt it to be a man's voice, without understanding why. I listened, but couldn't hear distinctly. While I listened, I was conscious of an exquisite perfection of emotion. I seemed to stand at the heart of an old and visionary land, the witness of an ancient parable; the voice was the voice of Adam singing the first love song in Eden, and the veiled languorous moon was the same moon that had stirred that song through the untold nights of men."Suddenly the voice rose and swelled; I caught the words, the tone, the melody.... All at once I remembered—and knew, with a shock of recollection, who it was. The quality of the voice hadn't changed; the song itself was familiar. I'd heard it often, as he lay on the couch in the New York studio, or sat at the piano in one of his wandering musical moods. It seemed impossible. How could he be here? I choked, in the midst of uttering a low exclamation—must have made quite a fuss. He got up abruptly, breaking off the song; I heard the guitar strike the floor with a hollow clash."'Who is there?' he asked softly, as if expecting a visitor from that direction."I pulled myself together, started across the patch of open ground, and came into the moonlight. When I'd reached a little nearer, I saw him standing at the rail of the verandah; he leaned out, showing his face—a good deal older than I remembered, but unmistakeably the face of my vanished friend."'Who is it?' he asked again, sharply now, for he had discovered that it was a man."I felt the need of making an excuse for introduction. 'Bert' said I 'I haven't been following your trail. It's just an amazing stroke of chance. That is my ship in the roadstead. I happened to call."He leaned out farther, a look of helpless bewilderment on his face. Then recognition dawned with a great rush. 'Nichols!' he cried desperately. Gazing at me wide-eyed, he repeated my name in a lower tone, in accents of simple wonder. Suddenly, as he gazed, the weight of the years seemed to strike him with a crushing force; he crumpled, dropped to his knees, and buried his face on the railing. When I took his hand, he gripped me like a vice. We didn't speak for a long time.IV"After I'd sent my boat back aboard, with orders to come ashore for me in the morning, we sat talking on the verandah till late in the night. Ten years of life had to be reconstructed; the astonishing thing was that I had found him even then. 'Of all places on earth' I asked 'how did you happen to land in this God-forsaken spot?'"'Oh, I came up from Australia, about eight months ago' said he 'A friend of mine down there, a sea captain, told me about it; said the bungalow was vacant and could be had almost for the asking. It's quiet here, and yet a fellow sees ships and things—watches life go by' He had been pacing backward and forward, and now stopped in front of my chair. 'It's heaven!' he cried 'Nothing to raise a row, nothing to fight for, nothing to live for, much.... Nothing to bother—that is.... You can't imagine how quiet and peaceful it seems'"His words confirmed the impression I'd always had of his disappearance; yet, even in the midst of his hopelessness I seemed to detect a note of hesitation, something concealed from me—perhaps concealed from him, for he rarely analyzed his own reactions. I led him away from his story for a while, trying to fix the status of his existence. We talked of old times; he remembered them keenly, kept citing queer details, jests that used to amuse us, chance remarks that seemed to have lodged in his mind. Almost at once, his infectious laugh came into play. The old spirit was unquenchable. By Jove, the man wasn't half so hopeless as he would have himself believe.... I took my eyes away from him, looked around at the jungle rising against the hills; and all at once it struck me how closely he resembled, in essential nature, the land he'd stumbled on. A land full of the instinct of beauty, the gift of love; weary, too, and wise with age, yet fired with the undying youth of quick vitality."'Why don't you stay here?' I demanded 'Why talk of going home? I have a notion that you belong here. Why don't you love, be happy?...'"'No, no!' he interrupted hurriedly 'You don't know what you're talking about' He stopped short, gazing at me as if he were searching my mind. 'Love won't come to me again' said he."'Nonsense!' I answered 'That's morbid, Bert. What possible reason...'"'Good God!' he burst out 'Haven't I the right to know?' He wandered to the railing, leaned against a post there, and turned his face away. 'Long ago' said he slowly 'I took every ray and hope of love out of my heart, and took them in my hands—so—and crushed them, and killed them, and threw them down—as if I'd taken my heart itself and squeezed the last drop of blood out of it like a sponge. I tell you, Nichols, the thing's dead'"'But you haven't told me' I reminded him."He took a longer walk this time, round the corner of the verandah; when he came back, he sat down beside me like a man tired with carrying a load. 'Do you remember a little girl I used to talk about?' he asked 'I think you met her once in New York, the year before I left. Her name was Helen Rand'"'A slender girl with dark hair and brown eyes?'"'Yes.... Well, she went away. She's got the same eyes now, wide childish....'"'Now!' I shouted 'You don't mean—she isn't...'"'No, no' said he 'I haven't seen her for these eight months. She's down in Australia—was then—Melbourne'"'What have you been doing now?...' I began, but he cut me off sharply."'Nothing' said he 'She isn't mine—never has been' He leaned toward me 'But I've been near her night and day—as near as I could get. Ready to help, you know—anything. God, I had to be in the same place. But perhaps you won't understand' He hesitated, then went on doggedly 'I found out too late that I loved her. I found it out just one day too late. I've been paying for that one day. And all I've done, all I could do, wouldn't begin to balance the account. I wonder whether you see?'"'How could you keep it going so long?' I asked."He laughed harshly. 'I knew you wouldn't understand. Just because you think that love means faith and chastity, quietness, placid days and years, you have no eye for the love that lives in the fires of hell. But it's the same love. Bad as she is, I can't help loving her'"The story, coming brokenly, by fits and starts, achieved by its very barrenness a certain grim intensity. The white light of his extraordinary narrative revealed a background sombre and hard, against which stood the drama of his ineffectual warfare, a play without hope and without reward, saved from inanity only by the tremendous fervour of his love. She had fled from New York without warning, it seems, fleeing from life, from him, from the scene and memory, perhaps, of that one day. He had a slight clue, but it took him half a year to find her. When at last they met, she didn't want him, didn't need him, wouldn't have him. This was in San Francisco, where she went on the stage again, and lived for over a year, successful, apparently happy, and growing more beautiful every day. 