Toward the close of the exercises, the congregation was startled by the sound of an ax smiting wood. The blows were rapid and vigorous. The surprised people looked at each other first in wonder and then in consternation. Who was guilty of this unseemly sacrilege?
Finally those on the edge of the multitude discovered the wielder of the ax. Some one, not easily recognizable, was chopping away the supports of the scaffold. The crowd grew restless; angry mutterings were to be heard on all sides. Every eye was turned from the platform to glare at the lone chopper across the fallow field.
Madame Careni-Amori, who was about to begin her second song, looked helplessly at Ruth Clinton.
Ruth had recognized the man at once. At first she was annoyed, then there surged over her a great, uplifting thrill of exaltation. She stepped quickly to the front and, raising her clear young voice, reclaimed the wandering attention of the throng.
“Please be quiet. Madame Careni-Amori is to sing for us once more. Mr. Percival is knocking down that horrible thing over there. It is right that he should. We do not need it there as a warning. Mr. Percival has had a change of heart. He has been moved,—tremendously moved,—by what he has seen in your faces today. That is why he is over there now hacking down that dreadful thing. It is the skeleton at our feast. We were conscious of its presence all the time. He is over there all by himself cutting it down so that our hearts may be lighter, so that this glad hour may end without its curse. Please remain where you are. He requires no assistance. He prefers to do it all alone. And now, if you will all give attention, Madame Careni-Amori will sing for us.”
Careni-Amori lifted up her glorious voice in song. The rhythmic beat of the ax went on unceasingly; the powerful arms and shoulders of the destroyer were behind every frenzied blow. As the last notes of the song died away, there came the sound of splintering wood, then a dull crash, and the gibbet lay flat upon the ground. Some one uttered an involuntary shout. As Percival turned from his completed work and wiped the sweat from his brow with his bare forearm, he found the gaze of the entire company fastened upon him. Then there came to his ears the clapping of hands, then the shrill clamour of voices raised in approbation. Swinging the ax on high, he buried its blade deep in the fallen timber and left it imbedded there. Snatching up his coat from a nearby stump, he waved his hand to the crowd and then, whirling, was quickly lost among the trees that lined the shore.
Landover walked beside the thoughtful Ruth as she crossed the Green on her way home. He studied her lovely profile out of the corner of his eye. As they drew away from the dispersing throng, he spoke to her.
“If money were of any value here in this Godforsaken spot, I would offer considerably more than a penny for your thoughts, Ruth.”
She started slightly. “You couldn't buy them, Mr. Landover. They are not for sale at any price.”
“I suppose there is no harm in venturing a guess, however. You will give me one guess, won't you?”
“All the guesses you like,—free of charge,” she rejoined airily.
“You are trying to decide whether or not it was all done for effect.”
She smiled mysteriously, looking straight ahead. Her eyes were very bright.
“You are wrong. I was thinking about hats, Mr. Landover. Don't you know that every woman's thoughts run to hats on Easter?”
“I confess I had a better opinion of him,” he said, disregarding her flippancy. “I don't like him, but I've never suspected him of being a stupid ass before.”
“Of whom are you speaking?” she inquired, suddenly looking him full in the eye.
“Our mutual friend, the enemy,” he replied.
“Mr. Percival?”
“Certainly.”
“But I thought he was beneath our notice.”
“We can't very well help noticing him when he goes to such extreme lengths to attract attention.”
“You think he did it to attract attention?”
“Not so much that, perhaps, as to get back into the lime-light. You see, he was rather out of it for as much as half an hour, and he simply couldn't stand it. So he went off and staged a little sideshow of his own.”
She walked on in silence for a few moments, torn by doubts and misgivings. Landover's sarcastic analysis was like a douche of cold water. Perhaps he was right. It had been a spectacular, not to say diverting, exhibition. Her eyes darkened. An expression of pain lurked in them.
“I can't believe it of him, Mr. Landover,” she said at last, in a slightly muffled voice.
“I thought it was understood you were to call me Abel, my dear.”
“If he did it deliberately,—and with that motive,—it was unspeakable,” she went on, a faint furrow appearing between her eyes.
“Of course, I may be wrong,” said he magnanimously. “It may have been the result of an honest, uncontrollable impulse. But I doubt it.”
“Men do queer, strange things when under the influence of a strong emotion,” she said, a hopeful note in her voice.
“True. They are also capable of doing very base things. You don't for an instant suspect Percival of being a religious fanatic, do you?”
“Please don't sneer. And what, pray, has religion to do with it?”
“I dare say Morris Shine is again lamenting the absence of a motion picture camera. He is always complaining about the chances he has missed to—”
“Stop!”
“Why, Ruth dear, I—”
“We have no right to judge him, Mr. Landover.”
“Are you defending him?”
“I don't believe he had the faintest notion that he was being—theatrical, as you call it. I am sure he did it because he was moved by an overpowering desire to make all of us happy. He couldn't bear the thought of that evil thing out there, pointing at us while we worshipped and tried to sing with gladness in our hearts. No! He did it for you, and for me, and for all the rest of us,—and he made every heart lighter when that thing toppled over and fell. Did you not see the change that came over every one when they realized that it was destroyed? There were smiles on every face, and every voice was cheerful. The look of uneasy dread was gone—Oh, you must have seen.”
“I can only say that it ought to have been done before, Ruth,—not during the exercises.”
