SCENE III

The night was dark, and the two figures taking a winding way up the narrow hillside path had much ado to keep from going astray. The leader, ploughing along, head down, with eyes diligently on the move to save his precious shins, was betrayed by a running accompaniment of his favourite language. He was volubly cursing his folly in having made ‘such a d——d silly bet,’ and Mr Denver for having inveigled him into a fool’s errand. The latter, sauntering along a few steps behind, apparently quite oblivious of his companion, was humming a favourite little tune, and turning from time to time to look down on the twinkling lights of the little town scattered here and there amid the tall stems of the palms outlined against the further sky. The faint murmur of the surf breaking on the reef seemed to chime in with his mood better than the tune, for he stopped humming, and bent forward to listen. Massinger had exhausted his vocabulary for the present, and was silent also; only the fitful chirping of a cicala and the occasional bark of a dog from below broke the stillness of the tropical night. The moon was just rising over the sea, throwing a long silvery line of light, which gradually spread, as if eager to embrace the land, awaiting it in silent expectancy. The solemnity and stillness of the scene, however, only served to increase the Major’s irritation.

‘Come on,’ he said, impatiently; ‘don’t stand moonstruck there; let’s get this infernal foolishness over as soon as possible. How much further have we got to go up this beastly path? If it’s far I’d sooner pay £500 than go on.’

‘We’re almost there,’ said Dick, and passing his companion, he swung along up the track. In about ten minutes he came to a halt, and said in his soft drawling voice, ‘We turn down here, and in a minute or so we’ll be right there. Then look to your shooting-iron, and harden your heart, and in we go. Malūa, my son,’ he added to himself, ‘it’s no part of the game to “show” a while yet—mustn’t skeer the gentleman;’ he chuckled grimly and audibly.

‘What the devil’s wrong with the infernal place, and why do we want pistols?’ said Massinger, testily; but even as he spoke he drew a revolver from his side pocket. For all answer, Mr Denver led on down a zig-zag path to the left, until brought up sharp by the face of a rocky cliff, grown over with bushes and creepers. After standing there a minute to see that his companion had followed him, he stooped suddenly, raising with his hand a huge, hanging creeper, and dived as it were into the face of the rock. Astonished at his sudden disappearance, Massinger stood a minute before the rock irresolute, but a mocking voice, with that peculiar high drawl, came from within.

‘Reckon you’re going back, Major; is that so?’

With a muttered oath, Massinger raised the creeper, and, imitating his companion, crawled through a hidden opening in the rock, till he found himself standing upright beside Dick in an open space. When his eyes had become somewhat accustomed to the gloom, he saw that they were in a natural vault or chamber, formed in the rock of the hillside, nearly square, and about forty feet from side to side. In the centre was a huge jagged hole of cavernous depth, and above it, a large cleft in the rock ceiling of the vault, letting in a glimpse of the starry heavens. The sides of the walls, of a reddish-grey stone, were damp and clammy, and the air hot and steamy. In the far corner of the cavern, opposite the entrance, was a natural stone seat. When by degrees and uncertain glances he had taken in his surroundings, Massinger looked round for his companion. Mr Denver was seated in a degagé attitude on a stone, with his back to the entrance, carefully selecting a weed from his cigar-case. This he lighted, and got well under weigh, before he said, with the drawl that had become hateful to the other:

‘Nice place, a’nt it, Major? Take a seat; there’s a tolerable spry pew opposite.’

He waved with his cigar to the stone seat. Massinger, though secretly far from comfortable, was not to be outdone in coolness by this Yankee blackguard. Taking a cigarette, he lit it from the other’s cigar, and strolled, with a fine assumption of indifference, to the seat indicated. A long silence followed; the moon was gradually creeping up in the sky, and long ghostly shadows were cast on the floor and walls of the ‘Devil’s Box.’ Massinger’s feelings during this night had been far from enviable; starting after a good dinner, he had looked upon the affair as an amusing freak by which he would save himself the payment of £200. The steep, difficult ascent had thoroughly disillusioned him, and the eerie look of the cavern was fast completing his discomfiture. He was conscious, too, of a vague feeling of distrust as to his companion’s conduct. Why had he brought him to this unearthly hole,—where apparently there was nothing to prevent their staying till Doomsday to decide this fool of a bet. There was something sinister about the entertainment.

As if reading the thoughts that were pressing on his companion’s brain, Mr Denver broke the silence,—

‘Guess you’re feeling up a considerable high tree, Major; this is going to be an interesting occasion for you.’ There was a look as of a cat playing with a mouse about the speaker, and Massinger was not slow to read a menace into the suave tones of the high-pitched voice.

‘What in God’s name is the meanin’ of this foolery?’ he broke out, harshly; ‘why have you brought me here? There’s something behind all this d——d skittlin’, and I’ll trouble you to tell me what it is.’ He rose as he spoke, and took a step with clenched hands towards Dick. The latter did not move.