'People talked about her, you know' he told me 'She became quite the rage. Such a little girl, with serious eyes....'She must have been clever, too, for she kept a good grip on herself. Soon she married a man of twice her years with a considerable fortune, and passed into another world. Bert had forsaken his profession, and had gone into journalism; he could have done anything passably well. One thing, however, he could not bring himself to do again, and that was to enter society. He didn't get on as a journalist—couldn't put his heart into the business of life. He told me that for a time he went shabby and hungry. Once in a great while he would see her, perhaps in passing, and they would have a few words together; but the occasions became more and more infrequent."'Then she left her husband, in the whirlwind of a sensational scandal. Bert missed only by the merest chance having to write about it for his paper. He sought her out at once; she had gone to an hotel there in the city, where she lived openly as the mistress of the other man. 'What are you doing, Bert, hanging around this town?' she had asked him point blank 'I want to be near in case you need me, Helen' he answered humbly. She gazed at him with those eyes that, according to his account, still retained their innocence—though it's hard to believe they hadn't by then acquired a trace or two of calculation. 'It's gone a long way beyond that' said she coldly 'I won't need you again' He tried to take her hand. 'I can't let you go thus, Helen!' he cried 'Let me go? You sent me' she told him."'What was the use?' said he to me 'I thought of the old days—they seemed old already; and when I looked at her, I couldn't realize that there had been any change. But it seemed pretty evident that she had left off caring. So I left her—but I couldn't go away'"Some months later, she went in a yacht for a cruise among the South Sea Islands. The cruise was a long one; it ended, for her, in a quarrel at Honolulu, as a result of which she changed her second man for a third, and took up her abode in that glorious island of the Pacific where everything but happiness is supposed to wither and die in the magic sun. In the course of time Bert heard the details, folded his tent and followed her. But almost as soon as he landed in Honolulu she was off on another tack; for by now she had settled into the stride of her career."So it went on, year after year, from Honolulu to Shanghai, from Shanghai to Hong Kong, and down the coast to Singapore; a term in Calcutta, another term in Batavia; a year on the West Coast, Lima, Iquiqui, Valparaiso, she never resting, and he following in due time. It's hard to imagine what her life must have been during this pilgrimage; for now we know that she loved him, too, and that her heart likewise burned in the fires of hell. Pride, pride, what anguish will be borne in thy name! She had of course grown into a strong, clear-headed woman; only strength could have carried her so far. But he must have managed things very badly. I haven't a doubt that the thought of him constantly at her heels, the sight of him now and then in her wake, making hard weather of it, spurred her to the course that she had chosen. No woman respects a man who can't solve his own destiny."How they finally came to Australia, I don't clearly remember. They must have been there some time; he spoke of Sydney, of Newcastle, of Brisbane, and of Melbourne, where he saw her for the last time. 'I met her face to face one day' said he 'She looked a little tarnished—as if things had been going downhill with her. I suppose I told her so; I wasn't in the mood to dodge facts that day. She was angry at my comment—I don't blame her. But I tried to make up for it the next moment—show her what I really meant, how glad I would be—that is, that it rested with her to change everything. I asked her if I mightn't come to see her; she answered that it wasn't difficult to gain access to her apartment. All the while she was looking me over with a sort of amused scorn. Then she said something that was quite unnecessary. She said I didn't look as if I had the price.... That woke me up. I realized suddenly, fully, decisively, how impossible it was to keep on. Impossible!...' By chance, I'd been talking about Anjer with Captain Roach that very morning. He was sailing the next day, bound up this way, and I came along with him. Reardon leased me the bungalow; I went with Roach to Batavia, for he knew that the consulate had been abandoned. So here I am. I've got a little money, enough to live on. And God's being good to me—I've found a measure of peace. Now you have come along—I think I'll be all right....'"'Yes, this certainly was the place for you' I temporized, struggling with irritation at the mess he had made of existence. I couldn't but recognize the inevitability of what he had told me; but my heart kept asking, why is it necessary for men to be so selfish, so helpless in the face of results clearly to be foreseen?"'Exactly' he agreed with my spoken word. 'This land has taught me a great lesson. I'm getting back my grip ... more than I hoped....' He stopped abruptly. Again I had the feeling of something being held back, of something missing from the story. I awoke to the fact that, notwithstanding all he had told me, his present spiritual status remained unexplained. He quite obviouslyhadrecovered his grip—but how, and why? It wasn't in keeping with the rest of the hidden years. And of course I didn't believe my own platitude on the influence of the land."'I mean, I'm getting back my self-respect' he said 'I'm really thinking of going home. The past begins to look like a sort of joke—a horrible, fantastic joke; but I shall leave off loving her now. Try to, anyway. I've learned....'"I wondered what it could be that so puzzled me about the case. After I'd gone to bed that night—it was nearly morning—I lay awake for a long while trying to think the problem out. Why had he lost his self-respect, in the beginning? Because she wouldn't love him? I thought I knew him well enough to recognize this as the correct answer; he belonged to the unhappy company of men who can't support life when the ego is denied. But she had sent him away, at last, with a lash of the whip, with scorn that even his tried humility couldn't brook. How the devil, then, had he recovered his self-respect? Self-respect is a matter of human relations; it can't be drawn out of the air.
VIII
The storm increased; the air was thick with snow, cold with the breath of Arctic winter. In the middle of the night, the foresail and mainsail blew out of the bolt-ropes. They bent and set the heavy new sails. Soon the spanker went, and was replaced. Captain Bradley was driving the ship without mercy; for the wind was hauling inch by inch into the east, heading them off toward the dangerous lee shore. TheVikingstood the strain; her seaworthiness had never been put to a harder test, had never shown itself so handsomely. She had been built in a day when work and honour had gone hand in hand.