“It was his way of publicly admitting he was wrong in insisting that it should remain.”
“He had his way with that weak-kneed committee, as usual. The tactics of that Copperhead Camp he talks so much about are hardly applicable to conditions here. We are not law-defying ruffians, you know,—and these are women of quite another order.”
“No one,—not even you, Mr. Landover,—can say that he has been anything but kind and considerate and sympathetic,” she flashed. “He is firm,—but isn't that what we want? And the people worship him,—they will do anything for him. Even Manuel Crust respects him,—and obeys him. And you, down in your heart, respect him. He is your kind of a man, Mr. Landover. He does things. He is like Theodore Roosevelt. He does things.”
Landover smiled grimly. “Perhaps that is why I dislike him.”
“Because he is like Roosevelt?”
“My dear, let's not start an argument about Roosevelt.”
“Just the same, I've heard you say over and over again that you wish Roosevelt were President now,” she persisted. “Why do you say that if you are so down on him?”
Landover shrugged his shoulders expressively.
“I can wish that, my dear, and still not be an admirer of Mr. Roosevelt,” he replied. “But to return to Percival, isn't it quite plain to you that he was pouting like a school-boy because he had not been asked to take part in today's exercises?”
“He was asked to take part in them. I asked him myself.”
He glanced at her sharply. “You never told me you had asked him, Ruth.”
“The night the crime was committed,” she said briefly. “He was very nice about it. He promised to sing in the choir and—and to help me with the decorations. After our unpleasant experience the next day, he had the—shall we say tact or kindness?—to reconsider his promise.”
“Openly advertising the fact that he preferred to have no part in any entertainment you were arranging,” was Landover's comment. “I don't believe it was because of any particular delicacy of feeling on his part, my dear. In any case, the fact remains that he let you go ahead with the affair, and then, bang! right in the middle of it he stages his cheap, melodramatic, moving-picture act. Bosh!”
She turned on him with blazing eyes.
“You will not see anything good in him, will you? You can't be fair, can you? Well, I can be,—and I am. He has been fair with both of us,—and I am ashamed of the way I have treated him. We deserved his rebuke that morning, and he did not hesitate to turn us back,—although he realized what it would mean. He loves me, Abel Landover,—he loves me a thousand times more than you do, in spite of all your protestations. He—”
“Why, Ruth,—I—I—”
“Yes,—I know,—I know you are shocked. And I don't care,—do you understand? I don't care that! You want your answer, Mr. Landover. Well, you shall have it now. I cannot marry you. This is final.”
The blood left his face. “You don't know what you are saying, Ruth,” he exclaimed. “You are angry. When you have had time to—”
“I've had all the time I need,” she interrupted shortly. “I don't want to be disagreeable,—but it's no use, Mr. Landover. I do not love you. I am sorry if I have misled you into hoping. There is nothing more to be said.”
“You have misled me,” he cried out bitterly.
“I am to blame, I suppose, for not giving you your answer before this. I have temporized. It is a woman's trick,—and a horrid one, I'll admit. I have never even thought of marrying you.”
“Are you in love with Percival?” he demanded.
“Yes,—I think I am,” she replied, looking him straight in the eye. She spoke with a sort of gasp, as if releasing a confession that surprised even herself.
“My God, Ruth,—I can't believe it,” he groaned.
“I have denied it to myself—oh, a thousand times,—I've fought against it. I've tried to hate him. I've done everything in my power to make him believe that I despise him. But it's no use,—it's no use. I—I can't think of anything else. I can't think of any one else. Oh, I know I am quite mad to say this, but I sometimes find myself praying that we may never be rescued. It might mean—well, you can see what it might mean. Thank God, you have driven me to this confession. It is the first time I have been really honest with myself. I have lied to myself over and over again about my feeling toward him. I have lain awake for hours at night lying to myself—telling myself that I hate him and always will hate him. Now, it's out,—the truth is out. I have never hated him,—I have cared for him from the very beginning.”
She spoke rapidly, the words rushing forth like a flood suddenly released after breaking through the dam, sweeping everything before it,—resistless, devastating, cruelly rapturous. She thought nothing of the hurt she was inflicting upon the man beside her; he was an atom in the path of the torrent, a thing that went down and was left behind as the flood swept over and by him. As suddenly as it began the torrent was checked. A hot flush seared her neck, her cheeks, her brow.
“What a fool you must think me!” she cried in dire chagrin. “What a stupid fool!”
He had not taken his eyes from her transfigured face. He had listened with his jaw set, his lips tightly pressed, his brow dark with anger.
“I don't think that,” he said shortly. “You have merely lost your head, as any woman might, over a picturesque, good-looking soldier of fortune. Perhaps I should not be surprised, nor even shocked by what you've just told me. He is the sort that women do fall in love with,—and I suppose they are not to be blamed for it. No, I do not think you are a fool. When one reflects that such experienced heads as those possessed by the irreproachable Obosky, the immaculate Amori,—to say nothing of the estimable lady we are pleased to call the 'Empress of Brazil,'—when such heads as theirs are turned by a man it is high time to admit that he has something more than personal magnetism. I am wondering how far the contagion has really spread. There is a difference between contagion and infection, you know. Infection is the result of personal contact,—contagion is something in the air. This epidemic of infatuation very plainly is in two forms. It appears to be both infectious and contagious. I rather fancy the amiable Obosky has selected the former type of the prevailing malady. Percivalitis, I believe, is the name it goes by.”
