Front matter (continued 4)

He stood at the end of the bridge, staring down at the grey water. What should he do now? While he struggled with himself, his eyes rose slowly, resting on a hulk that lay at anchor close alongside, between the steamer and the hills of Staten Island. For a moment he regarded her with a dazed and absent concern, trying to fathom the significance of half-awakened sensations. Then, with a suddenness that stopped his throat, his heart gave a great leap of recognition. Neither coal dust nor dismantlement could hide those familiar lines. The Viking, his old ship, lay before him.

A hoarse cry escaped him. Through the dreadful pall of the latter years, through bitterness, shame and inertia, burst in a blinding flood the memory and presence of other days. The shock passed instantaneously, and left him utterly changed. Facing his old ship, he became once more the man her master had been. Decision and authority returned to him, as they always did in a crisis; for they were intrinsic, in spite of life and destiny.

A rowboat was passing the steamer; he hailed it sharply. "Rowboat ahoy! Come alongside, and wait there for me" He crossed the bridge with strong steps, stood before the captain, gazed at him steadily, until the eyes of the other fell.

"I'll leave your dirty tramp immediately, sir. You can keep my wages—I don't want them. Take them and buy a book on seamanship. You'll need it the next time you get in shoal water"

"You insolent old devil...!"

"Don't touch me!" The old man's voice was level and hard; his hands swung at his sides. He advanced threateningly. "You didn't dare touch me at sea; don't do it now. I..." Speechlessness overcame him. Too much: it could never be put into words. "My God!" he murmured, turning away "I was master of a ship before he was born"

Ten minutes later, seated in the rowboat with all his worldly belongings stacked around him, he directed the boatman to row him aboard the Viking. As they passed under her stern, he looked up at the well-remembered letters. They were dim now; time and weather had worn off the gilt. An afternoon in Hong Kong harbour came back to him; he recalled it vividly. He had been coming off from shore in his sampan, full of news; the ship had been chartered for home. Grace would be delighted. Approaching the ship, he had overhauled her with a critical eye, and found no blemish in her; then, as they rounded the stern, had looked up at these same letters. His Frankie had called from the rail, running forward to meet him at the gangway. Time and weather—the awful dimming of life. He bowed his head in his hands, and wept like a child.

VI

A stroke of luck was about to befall Captain Bradley. When he gained the Viking's deck, he found no one in command of the barge. Four frightened sailors gathered around him, taking him for their new captain. Piecing together their incoherent stories, he learned that the captain of the barge had been killed that morning in an accident at the loading berth. A hopper had broken loose, and had brained him as he stood beside the hatch. The mate, a drunken rascal, had disappeared on shore the evening before, and the captain had not expected him to return. The moment the scene of the accident had been cleaned up, they had towed the barge into the stream, in order to free the loading berth. There she lay, waiting for a new set of officers to be sent off from shore.

When he had learned this much, a strange idea came to Captain Bradley. It seemed a slender chance; but a surprising energy and hope had taken possession of him. He got the address of the coal company's shipping office, the place where these men had found their jobs; left his things aboard the Viking, gave the boatman two dollars to hurry him ashore, and went at once to the number on West Street where he had been told to apply. Luck followed him. He found the shipping office in a quandary over the Viking's case; they had no waiting list of barge officers, the tow for Boston was to be made up that afternoon, and the barge could not be sent to sea without someone in command. Captain Bradley told his story simply, showing papers that covered a career of nearly fifty years on the sea. His dignified and authoritative presence bore out the tale.

"Well, Captain Bradley" said the shipping superintendent kindly "the job is yours. I guess you deserve it, sir"

"Thank you" Captain Bradley gave a wry smile "I think I can fulfil my duties. I'll try to give satisfaction, sir"

He had not told them of his own relation to the Viking, fearing the injection of sentiment into a business-like application. That afternoon he joined his old command, at forty dollars a month and all found.

He would not have called it a stroke of luck in the other days. How incredible, then, to look ahead, would have seemed the natural development that time had wrought. Could he have foreseen the end that he was coming to, he would have blown out his brains. But life had accomplished it easily and inexorably; failure had at last ground down the keen edge of his spirit, disappointment had rounded off the corners of his imperative nature. As he stepped across the rail of the barge Viking, only a great and pathetic happiness found place in his heart. His fight was finished. He had kept his pride at too terrible a cost. Now he gave it up, freely, gladly. Perhaps he would be allowed to die in peace, aboard the ship that had shared his better days.

Fine old ship—life had gone hard with her, too. The lofty masts and spreading spars had been lopped away; nothing remained above decks but the three lower masts. The decks themselves were grimy with coal dust; the woodwork had not seen paint for years. How well Captain Bradley remembered her appearance, when, spick and span from the shipyard, the best production of her day, he had taken her on her maiden voyage. It seemed impossible that a whole era of such intense human activity could so completely disappear, carrying its lore, its lessons, its origins, its very worth and meaning, into the oblivion of time. An economic empire had passed away.