The morning dawned on a wild scene. Great waves rushed at the ship, lifted her high in air, broke above her bows, and stopped her progress as if she had run against a wall. It was high time to heave her to. They lowered the mainsail, foresail and jib, and managed somehow to get them furled. The quarter-deck was comparatively dry; they had no difficulty in double-reefing the spanker. In his specifications to the sailmaker, Captain Bradley had insisted on a double row of reef-point for this sail.
To this tiny patch of canvas theVikingrode hove-to for the next forty-eight hours, while the storm howled down on them from the waste of waters. The decks were piled with snow, the ropes and sails were clogged with ice; slowly, mile after mile, the ship drifted against a pitiless lee shore. Captain Bradley constantly kept the deck. There was nothing more to be done—but he had to see the business through.
When the storm broke, they were less than five miles off the Jersey shore at Atlantic City—so close had been their call. The drive through the night at the beginning of the storm had saved them; without the offing made at that time, they would long since have landed in the breakers at Barnegat. The wind jumped into the southwest, the clouds quickly rolled away. They chopped the gaskets, cleared the ice away from the booms and sheets and halyards, and set all sail. The ship paid off, heading up the coast; from the frozen and snowbound shore the sweet land-smell, always a miracle to sailors nearing port in winter, came off to them. Night fell, the air grew crystalline, stars sparkled white and big in the cloudless sky. Minute by minute the easterly swell decreased, knocked down by the offshore wind, as the old barge crept northward. She sunk the lights of Atlantic City, picked up Barnegat, brought it abeam, dropped it on her port quarter. Then Captain Bradley left the deck, for almost the first time in three days.
He could not have kept on his feet any longer. The pain in his chest, that had set in the night before and grown by leaps and bounds during the last day of the storm, had now become so intense, at spasmodic intervals, that he felt unable to conceal his distress. At times it was well-nigh unbearable. His heart seemed trying to burst out of his body. Perhaps rest would ease the pain. At any rate, he wanted to sit down somewhere, alone, in an effort to face and compass this new development. He wanted to give his courage an overhauling.
They had sounded the pumps at sunset, with no result; the splendid old hull had not leaked a drop throughout the storm. But at midnight they found two feet of water in the hold. The mate, frightened half out of his wits, rushed below with the news. Captain Bradley sat like a statue in the big chair, gripping the arms, his face white and drawn. In his excitement, the mate did not notice his extraordinary pallor and rigidity.
"Captain, Captain, she's sprung a leak! There's two feet of water in the hold already!
"Two feet of water? ... Impossible!"
The old man heaved himself to his feet and stumbled on deck, walking slowly and carefully, holding tight to the rail. The shock of the news had loosed the terrible pain again; at every breath he drew, something seemed to be stabbing him with daggers. He sounded the pumps with his own hands, to find that the mate's discovery was only too true.
"What can have happened, what can have happened?" he kept muttering "The change of tack must have done it. That's it!—the change of tack" Now that he had found an explanation, he could face the issue. They manned the pumps at once—this was before the day of steam pumps aboard coal barges. But the leak gained steadily on them, in spite of all they could do.
It was a race with time now—for both of them. Captain Bradley gave a bitter laugh; he and theVikingwere throwing up the sponge together. The breeze had freshened, but the old ship was pitifully slow. He swore to himself as he clung to the weather rail, watching the water drag past. He was thinking of the speed that she would have shown under her former canvas; twelve to fifteen knots, she would easily have reeled off with sky-sails set in this smashing breeze. While he watched, the swift stabbing went on in his chest, as if some invisible enemy were taking full and cruel satisfaction. Was he not to be permitted to bring his old ship to port? Was this final insignificant success to be denied him?
The winking eye of Navesink came in sight just before dawn. At eight o'clock, they were abreast the Highland lightship. The old barge was very low in the water, but she still retained a margin of buoyancy. With Captain Bradley, conditions for the last hour had been a little better. He had kept the deck since the pumps began, refusing to give up to a physical encumbrance; and the pain had eased away, as if temporarily succumbing to his invincible will.
Soon after passing the lightship, a towboat approached them, hauling up alongside.
"Barge ahoy! What barge is that?"
"Viking. Broke adrift from a tow—three days ago—off Montauk Point"
"The devil you say! I'll send a hawser right aboard"
"You'd better. Snatch us—up the bay—quick as you can. Five feet of water—in the hold"
"Perhaps I'd better beach you somewhere inside the Hook?"
"No—tow us in. I guess—the leak will stop—in quiet water"
Whether it was judgment or prescience, Captain Bradley's surmise proved correct. As they towed up the bay, pumping continually, the water in the hold at first remained for a while at a constant level, then began slowly to fall, enough to show that they were gaining on the leak.
Below the Narrows, the tugboat dropped astern, ranging up on theViking'squarter.
"Well, old man, where have you decided to go?"
Captain Bradley stood in the starboard alley-way, one hand grasping the rail, the other the corner of the after house. It was the only way that he could hold himself upright. In the last half hour the pain had returned with fresh violence. Since its return, he had known what he would have to do. The ship was all right now; but, for him, little time remained.
"Anchor us—at Tompkinsville—close inshore. Send word to my office. Get some men—my crew are—worn out. Bring off a doctor—for God's sake!..." The strained voice broke in a shrill cry.
The mate ran aft along the alley-way. "Captain!—what's the matter, sir?"
"Sick" Captain Bradley's hand flew to his breast, clutching his coat in a great handful. His face turned deathly white, his eyes closed, his mouth twisted in the intensity of the pain. For an instant he swayed; then opened his eyes again, and pulled himself upright against the rail.
"I brought her in!" he cried loudly "My old ship ... under sail"
The mate was just in time to catch him as he pitched forward insensible.