There was no mistaking the significance of his words. The implication was clear, even though veiled in the heaviest sarcasm. He had the satisfaction of seeing the colour ebb from her cheek. Her face being averted, he missed the swift flicker of pain that rushed to her eyes and, departing, took away with it the soft light that had glowed in them the instant before. He had touched a concealed canker,—the sensitive spot that had been the real cause of her sleepless, troubled nights,—the thing she had refused in her pride to accept as the real source of discomfort.
Down in her soul lay the poison of jealousy, a cruel and malignant influence that until now had been subdued by a mind stubbornly unwilling to recognize its existence.
In the eagerness to supply herself with additional reasons for hating Percival, she had given her imagination a rather free rein in regard to his relations with Olga Obosky. While she was without actual proof, she nevertheless tortured herself with suspicions that came almost to the same thing; in any case, they had the desired effect in that they created a very positive sense of irritation, and nothing seemed to please her more in the dead hour of night than the feeling that she had a right to be disgusted with him.
And now, Landover, in his sly arraignment, prodded a very live, raw spot, and she knew that it was bleak unhappiness and not rancour that had kept her awake.
“Is it necessary to beat about the bush, Mr. Land-over? If you have anything definite to tell me about Mr. Percival and Madame Obosky, I grant you permission to say all you have to say in the plainest language. Call a spade a spade. I am quite old enough to hear things called by their right names.”
“Since you have been so quick to get my meaning, I don't consider it necessary to go into details. I daresay you have ears and eyes of your own. You can see and hear as well as I,—unless you are resolved to be both blind and deaf.”
“Did you not hear me say that I know he loves me?”
“Yes,—I heard you quite distinctly.”
“As a rule, do men love two women at the same time?” she inquired, patiently.
“I have never said that he loves Obosky. It is barely possible, however, that he may not choose to resist her,—if that conveys anything to your intelligence.”
“It does and it does not,” she replied steadily. “You see, I believe in him. I trust him.”
“And I suppose you trust Olga Obosky,” he said, with a sneer.
“I understand Olga Obosky far better than you do, Mr. Landover.”
“I doubt it,” said he drily.
“She is my friend.”
“Ah! That measurably simplifies the situation. She will no doubt prove her friendship by delivering Mr. Percival to you, slightly damaged but guaranteed to—”
“Please be good enough to remember, Mr. Land-over, that you are not speaking to Manuel Crust,” she exclaimed haughtily, and, with flaming cheeks, swept past him.
He hesitated a moment, and then started to follow her. She stopped short and, facing him, cried out: “Don't follow me! I do not want to hear another word. Stop! I can see by your eyes that you are ashamed,—you want to apologize. I do not want to hear it. I am hurt,—terribly hurt. Nothing you can say will help matters now, Mr. Landover.”
“Just a second, Ruth,” he cried, now thoroughly dismayed. “Give me a chance to explain. It was my mad, unreasoning love that—”
But, with an exclamation of sheer disgust, she put her fingers to her ears and sped rapidly down the walk. He stood still, watching her until she entered the cabin door and closed it behind her. Then he completed the broken sentence, but not in the voice of humility nor with the words that he had intended to utter.
Shay, coming up the walk, distinctly heard what he said.
“What's the matter, Bill?” he inquired, pausing. “Did she throw the hooks into you?”
Landover glared at him balefully. “You go to hell, damn you,” he snarled, and walked away.
“Soapy” rubbed his chin dubiously as he watched the retreating figure. Pursing his thin lips, he turned his attention to an unoffending stump six or eight feet away and scowled at it vindictively. He was turning something over in his mind, and he was manifestly in a state of indecision. Ruminating, he spoke aloud, perhaps for the benefit of a Portuguese farm-hand who happened to be approaching from the opposite direction, but who still had some rods to cover before he was within hearing distance.
“Gee, he's getting to be as decent and democratic as any of us. Shows what association will do for a man. Two months ago he would have been too high and mighty to tell me to go to hell. If he keeps on at this rate, he'll be worth payin' attention to in a couple of months more. Won't he, Bill?” This to the farmhand, who obligingly halted.
Mr. Shay made constant and impartial use of the name Bill. Except in a very few instances, he applied it to all males over the age of two, and he did it so genially that resentment was rare. Americans, Britons, Irishmen, Portuguese, Spaniards, Indians, Swedes,—all races, in fact, except the Hebrew,—came under the sweeping appellation. His Hebrew acquaintances were addressed by the name of Ike.
It so happened that this particular “Bill” was lamentably slow in picking up the English language. It was even said that he prided himself on being halfwitted. However, being an exceedingly dull creature, he was quite naturally a polite one. He was a good listener. You could speak English to him by the hour and never be annoyed by verbal interruptions. At regular intervals he would insert a shrug of the shoulders, or nod his head, or lift an eye-brow, or spread out his hands, or purse his lips,—and he never smiled unless you did.
Perceiving that some sort of an answer was expected, “Bill” wisely shrugged his shoulders. “Soapy” interpreted the shrug as affirmative,—having a distinct advantage over “Bill,” who hadn't the faintest idea which it was,—and proceeded to go a little deeper into the matter.
“Now, as I was saying, this Landover guy is up against something, Bill. She handed him something he didn't like. Right on the nose, too, if I'm any judge. What do you suppose it was, Bill?”
“Bill” nodded his head very earnestly.