Dingy, battered, neglected, yet Captain Bradley loved the old vessel—loved her all the more for the hard knocks she had seen. A sentiment that he had thought to be dead reawoke in his heart. He had not known, he had not dared to admit, how much he had missed her. He felt as if he had come home.

His duties were light. There were on the barge four men besides himself. He found time to clean her up. After every loading or discharging, he would have the decks thoroughly swept and washed down, and all the paintwork scrubbed. Later, out of his own pocket (he had no use for money now), he bought paint and freshened her appearance about decks; for the coal company, knowing that she would not last much longer, would provide nothing for upkeep. The cabin, the scene of so much that was sacred to him, he scrubbed and painted with his own hands, spending many quiet hours over the task while the barge was towing up and down the coast. It was a labour of peace and love.

For a long while the matter of sails gave Captain Bradley deep concern. The barge was rigged on the three lower masts with fore-and-aft sails, to be used in an emergency, when she had broken adrift from her tow. Often these sails would be set to assist her progress when the wind was fair. Smothered in coal dust, exposed to sun and rain, the first suit that had been given her as a barge was now worn out; the canvas would hardly hold together to be hoisted. Not that Captain Bradley cared a pin for his own safety; nothing would have better pleased him than to be lost at sea aboard the Viking. But the condition offended his sense of seamanship and responsibility. It was an indecency to the old ship to fail to provide her with the ordinary weapons of battle; and there were other lives than his involved.

At length, seeing that it was hopeless to expect her owners to furnish the barge with a new suit of sails, he began to save his money. In a year's time he had laid up enough to supply them at his own expense. It seemed like a touch of the old seafaring activity to be drawing up their specifications; he ordered thick duck and stout bolt-ropes, for this was to be a suit of real heavy-weather sails. When, one afternoon under the coal chute at Perth Amboy, he was able to stow away this strong white canvas in the lazaret, together with a couple of coils of first-grade Manila for reeving off new sheets and halyards, he felt that he could go to sea again with a clear conscience.

That evening he sat for a long while alone in the cabin. The interest of looking over and stowing away the sails had passed; he saw the truth now, saw how things really stood. Buying a suit of sails for a coal barge: was it for this that he had spent his hard apprenticeship, had learned and practised the intricate lore of the sea? He could remember greater triumphs. For two hours of grim thought he sat with hands clenched on the arms of the chair, facing the world's defeat without surrender. In his heart of heart he knew that he had not failed. He had kept respect and dignity, saved his honour, been true to himself through it all.

He sat on into the night; the storied cabin enclosed him as if with loving arms; slowly, as the mood of revolt wore away, his mind drifted back into the old days. He remembered how his wife used to sit there beside him, on evenings at sea, busy with her sewing; he remembered how little Frankie used to come running in. These things had happened so often, so naturally. But not for a long, long time....

Gone with the era, gone with manhood and success, gone with the further use of life's endeavour. The old man's head fell back against the chair; tears streamed down his cheeks and sank into his beard.

"What have I done?" he cried in agony. "I cannot understand it. What have I done?"

VII

Two more years passed by, and winter came on. It was the hardest winter in a decade along the Atlantic Coast. Beginning in the latter part of November, snowstorm after snowstorm struck in from sea in quick succession; one of those easterly spells that, to the mariner, seems destined to hang on for ever. Early in January, the wind backed for a few days into the northwest, and the harsh weather offered a temporary respite. Seizing the opportunity, three heavily laden coal barges, in tow of a powerful seagoing tugboat, set out from Hampton Roads bound for Boston. The old Viking was the last barge of the string.

The weather permitted them to get well outside the Capes of the Chesapeake; then it changed. Wisps of clouds gathered in the southern sky, a heavy bank loomed just above the horizon; the wind began to sing in the rigging with a low moaning sound. Captain Bradley, pacing his quarter-deck at the tail of the tow, plainly recognised the signs. Another spell of easterly weather was coming on.

They were already too far outside to think of turning back, and too far offshore to run for Sandy Hook. Nothing for it but to push on toward Vineyard Haven. The towboat was doing her best; a nasty head sea remained from the last storm, and began to pick up as the wind veered to the northward and eastward. The barges strained at their hawsers, pitching and rolling incessantly. Captain Bradley could never accustom himself to this motion, so different from the motion of a ship under sail. It annoyed and distressed him to the core of his being. Together, he and the Viking had once roamed the sea boldly, the man striking off the course, the ship leaping forward along it, bending to the wind, sailing free under the sun and stars. Now they dragged about at the end of a hawser, engaged in a servile traffic, trailing in the wake of steam.