IX
The doctor came out of the captain's stateroom with a grave look on his face. The mate stood in the middle of the cabin floor, nervous and unstrung; he had been fond of Captain Bradley. The afternoon sun streamed through the cabin skylight. For several hours they had been watching the old man struggle for breath. The mate's gaze roved uneasily over the top of the chart table, where, according to his invariable habit, the captain had that morning spread the tablecover that he used in port, and had set out a few pictures and ornaments, to make the cabin look more homelike. He had done it between spasms of pain, while they had been towing up the bay; had done it for something to occupy his mind. He always tried to arrange the things as he remembered his wife used to do.
"He can't last much longer" said the doctor "His heart is practically gone"
The mate nodded without looking up. "Is he suffering much pain?"
"Not now. I've just given him another hypodermic. That's all we can do for him"
They went together into the stateroom. Captain Bradley lay quietly against a heap of pillows, with his eyes half closed. He had regained consciousness as soon as they had brought him below. As the mate bent above him, he opened his eyes and stared dully around the room. He was muttering to himself. The mate leaned closer—then drew back sharply, realizing that the words were only the product of delirium.
"Hello, hello! ... that you, Sargent? When did you arrive? Let's get a couple of chairs this afternoon, and go along Glenealy Road. I want to see Hong Kong harbour again through the bamboo trees.... Remember that day we had a picnic on Glenealy Road? You had your wife with you that voyage. My Frankie got tired: I had to carry him in my arms.... Frankie never grew up. No.... He died"
The mate shook his head violently, as if to throw off the mortality of the scene. He turned away from the bunk. "Why does the old man have to wander so?" he demanded sharply.
"The opiate" said the doctor "Don't worry—he isn't suffering now"
Captain Bradley regarded his officer with a long and profound stare. Suddenly, recognition dawned in his eyes.
"Oh, Foster!—what do you say? How much water do the pumps give now? Any chance of the leak drying up?"
"Only a couple of feet left in her, Captain. Four men have come off from shore to relieve our crew. We'll soon have her as dry as a bone, sir"
"No use" Captain Bradley rolled his head on the pillow "You'll find her larboard strake started—port side of the keel. She's finished. She'll have to go to the junk heap now" He lay quiet a moment, thinking. "If I had my way, she should be towed to sea, and sunk in deep water. I ought to go along with her.... But I suppose she's worth a few dollars as junk" Suddenly he sat up in bed, threw off the clothes, and raised his clenched hands above his head. "Oh, my God!" he screamed "I've been working all my life, and I haven't a few dollars to redeem my old ship!"
"Lie down, Captain. You must keep quiet. Lie down, sir. You'll feel better in a little while"
"Yes, yes" The paroxysm passed; the old man fell back exhausted. Again his mind wandered; he seemed to be sinking off into a doze. Like a child at the end of the day, half way between sleeping and waking, he babbled of endeavours on the playground of the world.
"After that typhoon, I rigged a jury rudder and brought her into Manila.... Oh, yes, they said it was.... You wouldn't expect an accident in the trade winds. The fore-topmast went at the head of the lower mast, carrying the jibboom with it; but in a couple of weeks you couldn't have told that anything had happened.... Pleasant weather, pleasant weather.... I looked up, and saw his green light almost hanging over my bow.... Funny, isn't it, how things come round?..."
Gradually he stopped muttering. The doctor took his pulse, then beckoned the mate to follow him into the cabin. "It can't be long now" he whispered "Who was the old fellow, anyway? He seems to have a strange assortment on his mind"
"I don't know much about him. He was a fine man.... Say, you stand in the door, there, and tell me when he's finished. I can't bear to watch him any longer"
They had been waiting some time in silence, when a quick movement in the bunk started them running toward the stateroom. Captain Bradley was sitting up in bed again. All trace of pain had left his features. His hands lay quietly on the coverlet, his eyes were fixed on something far away. The faint shadow of a smile crossed his face, illuminating it with an expression of wisdom and serenity.
"Grace! Frankie!Under sail!" he cried in a loud voice—then settled slowly back among the pillows.
When they reached him, the old man was dead.
ANJER
ANJER
I
"Do you see that mass of trees in the deep shadow?" asked Nichols, pointing toward the shore "There's a house behind them—the old consulate bungalow. Years ago, when the China trade was flourishing, all ships used to stop at Anjer for mail and orders; for this reason, I suppose, our government used to keep a consul here, though he wasn't much but a postmaster. Anjer was the first port of call after the long outward passage; every man who has sailed to the East remembers it with affection. You crossed the Indian Ocean in the 'roaring forties' then swung abruptly north through the southeast trades. At length, one morning, fresh from a three months' chase of the empty horizon, you sighted Java Head, that black old foreland looming out of the water like a gigantic sperm whale; and before the day had gone, you'd entered the Straits of Sunda, with Java to starboard, close aboard, and Sumatra in the distance to port; had passed Princess Island, sighted and drawn abreast of Krakatoa, taken your cross-bearings on the Button and the Cap, turned off at Twart-the-Way; and, toward sunset, had drifted into Anjer Roads, before the last puffs of the sea-breeze.
"You had reached the land again. Reached it?—you'd plunged into its very heart. And such a heart—and such a land. The Gateway of the East, the Portal of the Dawn—a scene of love and longing, the ecstasy of life, rich with tumultuous growth, and charged with the passionate odour of blooming flowers. You had come to it from the ocean, remember; from wide expanses of waste and emptiness, from the high sky and the brooding night and the homeless wind, from the mental standpoint of one who had forgotten his measure of comparison, who had lost his grip on reality. The very strangeness of the limited and circumscribed sea, with shores on every hand, with mountains piling the whole horizon, inspired a sensation of wonder and curiosity, as if this had been your first view of the terrestrial world. But ere this sensation, the breaking of the sea-habit, the shortening of the focus, the opening of the door, had fairly possessed you, other allurements were striving for the mastery. There was the hand of the East, held out in alien greeting; there was the breath of romance in the nostrils, the call of love in the heart, the smells, the voices, the colours, the whisper of adventure, the touch of magic and mystery. All this, in the old days, was meant to you by Anjer, by that cluster of bamboo houses beyond the fringe of the banyan trees, that point, that lighthouse, those hills climbing the eastern sky, and this secluded anchorage, where we happened to drift before the tide—deserted now, as you see it, and quite forgotten, but once the toll-keeper of the sailing fleets of the world"
Nichols waved a hand.