“That's what I think,” said “Soapy,” fixing his hearer with a moody, speculative frown. “Now, I know something about this Landover guy that she don't know. I suppose A. A. will give me an awful panning if I up and tell her what I saw that day. He seems to think it's a secret.”
There was a slight pause, suggesting to “Bill” that he ought to frown as if also in doubt.
“At the same time, I think she ought to be told, don't you, Bill?”
This called for something definite. So Bill scratched his left ear.
“In the first place, she's too nice a girl to be hitched up with a Priscilla like him. Now, I don't know what happened here a couple of minutes ago, but it looks to me as if she needs a little moral support. It strikes me that this would be a good time to tell her. What do you think about it, Bill?”
Always on the lookout for rising inflections, “Bill” was ever in a position to give prompt replies. He could dispose of the most profound questions almost before they were out of the speaker's mouth. His answer to “Soapy's” query was a broad grin,—for he had detected a sly twinkle in the speaker's eye. He also shrugged his shoulders and spread out his hands,—and, to clinch the matter, he winked.
“Now, I don't want to take this important step without being backed-up by some clever, intelligent feller like you, Bill,” went on “Soapy.” “It's all for her good,—and A. A.'s, too, although he won't see it in that light. If you say you think she ought to be told, that's enough for me. If you say she oughtn't,—why, nothing doing. It's up to you, Bill.”
“Bill” was plainly at sea. You can't decide a question that lacks an interrogation point. So all that “Bill” could do was to stare blankly at “Soapy” and wait for something tangible to turn up. Mr. Shay suddenly appreciated the poor fellow's dilemma and supplied the necessary relief.
“What say, Bill?”
Whereupon “Bill” started to shake his head, but, catching the scowl of disapproval on “Soapy's” brow, hastily changed his reply to a vigorous nod.
“Good!” exclaimed Mr. Shay. “That completely clears my conscience. So long, Bill.”
And half a minute later he presented himself at Ruth Clinton's cabin.
“Goodness!” exclaimed Mrs. Spofford, as she opened the door. She also opened her eyes very wide, and sent a startled, apprehensive glance over her shoulder into the warm, fire-lit interior. “What do you want?” she demanded querulously of the unexpected visitor.
Mr. Shay took off his hat. “I'd like a few words with Miss Clinton,” he said. “I saw her come in, so she's not out. It's important, ma'am. She will hear something to her advantage, as they say in the personals.”
“Will you please return at three o'clock, Mr. Shay? My niece is resting after the arduous labours of the—”
“I dassent wait,” said “Soapy,” with a furtive glance over his shoulder. “If he sees me, I'll probably have to change my mind.”
“Who is it, Auntie?” called out a clear voice from within.
“'Soapy' Shay,” replied the visitor himself.
“Mr. Landover will be here presently, Mr. Shay,—” began the obstacle in the doorway.
“I guess not,” broke in “Soapy,” forgetting himself so far as to wink. “I expect you haven't heard the news, ma'am. He's had his nose put out of joint.”
“Good heavens! His nose out of—”
“Come in, Soapy,” cried Ruth.
“Ruth, my dear,—do you know who—do you know what—”
“Sure she knows,” again interrupted “Soapy,” unembarrassed. “I'm not after anybody's jewels, Mrs. Spofford,—and besides which I am the principal candidate for Sheriff of this bailiwick. You don't suppose a man who's running for the office of sheriff on Mr. A. A. Percival's ticket is going to lift anything before election, do you? Besides which I've made up my mind to be straight as long as I'm on this island, and if I'm elected,—which I will be,—I'm going to see that nobody else does anything crooked. Mr. A.A. Percival is a wise guy,—a mighty wise guy. Says he to me, 'Soapy, you are one of the most expert—'”
“Come inside, Soapy,” called out Ruth.
Mr. Shay entered. “You better shut the door, Mrs. Spofford,” he said coolly. “What I got to say is private. As I was saying, A. A. says to me, 'Soapy, you are one of the craftiest and slipperiest crooks on this side of the Atlantic Ocean. What you don't know about crime would fill a book about as thick as a postage stamp. There's nobody on this island more fittin' to be an officer of the law. You know everything that an officer of the law ought to know, and besides which you know everything that a thief has to know. So you're going to be elected Sheriff of Trigger Island.' That's what A. A. says to me, and, as usual, he's dead right. Why, ma'am, there ain't a thief in the universe that can fool me. I don't have to have any evidence,—not a grain of it. All I got to do is to just ask 'em why they done it. But what I dropped in to see you about, Miss Ruth, is—Say, you ain't by any chance expecting A. A. to drop in, are you? I wouldn't have him ketch me here for—”
“I am not expecting Mr. Percival, Soapy,” she said, her gaze fixed expectantly on the man's face.
“Well, then,” said he, “I got a little story to tell you. It's the gospel truth. Just try to forget that I used to be a crook and that in ordinary times I am one of the most gosh-awful liars on earth. But there's absolutely no pleasure in lying nowadays, and as for working at my regular trade, Mrs. Spofford, you needn't be the least bit nervous. It ain't necessary for you to set on that trunk. Take this chair, please. Now, you remember some time back that A. A. and your friend Landover had a mix-up in the last named gentleman's stateroom, and you also must remember that Mr. Landover told you about it and that Mr. Percival never told you anything about it. Well, I was a witness to that fracas. I just happened to be walking along the deck when something caught my eye and I went up close to see what it was. You'd never guess what it was. After looking at it very carefully I discovered it was a port-hole.”