‘I should mind that little orifice if I were you,’ he said, pointing to the yawning chasm that separated them in the centre, and from the murky depths of which ascended a faintly hissing, bubbling sound as of boiling water. Massinger, who in his excitement had advanced almost to its edge, started back again with an alacrity that showed the unstrung state of his nerves. When he had again dropped into his seat, and was playing nervously with the butt of the revolver in his coat pocket, Mr Denver took up the word.

‘Major,’ he said, ‘I’m going to have some talk with you, and you’ll pardon me if I deliver a little exordium’—he pronounced it with an ominous emphasis on the ‘um.’ ‘I reckon the moon won’t be full up for another half hour, so we’ve considerable time.’

‘What’s the moon got to do with it, and what the devil is it you want? Fire away and come to the point,’ said Massinger, twisting the ends of his moustache, and endeavouring to conceal his now genuine alarm under a boisterous bluffness. Mr Denver smiled a quaint little smile, as though his spirits were rising.

‘Things will begin to move right along about the time the moon’s overhead,’ he said, consulting his watch. ‘Now, see here, Major, I don’t want to bore you, but I’ve got to say you’re kind of the worst specimen of a man I’ve had the luck to meet’—a smothered curse from Massinger. ‘Keep cool, Major; you’ll want all your language before I’m through; guess I’ve brought you here,—at your own request, you know,’—he smiled,—‘just to explain to you a little idea of mine, which I reckon you’ll appreciate.’ Mr Denver’s resemblance to a cat at this moment was not reassuring to the mouse. For a moment he paused, changing his attitude, and leaning back against the wall with his hands in his pockets and his legs crossed. Massinger had taken out his revolver, and fingered it nervously.

‘Nice little iron,’ said Mr Denver, approvingly; ‘you’re a good shot, too, Major, I know.’

‘Pretty fair,’ said the latter, grimly.

‘So much the better. We—ell now, I’ve been thinking a good deal ’bout you since I’ve had the honour of making your acquaintance, and—now don’t be wild, Major—you really are—as you Britishers say—a great cad.’

A furious oath and a sudden movement forward from Massinger was as suddenly checked by the appearance of a little shining tube held straight at his head, and the imperturbable drawl resumed,—

‘Guess I see you, and go one better; presently, my dear sir, you’ll have your chance, but just now I must beg you to sit still and hear my little exordium.’ A pause.

‘Four years ago you married the present Mrs Massinger.’

‘You blackguard, how dare you mention my wife’s name?’

For the first time Dick Denver’s face betrayed emotion; his mouth twitched, and a sullen fire burned slowly up into his deep-set eyes, but his voice was none the less impassive as he continued:

‘I guess I’ve as much show; I’m a good bit fitter to talk of your wife than you are, you—you hound.’ The words in the slow drawl were maddening, and this time it was Massinger’s revolver that was levelled, but Mr Denver sat idly as ever, looking full at his companion, and presently the latter dropped his arm.

‘Malūa, Major, Malūa! even you won’t commit murder, you see.’—A longer hiss from the inky depth in the centre, and a thin jet of water spurted up a foot or two above the level of the ground. Mr Denver took out his watch and looked at the opening above.

‘The show’s beginning,’ he said. Massinger was wiping some drops of water off his trousers.

‘I say,’ he said excitedly, ‘that water was boilin’; will it come any higher?’

‘Don’t alarm yourself, Major, the moon’ll be up before the next demonstration.’

‘What in the fiend’s name has the moon got to do with it? If you think I’m goin’ to stay here to be boiled for you or any other madman, I’m not takin’ any, I can tell you.’

‘No? Well, I guess you’re going to stay here some, while I finish what I’ve got to say.—Four years ago you married the present Mrs Massinger; and I guess you’ve led her the life of a dog.’

‘You’re a liar! a d——d liar! I’ve never ill-used her.’

‘You’ve never struck or kicked her, you mean, but by God, in every other way you’ve been a brute to her, and I reckon you’ve spoilt her life.’

He held the other with his look, and went on rapidly.

‘I know you, Major; you’re a mean, sullen, sordid cur, not fit to live with any woman, much less with her. We—ell! so—o I guess I’ve fixed up a little idea which I’m going to explain to you right along.’ Another low, soft hiss from the bottomless pit. The rays from the moon were now striking almost vertically into the cavern, on Massinger sitting motionless in an angry but half-cowed amazement, on Mr Denver again consulting his watch. He returned it to his pocket and said:

‘In ten minutes from that first jet, there’ll be a geyser, and if we’re here I calculate we’ll be boiled and carried down that hole,—I know its little ways. There’s just upon six minutes left, but in three the moon’ll be right above, and there’ll be considerable light in the shooting gallery.’

Massinger opened his mouth, but Mr Denver went on sharply and distinctly:

‘You see, Major, my idea’s just this, one of us has got to stay right here. Now its likely you’ll prefer being shot to being boiled; when I say the words “one, two, three,” we shall both of us fire, and if you pass out over my body you are to be congratulated. I shall shoot you if I can, because’—he paused, then very slowly, ‘I guess Mrs Massinger has no kind of use for you. It’s a fair and square business, Major, and you bet’—he pointed with his pistol to the bubbling, hissing chasm—‘the devil’ll take the hind-most.’