"What about the old consulate bungalow?" someone asked,
"Oh, yes; I'll tell you" The captain of theOmegapulled himself up abruptly "I knew it first as a boy before the mast. My maiden voyage was made into the East; I came to Anjer, saw the native dugouts gather around the ship, examined their wares of fruit and birds and monkeys, rolls of painted cloth and wonderful shells; I saw the consul's boat bring off the old tin post-box that visited every ship calling at Anjer—it disgorged for my delight, I remember, a letter from my mother, the first home letter that I had ever received at sea; and later in the day, I pulled bow oar in the captain's, boat when he went ashore to pay the consul a social call. From that time onward, hardly a year passed that I didn't see the consulate bungalow. When I became master of a vessel, I always used to go ashore and visit the place; it's beautifully situated among palm trees, with an open view of the roadstead and a winding path leading up from the landing. Old Reardon was glad to see a fellow countryman; we'd have a drink or two, chat for an hour over some month-old piece of news that had just reached this outpost of civilization; then part for another interval, he to hold the lodge of the Orient, I to continue an endless pilgrimage.
"Yes, I felt that I knew the consulate bungalow of Anjer pretty well. But, in these quick lands, a house is a mere incident, is nothing but its inhabitants; and my familiarity with this structure in Reardon's time didn't exactly prepare me for what I was afterwards to meet between its walls.... And now I'll have to begin at the beginning"
II
He waited so long in silence that we began to grow impatient. A faint evening breeze drew across the water, bringing the heavy scent of the land. Above the Anjer hills hung a full golden moon, beneath which, in vague, translucent shadow, the shores of Java seemed sunk in an enchanted calm.
"I was wondering whether I could show you the sort of man Bert Mackay was" Nichols resumed suddenly "It's difficult enough to lay down the lines of any human being; and Bert was a doubly complex subject, chiefly, perhaps, because the key to his nature was so simple. Simplicity seems the most erratic of qualities to a world trained in suppression and negation. He was one of those startling fellows whom people instinctively like, but daren't approve of. He was brilliant but not entirely well balanced, let us put it; as primitive a soul as I've ever come in contact with. In fact, he was really wild, like nature—didn't attempt to pause or reckon, but let life come and go; and like nature, too, his growth was a series of instinctive processes. A man of the open, swift-minded, magnetic, and sincere, he was a tremendous vital force, stirring life violently wherever he touched it; while a romantic conscience, which plunged him into moods of contrition and despair, seemed to bring him out of every experience with a clear eye and an innocence apparently unimpaired.
"You can imagine, with all this, that his way with women was rash, sudden, appalling, and awfully fascinating. He couldn't talk well, but had a presence and manner that spoke for him louder than words. He was tall and dark and virile, a devilishly handsome chap. In fact, he possessed the secret of power that can't be cultivated or affected, the emanation of love, a glorious and terrible inheritance. Something quite different, you know, from any trace of carnality; he wasn't a sensual man at all. He broke many hearts, I'm afraid; how, in the ordinary course of life and days, could it have been otherwise? I used to warn him to watch out; to tell him that some day, in a stroke of divine retribution, his own heart would be broken past mending.
"'I hope so, Nichols!' he used to fling out, with the serious gaiety that was one of his most charming characteristics 'You can't imagine what a lost soul I am. Nothing else will save me'
"I'd known Bert Mackay since college days, when for a couple of years we had roomed together and established one of the priceless understandings of life. The affection that lay between us was closer than that of brothers, close enough mutually to excuse our faults in each other's eyes. He became an electrical engineer, went to New York, and rose rapidly in his profession; while I, as you know, followed the sea. Every now and then I'd come to New York; and while in port, would move my things uptown and live with him. He was well connected, knew many groups of interesting people, and seemed, to my eye, to be living the richest sort of life. Our intermittent relation was an ideal one for two friends; our intimacy grew closer, as voyage followed voyage, and I supposed there wasn't an adventure of his that I didn't know about. But I might have realized, of course, that when the bolt of divine retribution actually struck him, it would be the last subject on which he'd give me his confidence.
"However that may be, I wasn't aware of any trouble, hadn't anticipated disaster, and was both shocked and alarmed, on my arrival in New York one summer, to find a brief note from him saying that he had gone away. He gave no address, and told me not to hunt for him. The letter was four or five months old. 'I am trying to do the right thing' he wrote 'God knows, I've done enough wrong things. Perhaps you'll hear from me again, perhaps you won't. It will depend on how I feel. I'm throwing up the whole game here. Something pretty hard has come into my life, and I have got to go. I must work this out alone. There isn't much of a chance—but that doesn't matter. The price has to be paid just the same' Then, after a few instructions about some of his private affairs, he asked me to forgive him, said I was not to worry, and assured me of his unfailing affection.
"You can imagine how the news took hold of me. The nature of the affair was unmistakeable; a tragedy of the heart had overtaken him—the fate that I'd often lightly predicted, and that he as often had expressed a willingness to find. Well, he was saved now, it would seem. I wondered.... Searching the past for a clue to this untoward development, I recalled his air of mingled restraint and melancholy at the time of our last meeting, the year before. I had noticed it only to put it down to one of his many incomprehensible moods. The night of my departure, I remembered, after we'd come in from the theatre, he had spent hours, it seemed, on the couch in the studio living-room, strumming on an old guitar and singing to himself in an incoherent form of improvisation, a habit of his when he was feeling especially blue. I'd been trying to write some letters, and the maddening mournful sounds, with the notes of the guitar picking through, had at length driven me to desperation.