Forsaking his whimsical manner, he related tersely in as few words as possible the story of the encounter.
“Now, it's my guess that Mr. Abel Landover didn't speak the whole truth and nothing but the truth when he furnished you with his version of the affair. Am I right, or am I wrong?” he asked, in conclusion.
“I prefer to believe Mr. Landover's story,” said Mrs. Spofford stiffly. “Will you be good enough to go now, Mr. Shay?”
“Sure,” said “Soapy,” rising. “I'm not asking anybody to take my word against his. I'm just telling you, that's all. Good afternoon, ladies.”
“It was not Mr. Percival who fired the shot? You are sure of that, Soapy?” Ruth was standing now. Her eyes were very dark and tempestuous.
“Sure as my right name ain't Soapy Shay,” returned the witness, holding up his right hand.
“Ruth, it isn't possible that you place any credence in—”
“Thank you for coming, Soapy,” interrupted Ruth. “It was very good of you.”
“Soapy” lingered at the door, fumbling his dilapidated hat. Mrs. Spofford was staring speechlessly at her niece.
“I'd a little sooner you wouldn't say anything to A. A. about me peaching on him,” said “Soapy,” somewhat nervously.
“I shall not 'peach' on you, Soapy,” said the girl, a joyous smile suddenly illuminating her face.
“Soapy” went out. As he closed the door, he said to himself: “Next time you tell me to go to hell, Abe Landover, I guess you'd better furnish a guide that knows the way.”
As soon as the door was closed, Mrs. Spofford turned upon her radiant niece.
“You are not such a fool as to believe that rascal's story, Ruth?”
“I believe every word of it!” cried the girl.
Sailors, sniffing the gale that night, shook their heads and said there was snow on the tail of it. Morning found the ground mottled with splashes of white and a fine, frost-like sleet blowing fitfully across the plain. The ridge of trees over against the shore became vague and shapeless beneath the filmy veil, while the sea out beyond the breakers was clothed in a grey shroud, bleak and impenetrable.
Knapendyke was positive and reassuring in his contention that no great amount of snow ever fell upon the island. While much of the vegetation was of a character indigenous to the temperate zone, there was, he pointed out, another type peculiar to tropical climates,—and although the latter was of a singularly hardy nature, it was not calculated to survive the rigours of a harsh, protracted winter.
“We'll have spells like this, off and on, just as they occasionally do in Florida or Southern California, is the way I figure it out,” he said to the group of uneasy men who contemplated the embryonic blizzard with alarm and misgiving. “Moreover, I believe the wet, cold season is a short one here. The birds are content to stick it out. The fact there is no migration is proof enough for me that the winter is never severe. As the weather prognosticators say, look out for squalls, unsettled weather, frost tonight, rising temperature tomorrow, rain the next day, doctors' bills the end of the month. Avoid crowded street-cars, passenger elevators and places of amusement. Take plenty of out-door exercise and don't eat too many strawberries.”
Children, on their way to school in the town hall, shouted with glee as they romped in the snow-laden gale. It had no terrors for them. They were not concerned with the dour prospect that brought anxiety to the hearts of their elders.
“It's fine to be a kid,” said Percival, watching the antics of a crowd of boys. “Why do we have to grow up?”
“So that we can appreciate what it was to be a kid,” said Randolph Fitts.
Ruth Clinton was one of the teachers. There were, all told, about thirty children in the school, their ages ranging from five to fourteen. Most of them were youngsters from the steerage, bright-eyed little Latins who had picked up with lively avidity no small store of English. They were being taught in English.
The council, spurred by the far-seeing Percival, recognized the perils of a period of inactivity following the harvest and the flailing days. The majority of the men and women would be comparatively idle. Preparations for the building of a small ship occupied the time and interest of a few engineers and ship-carpenters, but as some weeks were bound to pass before the work could be begun in earnest, an interim of impatience would have to be bridged. Work, and plenty of it, was the only prescription for despair.
Already symptoms of increasing moodiness marked the mien of the less resourceful among the castaways. While it was not generally known, two men had attempted suicide, and one of the Brazilian ladies,—a beautiful young married woman,—was in a pitiful state of collapse. She had a husband and two small children in Rio Janeiro. The separation was driving her mad. There were others,—both men and women,—whose minds were never free from the thought of loved ones far across the waters and whose hearts ached with a great pain that could not be subdued by philosophy, but they were strong and they were cheerful. In their souls burnt an unquenchable fire, the fire of hope; they stirred it night and day with the song of the unvanquished.
Improvements in the hastily constructed cabins provided not only occupation but interest for the able-bodied men and women. There was no little rivalry in the matter of interior embellishments; those skilled in the use of implements took great pride in hewing out and adding more or less elaborate ornamentation to the facades of their habitations,—such as casements, door-posts and capitals, awnings, porches, and so forth. A shell road was in process of construction from one end of the village to the other, while over in Dismal Forest woodsmen were even now cutting down the towering Norfolk pines and hewing out the staunch timbers for the ship that was to sail out one day in quest of the world they had left behind them. But these enterprises provided work for men only. The women, in the main, were without occupation. With the approach of winter the men in active control of the camp's affairs realized that something would have to be done to relieve the strain,—at least, to lighten it until spring came to the rescue with toil in the fields and gardens.