Dick Denver smiled grimly as he finished his exordium—his composure was devilish; he rose, looked once up at the opening above, through which the moon was now visible directly overhead, and then stood immovable, watching his companion. The full horror of his position had at last dawned on Massinger; he was on his feet now, leaning irresolutely against the wall, with staring eyes fixed alternately upon the awful chasm between them and his opponent’s set face.

‘My God!’ he said; ‘you must be mad,—for heaven’s sake, let’s end this fooling.’ But his ashen face showed that he knew it was no fooling, but a grim reality.

‘Time’s up. I shall say “one, two, three”; at three we fire.’

The words acted like a cold douche on Massinger; he shivered all over, then braced himself against the rock and set his teeth.

‘D——n you,’ he muttered, ‘I’ll pass out over your body yet.’ Turning to bay with a wolfish glare in his eyes, he lifted his pistol.

The angry water, greedy of its prey, was hissing louder and louder between them.

‘One—two—three!—’ a double report and a hoarse, stifled cry. Mr Denver staggered back, and his hat, pierced through and through, fell from his head. Recovering himself, he threw one look over the pit to where Massinger lay motionless on his face, shot through the heart; the devil’s water creeping up and brimming over the edge, nearly touched his rigid body.

‘Wonder if the cuss is dead? Can’t leave him to be boiled alive.’ Dick sprang over the brimming, hissing gulf, and lifted the head.

‘As mutton,’ he said, dropping the lifeless mass. With a leap backwards, he gained the entrance, and, passing through, dashed down the hill. Once he paused, and looking back, saw a smoking jet shoot high into the moonlit sky. Some drops of boiling spray fell with a hiss on his face and hands,—Dick shivered and went on his way.

AN AFTERTHOUGHT

The first streaks of dawn were showing in the east. The long, low, white-verandahed hotel surrounded by a group of palms that wavered unsteadily in the half-light, like a group of ghostly sentinels, was still undisturbed by the coming day. A man standing back in the shadow muttered to himself, as, glancing over his shoulder, he caught the first glow of light on the horizon. Advancing softly, with a spring, he grasped the roof of the verandah, and swung himself up lightly and noiselessly. Climbing the balcony rails, he looked for a moment along the line of French windows opening outwards, then, creeping forward, he passed through one of them into a small empty room, with a larger one adjoining it. Pausing inside, he glanced through the open door into the other room. The night had been stiflingly hot, the windows were open, and from the bed standing in the far corner the mosquito-curtains were thrown back. As his eyes fell upon the bed, Dick Denver shivered, and stood thinking.

‘Better not’ he said to himself; ‘it’s kind of a skeery tale.’ He took a piece of paper from his pocket. ‘No one saw us go up,’ he muttered, and grimly, ‘I guess no one saw us come down.’ He ran his eye over the paper.

‘“I bet Mr Dick Denver the sum of £200 that I visit with him a condemned hole called ‘La boîte du diable,’ and stay there as long or longer than he does.

‘“ Play or pay.

‘“Albert Massinger, October 9th, 188—. Dick Denver.”’

So it ran. With a pencil he scribbled a line underneath:

‘Lost and paid. A. M. stays there for ever. Burn this.—D. D.’

He took out of his pocket a bundle of notes, then stole gently forward and pinned them both to the pillow of the bed where a white figure lay sleeping. Then he stood back and gazed with a wistful, yearning look in his eyes. The white-robed figure moved restlessly in its sleep, and a sigh that went straight to Dick’s heart came stealing across the room. The window faced east, and the dawning light fell softly on the sweet face resting on a bare white arm, and on the fair hair trailing across the pillow. A tiny puff of sea-air floated in, and ruffled the lace falling back from the delicate throat. A mad longing seized upon Dick; he took two steps forward, then stopped irresolutely and staggered back against the wall, as a far-off mountain cry of beast or bird was wafted in at the window, sounding in his ears like that other cry heard not long ago. It steadied him, and with a noiseless step he moved swiftly to the bed, and stooping, pressed his lips lightly to one fair tress that fell softly over neck and bosom; then he raised himself as swiftly. Without another look he passed through the window, and swinging himself over the rail, walked hurriedly through the morning mist in the direction of the pier.

Two hours afterwards, Mr Dick Denver leant against the side of the French packet ‘Belle Ile’ as she made steady way from the port of St Martin. His eyes were fixed on a fast-vanishing white building.

‘I’m best with a new hand; there was nothing to that racket. But it just licks creation how I made tracks; it wasn’t in the programme, anyway. Why did I? Dick, my son, why did you?... We—ell, ’pears to me somehow I remembered a saying: “Ye cannot get figs from thistles”; I guess that’s right so,—and,’ exceeding bitterly, ‘who am I that I should lift my face to hers?’