"'For God's sake, sing something!' I cried, dashing out of my room—he was a brilliant musician. 'But if you go on whining like the wind through a knothole, I can't be answerable for the consequences'
"'All right, Nicky, I'll stop' he had answered with a grin 'I'm a selfish ass, I know. But I'm not whining.... No, I don't feel like singing to-night' I realized now that, even then, he must have been in the toils of the tragedy.
"So this was the end of a comradeship all too brief, as life goes. Friends are scarce enough, heaven knows, without a fellow's losing one in such vague circumstances. But the years went by, and I didn't hear a word from Bert. At first, I missed and worried about him acutely; then, little by little, he faded off into the background, as even the sharpest details of the great picture of life do if we keep moving. Perspectives change, too. I continued, of course, to think of him now and then, wondering what he might have lost or found. But I never felt occasion to doubt the nature of his quest; he had come into that heritage foreordained at the launching of his sensitive and romantic soul. Something had called him down the wind, some note, some fragrance, some face of beauty, some revelation of delight; and he'd gone out to find the answer and consummation—love or death—that hearts like his pursue"
III
Nichols reached for a cigar. "Ten years and more had gone by" he went on slowly "when, one voyage, I reached the Straits of Sunda, bound for Hong Kong and Amoy. The southwest monsoon was on the point of breaking; for several days we'd been treated to baffling winds. It was in the latter part of the afternoon that, favoured by an unexpected slant of offshore wind, I managed to fetch the anchorage here, slipped into Anjer Roads with quite a rush, and dropped my anchor in a berth abreast of the landing. I hadn't been through Sunda for a couple of years.
"The first boat that came off from shore—Reardon's old whaleboat—brought me disappointing news. Reardon himself, it seemed, had been transferred to Batavia the year before, and the consulate had been discontinued; my letters, if any had been sent to Anjer, were being held in Batavia or Singapore. Old Sa-lee, Reardon's boatswain, was still in charge of the boat, but seemed to be merely following a lifelong habit in coming off to every ship that called. He wanted to see his old friends, to gossip, and to bemoan the decline of human institutions. While we talked, leaning across the rail, he told me in the course of conversation that, some time after Reardon had left Anjer, the consulate bungalow had been occupied by a stranger. The fact wasn't of sufficient interest to me just then to elicit an inquiry. I had just reached the realization, with a shock of deep regret, that Anjer the beautiful had taken its place with the rest of the world's lost glories, that another page in the romantic annals of seafaring had closed.
"The air was hot and heavy that evening—one of those nights of threatening showers that never come. After supper, I had settled myself morosely in a deck-chair; it seemed quite unaccountable not to be going ashore in this familiar situation. The moon was high and full above the hills, as it is to-night, but clouded by a faint mist like descending veils of dew. The ship seemed resting after the long passage; on the forecastle-head a couple of men were singing, accompanied by an old accordion. Across the water, as if in answer, floated the voices of natives somewhere in the jungle, lifted in wild and startling melodies. The same breeze fanned down from the land—the breeze that seems always to be blowing here in the early evening, filling the straits with the overpowering sweetness of bloom and decay.
"It must have been quite late—the moon had risen overhead, and the singing had died out forward and ashore—when I first noticed lights in the old consulate bungalow. I at once thought of the stranger whom Sa-lee had mentioned. Who could he be? What misanthrope had chosen that house of solitude for his habitation? How did he manage to pass the time? It went without saying that he was a European; Sa-lee would not have mentioned him otherwise. I kept my eye on the light, which seemed to travel about, vanishing now and then as if behind a closed door. As I watched, my interest became more and more awakened. I began to imagine all sorts of people in that bungalow; a tremendous failure, a fellow who'd fled from the wreck of a tragic past; an exile, for some romantic reason or other, who had seen my ship in the offing, had hurried home, and was making ready for a visit, longing for the sight of a strange face and a word from the outside world; a criminal, who feared my presence in the roadstead, who was even now busy concealing evidence, sweeping tables, locking drawers.
"Suddenly it occurred to me to go ashore and satisfy my curiosity. Why hadn't I thought of it before? I called my mate. 'Mr. Hunter' said I 'send some men aft and throw the dingey overboard. Then haul her up to the side-ladder'
"Handling the tiller-ropes of the dingey, with two men rowing, I directed her bow toward Reardon's old landing. Under the hills the land loomed high. You know that feeling of strangeness, of transmutation, which comes at the end of a voyage at sea, when for the first time you step from the ship's deck into a small boat, when you look across the water from a lower level, see the shore approach, and hear the hum of waves on a beach close at hand. There's a trace almost of apprehension mingled with it, the instinct of the sailor warning him of shallow water and danger in proximity. I felt it, a nameless tingling excitement; besides, I had by this time worked myself to quite a pitch of fancy over Sa-lee's stranger.
"Reardon's landing was already dilapidated; I scrambled up it and picked my way to the shore, telling the men to wait there for me without fail, for I didn't want them straying to the village. Striking the path at the head of the pier, I hurried forward, keeping myself as much as possible in the deep shadow of palm trees that lined the up-hill slope. I wanted to catch this fellow napping, whoever he was, wanted to observe his face in a moment of surprise. Then I should be better able to place him. The air under the trees was thick with the reek of tropic earth; sounds made themselves distinctly heard in the great silence. I advanced up the path noiseless and unseen, and in a few minutes arrived in plain sight of the bungalow.
"The little house, with its broad flanking verandahs, stood surrounded by trees and underbrush. It had a neglected appearance; even in the night I could make out how the jungle had closed around it in the two years since Reardon's departure. The light inside the bungalow was gone; heavy shadows filled the verandahs, so that I couldn't have seen a person sitting there. I began to wonder whether the tenant had turned in for the night; stepped aside from the path, and started to skirt the house, with the instinct that invariably leads a man to the rear when he's eavesdropping; and was about to strike across a patch of bright moonlight toward the side porch, when a strange sound broke the intense stillness and knocked me back into the shadow as if by a physical blow.