A system of exchange was being worked out. As has been mentioned before in this chronicle, the people of the steerage were the plutocrats. Their hoardings represented real money, the savings of years. When it came to an actual “show-down,”—to use Percival's expression,—these people who were poor in the accepted sense, now were rich. They could “buy and sell” the “plutocrats” of another day and another world.
The theory that one good turn deserves another was an insufficient foundation upon which to construct a substantial system of exchange. It is all very well to talk about brotherly love, said Percival. The trouble is that certain brothers are for ever imposing upon other brothers, and the good turn does not always find its recompense. Socialism, he argued, is a fine thing until you discover that you are not alone in the world. Brotherly love began with Cain and Abel, and socialism is best exemplified by a parlour aquarium. Nothing happens to disturb the serene existence of the goldfish until somebody forgets to feed them, and then they begin nibbling at each other.
“You mend my fence, I'll mend yours,” is an ideal arrangement until you find it is “our fence” and doesn't need mending.
To Landover, Block and other financial experts was delegated the power and authority to perfect a fair, impartial monetary system. First of all, they arbitrarily declared the dollar, the peso and the shilling to be without value. “Time” script was to be issued by the governing board, and as this substitute would automatically become useless on the day the castaways, were discovered and taken off the island, no citizen was to be allowed to reduce or dissipate his hoard of real money.
Landover's proposal that a central depository be established for the purpose of holding and safe-guarding the possessions of each and every person was primarily intended to prevent the surreptitious use of real money. This project met with almost universal opposition. The “rich” preferred to hang onto their money, thereby running true to form. While professing the utmost confidence in the present integrity of the banker and his friends they ingenuously wanted to know what chance they would have of getting their money back when these masters of finance were ready to leave the island! So they elected to hide their gold and silver where it would be safe from unscrupulous financiers! And nothing could shake them in this resolve.
“Time” was the basic principle on which the value of the script was to be determined, and as “time,” in this instance, meant hours and nothing else, a citizen's income depended entirely on his readiness to work. Ten hours represented a full day's work. The hand-press on board the Doraine was used to print the “hours,” as the little slips made from the stock of menu card-board were called. They were divided into five denominations, viz.: One Hour, Three Hours, Five Hours, Seven Hours and Ten Hours. Each of these checks bore the signature of Abel T. Landover and a seal devised by Peter Snipe, who besides being an author was something of a draughtsman,—indeed, his enemies said he was a far better artist than he was an author, which annoyed him tremendously in view of the fact that he had stopped drawing when he was fifteen because eminent cartoonists and illustrators had told him he had no talent at all. The printing and stamping was done on board the Doraine and the script was shortly to be put into circulation. Landover was slated to become treasurer of Trigger Island at the general election.
As an illustration, this sort of dialogue was soon to become more or less common:
“What's the price of this hat, Madame Obosky?”
“Twenty-seven hours, Mrs. Block.”
Or:
“Gimme an hour's worth of 'smoke,' Andy,” meaning, of course, the substitute for tobacco.
Or:
“You blamed robber, what do you mean charging six hours for half-soling them shoes? If you was any good, you could ha' done it in half the time.”
Every individual in camp over the age of thirteen was obliged to have an occupation. To a certain extent, this occupation was selective, but in the main it was to be determined by a board whose business it was to see that the man-power was directed to the best advantage for all concerned. A camp tax was ordered. At the end of the week, every citizen was required to pay into the common treasury two “hours.” He could not “work out” this tax. It had to be paid in “cash.” Out of the taxes so received, the school, the church, the “hospital” and the “government” were to be supported.
The “governor” of Trigger Island and the humblest workingman were to receive exactly the same pay: “hour” for hour. Thirty thousand “hours” represented the total issue, or, approximately fifty units for each individual over the age of thirteen.
As no man's hours was worth more than another's, and as every transaction was to be based on time, rather than on money, there was no small likelihood that any one man or group of men could ever obtain a commanding grip on the finances of the Island.
And so it came to pass that all manner of enterprises sprang into existence. Competition was not allowed. There could be but one millinery shop, one dress-making establishment, one shoe and sandal factory, and so on. Everything was conducted on a strictly cash basis; there were no “charge accounts.”
Olga Obosky, as the proprietress of the millinery shop, earned no more than any one of her half-dozen assistants,—and they were all paid by the “government.” The same could be said of Madame Careni-Amori, who conducted a school of music, and the great Joseppi who graciously,—even gladly,—went into the tailoring business. Andrew Mott, one time First Officer on the Doraine, opened a “smoke” store and dispensed cured weed that Flattner authorized him to call “tobacco.” The austere Mrs. Spofford decided to open a dress-making shop!
It was all very simple, this man-to-man system of traffic, but no one took it lightly or in the spirit of jest. They were serious, they were sober-minded. Interest, incentive, grim determination centred in the seemingly childish arrangement. Greed was lacking, for there was no chance to hoard; confidence was paramount, for there was no chance to lose.
The “hours” travelled in a circle, from the “government” to people, from people to “government”; when all was said and done, it was the product of soil and sea that formed the backbone of the system.
With the adoption of the plan, it was to become a punishable offence,—indeed, it was to be classified as treason,—for any resident of Trigger Island to “forage” for necessities. He could do what he pleased in respect to the non-essentials, but when it came to foodstuffs of any kind or description, he was guilty of a felony if he failed to turn all that he produced or secured into the general stores.
“Strikes me,” said Randolph Fitts in council meet-ing, “that we are arriving at the most exquisite state of socialism. This comes pretty close to being the essence of that historic American dream, 'of the people, by the people, for the people.' Up to date, that has been the rarest socialistic doctrine ever promulgated, but we are going it a long sight better. 'From the people, by the people, to the people.' What do you call that but socialism?”
“Are you speaking to me?” demanded Percival.
“In a general way, yes.”
“Well, it's not my idea of socialism. So far as I've been able to discover, socialism is a game in which you are supposed to take something out of your pocket and put it into the other fellow's whether he wants it or not. This scheme of ours is quite another thing. We're not planning to split even on what we've got in our pockets so much as we're planning to divide what we've got in our hands, and there's a lot of difference between a hand and a pocket, old top. You can see what's in one and you can't see what's in the other. And, by the way, Fitts, if we let the socialists in this camp suspect that we're trying to introduce socialism here, there'll be a revolution before you can say Jack Robinson. They won't stand for it. They'd let out the blamedest roar on record if they thought we were trying to deprive them of the right to feel sorry for themselves.”
Ruth hurried over to the town-hall bright and early on this snowy, gusty morning. The forenoon session of the school began punctually at 8:30 o'clock. She was there half an hour ahead of time to see that there was a roaring fire in the huge fire-place, and that the benches for the scholars were drawn up close to it. There were two teachers besides herself,—and both of them were experienced “school marms.” She taught the “infant class,” comprising about a dozen tots. The three teachers took turns about in building the fires, arranging the benches and cleaning the crude blackboard.
There had been church-services the night before, and the benches were all in use, arranged so that they faced the combination pulpit-rostrum-stage at the far end of the room. Tonight there was to be a general committee meeting to discuss the prospective financial scheme and the general election that was to take place the following week.
The structure was not blessed with a paucity of names. If there was to be a council-meeting or a camp assembly, it was called the “Meeting-house.” On Sundays it became the “tabernacle.” Week-days it was known as the “schoolhouse,” and at odd times it was spoken of as the “theatre,” the “concert-hall,” and the “Trigger Island court-house.” In one corner stood the grand piano from the Doraine, regularly and laboriously tuned by the great Joseppi. Madame Careni-Amori gave vocal and instrumental lessons here every afternoon in the week, from three to six. Among the older children there were a number who had voices that seemed worth developing, and the famous soprano put her heart and soul into the bewildering task of stuffing the rudiments of music down their throats.
Ruth stopped just inside the door and looked about her in astonishment. The benches had been drawn up in an orderly semi-circle about the fire-place. Beyond them she observed the figure of a man kneeling before the fire, using a bellows with great effect. The big logs were snapping, and cracking, and spitting before the furious blasts.
She closed the door and started across the room in his direction. Suddenly she recognized the broad back and the familiar but very unseasonable panama hat. Panic seized her. She turned quickly, bent on making her escape. Her heart was beating like a triphammer,—she felt strangely weak in the knees. As abruptly, she checked the impulse to flee. Why should she run away, now that the moment she had wished for so ardently the night before was at hand? Chance had answered her call with amazing swiftness. She was alone with him,—she could go to him and lay her weapons at his feet and say,—as she had said a hundred times in the night,—“I can fight no more. I am beaten.”
But now that the time had come for bravery, she found herself sorely afraid. A chill swept through her,—a weakening chill that took away her strength and left her trembling from head to foot. The crisis was at hand,—the great, surpassing crisis. She found herself hazily, tremulously wondering what the next minute in her life would be like? What would be said in it, what would happen to her? Would she be in his arms, would his lips be upon hers,—all in the minute to come? Was the whole of her life to be altered in the brief space of a minute's time?
A warm glow suddenly drove off the chill. It came with the realization that he was building the fire for her,—that his thoughts were of her,—that he had stolen into the building to make it warm and comfortable long before she was due to arrive,—and that he would steal away again as soon as the “chores” were done.
He arose to his feet and stood over the fire for a moment or two, watching its lively progress. Apparently satisfied with his efforts, he turned and started toward the door. She was standing in his path, a shy, wavering smile on her lips.
He halted, and after an instant's hesitation, stammered:
“I—I never dreamed you'd be around so early. I thought I'd run in as I was passing and build a fire for—for the kiddies. Get the place warmed up a bit before—”
“Will you let me say something, Mr. Percival?” she broke in, hurrying the words.
He fumbled for his hat. “I am sorry if you are annoyed, Miss Clinton. Please believe me when I tell you I hoped to get out before you came. I came early so that you would not find me—”
“You are not letting me say what I want to say.”
She came toward him, her hand extended. “Oh, I don't want to thank you for lighting the fire and putting the room in order. I want to tell you that I surrender.”
“Surrender?” he exclaimed, staring.
“I cannot fight you any longer,” she said breathlessly.
He looked dumbly first at her hand and then into her eyes. She was an arm's length away.
“Fight me?” he mumbled, uncomprehending.
“You—you said we could not be friends. I knew what you meant. If—if you love me,—oh, if you do love me, we need not be friends. But I know you love me. If I did not know it I could not have come to you like this and—”
“Do I love you?” he cried out. “My God, I—I worship you.”
She held out both arms to him. “Then, we will try no more to be friends,” she murmured very softly. “Here are my arms. I surrender.”