"Someone had begun to play a guitar on the verandah. The next moment a voice came out on the night, soft and suppressed, a voice like an echo, that seemed to lose itself in the silken chamber of the night. Either a baritone or a very deep contralto; but I felt it to be a man's voice, without understanding why. I listened, but couldn't hear distinctly. While I listened, I was conscious of an exquisite perfection of emotion. I seemed to stand at the heart of an old and visionary land, the witness of an ancient parable; the voice was the voice of Adam singing the first love song in Eden, and the veiled languorous moon was the same moon that had stirred that song through the untold nights of men.
"Suddenly the voice rose and swelled; I caught the words, the tone, the melody.... All at once I remembered—and knew, with a shock of recollection, who it was. The quality of the voice hadn't changed; the song itself was familiar. I'd heard it often, as he lay on the couch in the New York studio, or sat at the piano in one of his wandering musical moods. It seemed impossible. How could he be here? I choked, in the midst of uttering a low exclamation—must have made quite a fuss. He got up abruptly, breaking off the song; I heard the guitar strike the floor with a hollow clash.
"'Who is there?' he asked softly, as if expecting a visitor from that direction.
"I pulled myself together, started across the patch of open ground, and came into the moonlight. When I'd reached a little nearer, I saw him standing at the rail of the verandah; he leaned out, showing his face—a good deal older than I remembered, but unmistakeably the face of my vanished friend.
"'Who is it?' he asked again, sharply now, for he had discovered that it was a man.
"I felt the need of making an excuse for introduction. 'Bert' said I 'I haven't been following your trail. It's just an amazing stroke of chance. That is my ship in the roadstead. I happened to call.
"He leaned out farther, a look of helpless bewilderment on his face. Then recognition dawned with a great rush. 'Nichols!' he cried desperately. Gazing at me wide-eyed, he repeated my name in a lower tone, in accents of simple wonder. Suddenly, as he gazed, the weight of the years seemed to strike him with a crushing force; he crumpled, dropped to his knees, and buried his face on the railing. When I took his hand, he gripped me like a vice. We didn't speak for a long time.
IV
"After I'd sent my boat back aboard, with orders to come ashore for me in the morning, we sat talking on the verandah till late in the night. Ten years of life had to be reconstructed; the astonishing thing was that I had found him even then. 'Of all places on earth' I asked 'how did you happen to land in this God-forsaken spot?'
"'Oh, I came up from Australia, about eight months ago' said he 'A friend of mine down there, a sea captain, told me about it; said the bungalow was vacant and could be had almost for the asking. It's quiet here, and yet a fellow sees ships and things—watches life go by' He had been pacing backward and forward, and now stopped in front of my chair. 'It's heaven!' he cried 'Nothing to raise a row, nothing to fight for, nothing to live for, much.... Nothing to bother—that is.... You can't imagine how quiet and peaceful it seems'
"His words confirmed the impression I'd always had of his disappearance; yet, even in the midst of his hopelessness I seemed to detect a note of hesitation, something concealed from me—perhaps concealed from him, for he rarely analyzed his own reactions. I led him away from his story for a while, trying to fix the status of his existence. We talked of old times; he remembered them keenly, kept citing queer details, jests that used to amuse us, chance remarks that seemed to have lodged in his mind. Almost at once, his infectious laugh came into play. The old spirit was unquenchable. By Jove, the man wasn't half so hopeless as he would have himself believe.... I took my eyes away from him, looked around at the jungle rising against the hills; and all at once it struck me how closely he resembled, in essential nature, the land he'd stumbled on. A land full of the instinct of beauty, the gift of love; weary, too, and wise with age, yet fired with the undying youth of quick vitality.
"'Why don't you stay here?' I demanded 'Why talk of going home? I have a notion that you belong here. Why don't you love, be happy?...'
"'No, no!' he interrupted hurriedly 'You don't know what you're talking about' He stopped short, gazing at me as if he were searching my mind. 'Love won't come to me again' said he.
"'Nonsense!' I answered 'That's morbid, Bert. What possible reason...'
"'Good God!' he burst out 'Haven't I the right to know?' He wandered to the railing, leaned against a post there, and turned his face away. 'Long ago' said he slowly 'I took every ray and hope of love out of my heart, and took them in my hands—so—and crushed them, and killed them, and threw them down—as if I'd taken my heart itself and squeezed the last drop of blood out of it like a sponge. I tell you, Nichols, the thing's dead'
"'But you haven't told me' I reminded him.
"He took a longer walk this time, round the corner of the verandah; when he came back, he sat down beside me like a man tired with carrying a load. 'Do you remember a little girl I used to talk about?' he asked 'I think you met her once in New York, the year before I left. Her name was Helen Rand'
"'A slender girl with dark hair and brown eyes?'
"'Yes.... Well, she went away. She's got the same eyes now, wide childish....'
"'Now!' I shouted 'You don't mean—she isn't...'
"'No, no' said he 'I haven't seen her for these eight months. She's down in Australia—was then—Melbourne'
"'What have you been doing now?...' I began, but he cut me off sharply.
"'Nothing' said he 'She isn't mine—never has been' He leaned toward me 'But I've been near her night and day—as near as I could get. Ready to help, you know—anything. God, I had to be in the same place. But perhaps you won't understand' He hesitated, then went on doggedly 'I found out too late that I loved her. I found it out just one day too late. I've been paying for that one day. And all I've done, all I could do, wouldn't begin to balance the account. I wonder whether you see?'
"'How could you keep it going so long?' I asked.