A long time after he said to her as they sat before the jubilant, applauding fire,—the only witness to their ecstasy:
“Now I understand why we have never really been friends. It wasn't what God intended. Even in the beginning we were not friends. We thought we were,—but we weren't. We were lovers, Ruth,—from the start.”
“I tried very hard to hate you,” she sighed, drawing a little closer in the crook of his encircled arm. “How wonderful it all is,—how wonderful!”
“I never believed it could come true. I hoped, God, how I hoped,—but it didn't seem possible that this could ever happen. I've wanted to hold you in my arms, to kiss your dear lips, to kiss your eyes, to touch your hair, to press you tight against my heart. And here I am awake, not dreaming, not longing,—and I have done all these things. Lord! I wonder if I can possibly be dreaming all this for the thousandth time.”
“I was thinking of you when I came into this room,—not ten minutes ago,—and suddenly I saw you. I was terrified. I knew then that my dreams were coming true,—I knew it, and I don't know why I did not run away. Any self-respecting, modest girl would have done so. But what did I do? I, a supposedly sensible, well-brought-up—”
“You caught me trying to run away,” he broke in. “I give you my word, my heart was in my throat all the time I was working over that fire,—scared stiff with the fear that you would come in and bayonet me with one of those icicle looks of yours. And see what really happened!”
They were silent for some time, staring into the fire. Suddenly his arm tightened; he drew a sharp breath. She looked up quickly.
“Why are you frowning?”
“I was just thinking,” he replied after a moment's hesitation.
He gave a queer little jerk of his head, as if casting off something that bothered him. Into his paradise had slipped the memory of a night not long since when he held the yielding, responsive form of another woman in his arms, and felt the thrill of an ignoble passion surging through his veins. The kiss of the sensualist had burned on his lips for days; even to this hour it had clung to them; he was never free from the fire it had started in his imagination. And always on Olga's red, alluring lips lurked the reminder that she had not forgotten; in her eyes lay the light of expectancy.
“Of whom?” asked Ruth, not coyly, but with a directness that startled him. She seemed to have divined that his thoughts were not of her in that brief, flitting instant.
“Of myself,” he answered, quite truthfully.
She laid her hand on his. “I forbid you to think of any one but me,” she said.
He was silent for a moment. “I shall never think of any one but you, Ruth Clinton,” he said earnestly. “You have nothing to fear.”
“I believe you,” she said, and pressed his hand tightly. After a slight pause, she went on, looking straight into his eyes: “I might have lost you, dear,—and I could have blamed no one but myself. She—she is very alluring.”
He shook his head. “I've always been of the opinion that Samson's hair needed trimming. His mother probably brought him up with Fauntleroy curls, poor chap. If he'd had his hair cut regularly, he wouldn't have looked such an ass when Delilah got through with him.”
“I don't quite follow the parable.”
“In other words, it's what a man's got in his head and not so much what he's got on it that makes him strong,” he explained, still more or less cryptically.
“I am beginning to see. You made good use of what you have in your head, is that it?”
“I made use of what you put into it a good many months ago, dear heart. You have been in my head and in my heart all these months, and so it was you who made me strong. Without you in there, I might have been as weak as Samson was before he had his hair cut. No sensible man blames Delilah. In fact, men are rather strong for her. When you stop to think how long old Samson got away with it, and what a shock it must have been to her after she trimmed him and found there wasn't anything left to speak of, you've just got to feel sorry for her. She took one good look at his head and understood why he let his hair grow. He was like the fellow who wears long whiskers to develop his chin. If Samson had had room enough in his head for a thought of anything except himself, Delilah wouldn't have been able to catch him napping.”
She could not help laughing. “You take a most original way of evading the point. Still, I am satisfied. You did not have room in your head for any one else but me,—and that's all there is to it. I can't help feeling tremendously complimented, however. She is quite capable of turning any man's head.”
“She plays fair, Ruth,” he said seriously. “She keeps the danger signal up all the time. That's more than you can say for most women.”
“Yes,” said she; “she plays fair. She is a strange woman. She has given me a lot of advice,—and I am just beginning to take it.”
“If I had believed what she told me three months ago,” said he, “this glorious hour would have been advanced just that length of time.”
Ruth stiffened. “What did she tell you?”
“She told me I was a fool and a coward; that all I had to do was to walk up to you and say 'Here, I want you,' and that would have been the end of my suspense. She told me something I didn't know and couldn't believe.”
“Indeed! I like her impudence! She—”
“She told me you were as much in love with me as I was with you. Honest,—was she right?”
Ruth sighed. “I suppose she was right.”
“And would you have come to me if I had said 'I want you '?”
“If you had said it as you say it now, I—listen! Good gracious! There are the children!”
She sprang to her feet, blushing furiously. The door opened and three small children were fairly blown into the room,—three swarthy, black-eyed urchins who stared in some doubt at the “boss” and the adored “teacher.”
“Good morning, children,” she cried out jerkily, and then glanced at each of the windows in quick succession. “You don't suppose,—” she began under her breath, turning to Percival with a distressed look in her eyes.
“I wouldn't put it above 'em,” said he, cheerfully.
“We should have thought of the windows.”
“Thank God, we didn't,” he cried.
He went out into the storm with the song of the lark in his heart.
“God, what a beautiful place the world is!” he was saying to himself, and all the while the sleet was stinging his radiant face with the relentlessness of angry bees.