"He laughed harshly. 'I knew you wouldn't understand. Just because you think that love means faith and chastity, quietness, placid days and years, you have no eye for the love that lives in the fires of hell. But it's the same love. Bad as she is, I can't help loving her'
"The story, coming brokenly, by fits and starts, achieved by its very barrenness a certain grim intensity. The white light of his extraordinary narrative revealed a background sombre and hard, against which stood the drama of his ineffectual warfare, a play without hope and without reward, saved from inanity only by the tremendous fervour of his love. She had fled from New York without warning, it seems, fleeing from life, from him, from the scene and memory, perhaps, of that one day. He had a slight clue, but it took him half a year to find her. When at last they met, she didn't want him, didn't need him, wouldn't have him. This was in San Francisco, where she went on the stage again, and lived for over a year, successful, apparently happy, and growing more beautiful every day. 'People talked about her, you know' he told me 'She became quite the rage. Such a little girl, with serious eyes....'
She must have been clever, too, for she kept a good grip on herself. Soon she married a man of twice her years with a considerable fortune, and passed into another world. Bert had forsaken his profession, and had gone into journalism; he could have done anything passably well. One thing, however, he could not bring himself to do again, and that was to enter society. He didn't get on as a journalist—couldn't put his heart into the business of life. He told me that for a time he went shabby and hungry. Once in a great while he would see her, perhaps in passing, and they would have a few words together; but the occasions became more and more infrequent.
"'Then she left her husband, in the whirlwind of a sensational scandal. Bert missed only by the merest chance having to write about it for his paper. He sought her out at once; she had gone to an hotel there in the city, where she lived openly as the mistress of the other man. 'What are you doing, Bert, hanging around this town?' she had asked him point blank 'I want to be near in case you need me, Helen' he answered humbly. She gazed at him with those eyes that, according to his account, still retained their innocence—though it's hard to believe they hadn't by then acquired a trace or two of calculation. 'It's gone a long way beyond that' said she coldly 'I won't need you again' He tried to take her hand. 'I can't let you go thus, Helen!' he cried 'Let me go? You sent me' she told him.
"'What was the use?' said he to me 'I thought of the old days—they seemed old already; and when I looked at her, I couldn't realize that there had been any change. But it seemed pretty evident that she had left off caring. So I left her—but I couldn't go away'
"Some months later, she went in a yacht for a cruise among the South Sea Islands. The cruise was a long one; it ended, for her, in a quarrel at Honolulu, as a result of which she changed her second man for a third, and took up her abode in that glorious island of the Pacific where everything but happiness is supposed to wither and die in the magic sun. In the course of time Bert heard the details, folded his tent and followed her. But almost as soon as he landed in Honolulu she was off on another tack; for by now she had settled into the stride of her career.
"So it went on, year after year, from Honolulu to Shanghai, from Shanghai to Hong Kong, and down the coast to Singapore; a term in Calcutta, another term in Batavia; a year on the West Coast, Lima, Iquiqui, Valparaiso, she never resting, and he following in due time. It's hard to imagine what her life must have been during this pilgrimage; for now we know that she loved him, too, and that her heart likewise burned in the fires of hell. Pride, pride, what anguish will be borne in thy name! She had of course grown into a strong, clear-headed woman; only strength could have carried her so far. But he must have managed things very badly. I haven't a doubt that the thought of him constantly at her heels, the sight of him now and then in her wake, making hard weather of it, spurred her to the course that she had chosen. No woman respects a man who can't solve his own destiny.
"How they finally came to Australia, I don't clearly remember. They must have been there some time; he spoke of Sydney, of Newcastle, of Brisbane, and of Melbourne, where he saw her for the last time. 'I met her face to face one day' said he 'She looked a little tarnished—as if things had been going downhill with her. I suppose I told her so; I wasn't in the mood to dodge facts that day. She was angry at my comment—I don't blame her. But I tried to make up for it the next moment—show her what I really meant, how glad I would be—that is, that it rested with her to change everything. I asked her if I mightn't come to see her; she answered that it wasn't difficult to gain access to her apartment. All the while she was looking me over with a sort of amused scorn. Then she said something that was quite unnecessary. She said I didn't look as if I had the price.... That woke me up. I realized suddenly, fully, decisively, how impossible it was to keep on. Impossible!...' By chance, I'd been talking about Anjer with Captain Roach that very morning. He was sailing the next day, bound up this way, and I came along with him. Reardon leased me the bungalow; I went with Roach to Batavia, for he knew that the consulate had been abandoned. So here I am. I've got a little money, enough to live on. And God's being good to me—I've found a measure of peace. Now you have come along—I think I'll be all right....'
"'Yes, this certainly was the place for you' I temporized, struggling with irritation at the mess he had made of existence. I couldn't but recognize the inevitability of what he had told me; but my heart kept asking, why is it necessary for men to be so selfish, so helpless in the face of results clearly to be foreseen?
"'Exactly' he agreed with my spoken word. 'This land has taught me a great lesson. I'm getting back my grip ... more than I hoped....' He stopped abruptly. Again I had the feeling of something being held back, of something missing from the story. I awoke to the fact that, notwithstanding all he had told me, his present spiritual status remained unexplained. He quite obviouslyhadrecovered his grip—but how, and why? It wasn't in keeping with the rest of the hidden years. And of course I didn't believe my own platitude on the influence of the land.
"'I mean, I'm getting back my self-respect' he said 'I'm really thinking of going home. The past begins to look like a sort of joke—a horrible, fantastic joke; but I shall leave off loving her now. Try to, anyway. I've learned....'
"I wondered what it could be that so puzzled me about the case. After I'd gone to bed that night—it was nearly morning—I lay awake for a long while trying to think the problem out. Why had he lost his self-respect, in the beginning? Because she wouldn't love him? I thought I knew him well enough to recognize this as the correct answer; he belonged to the unhappy company of men who can't support life when the ego is denied. But she had sent him away, at last, with a lash of the whip, with scorn that even his tried humility couldn't brook. How the devil, then, had he recovered his self-respect? Self-respect is a matter of human relations; it can't be drawn out of the air.