Minute by minute the clouds piled up from the southward; a grey gloom fell on the ocean. The wind, now settled in the northeast, rose steadily, lifting the sea before it. The air grew colder, the chill of the coming storm. The old ship wallowed and plunged, groaning in every timber. She was very low in the water; already green seas were coming over her bows. Soon the night shut in, black as a cavern—and Gay Head light not yet in sight.

At six o'clock Captain Bradley went below to put on his oilskins and drink a cup of tea. Coming on deck a little later, rigged for the storm, he paused a moment beside the binnacle, as an officer fresh from below always will. In that instant, the hawser parted. He heard no sound, he saw no sign; but he knew that the ship was free. The fact was communicated to him through the deck, through the motion of the hull. He sprang to the rail, and ran forward along the starboard alleyway. Abreast of the mainmast, he stumbled against the mate in the darkness.

"Hawser's parted, sir!"

"I know it. Turn out all hands, and loose the foresail. She's falling off to the westward—the wrong way. We must wear her around on the other tack, and scratch offshore"

"They'll be back to pick us up, Captain, as soon as they miss us"

"Not if they know their duty. It would endanger the other two barges; this is going to be a bad blow. We'll have to look out for ourselves now"

"Good Lord, sir, what can we do with this old hooker?"

"Do?—everything! Do as I say. Up with that foresail, now, and be handy about it. There was a time when you wouldn't have called her an old hooker! I'll show you what she's made of"

Then it was that the labour of love which Captain Bradley had expended on the Viking bore worthy fruit. Every block was in order, every rope was clear and fast in its proper pin. Unconsciously, under his training, the crew had acquired a measure of seamanship. They had learned to obey orders, at any rate; had learned, too, to respect and trust their old wind-jammer commander.

For the first time in many years, an emergency confronted Captain Bradley. He faced it without hesitation, filled with a certain fierce joy, sure of his power and ability. Almost before the ship had lost her towing headway, he had decided on his course. He and the Viking had more than once clawed off the Jersey shore in the teeth of a northeaster. They could do it again. Then, when the storm had broken, he would take her to New York, as if they were arriving from a China voyage.

Before the little foresail, the ship wore around sweetly, came up to the wind with her nose pointed toward the broad Atlantic, and hung there steady and true. The old free motion had returned to her deck, the old life ran along her keel. Immediately, they set the spanker, mainsail and jib; this was all the sail she had. The whole area of it would hardly have equalled her former mainsail, dropping its solid square of canvas from an eighty foot mainyard; but it was enough for the purpose, and the Viking answered to it. The gale had struck; the ship heeled sharply, plunging forward on the port tack at a three-knot gait. She made considerable leeway, but headed up to east-south-east. Captain Bradley knew that if he could drive her on this course for the next twelve hours, they would stand a chance of clearing the danger that lay under their lee.

Pacing once more the quarter-deck of a ship under sail, a tempest of recollections beset the old man's mind. Past voyages, dangers, storms, past conquests of the elements, thronged upon him at the call of an awakened vocation. Adrift, now, in a long-pent flood of creative effort, other memories flashed before his eyes; scenes of love and achievement, scenes of weakness and self-indulgence, scenes of error and wrong. Life had always been hard for him to live, even at its happiest; his high spirit had ever been in arms against itself. He seemed to-night to be able to remember all of it—snatches of conversations, lights and colours, tones and meanings, touches of hands and the unspoken messages of hearts—all that had ruled his life and formed his character.

Through these recollections constantly appeared the figures of his wife and child. He thought of them deeply, tenderly, calmly. Once, when they had been at sea with him, the Viking had run into a cyclone off Mauritius; he recalled his going below in the midst of it, to reassure them. "How is it, Frank? Will it blow much harder?" "No, dear, the worst has passed" "Oh, Papa, aren't you afraid?" "No, my son, there is nothing to be afraid of in the world" He had said those words—he laughed, now, to remember. God had punished him well for his audacity.

He was surprised to find himself thinking of these things without pain. A change had taken place within him, a change born of the familiar exigency. In some inexplicable way, he was happy again. A task of seamanship lay before him; lives depended on his strength. He was a master mariner, in charge of his old ship—his ship, as truly as she had been that other morning, when, full of ambition and pride and courage, he had looked up at her untried sails. He felt her surge beneath the heavy cargo, rising, flanking the seas, flinging them off savagely, like a man striking out from the shoulder. He knew, he understood—that was the way he felt about it, too. A couple of old hulks, living beyond their time; but the spirit was in them still.

Unseen, surrounded by darkness, Captain Bradley stood upright against the weather rail, an indomitable figure, facing the storm. The world could crush them—never the sea and the wind. The sea was their home, the wind was their brother. This was the fight that found them armed.

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. The Viking stood 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 the Viking rode 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 the Viking were 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 the Viking's quarter.

"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 the Omega pulled 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 obviously had recovered 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.

V

"While I tossed on the bed, vainly trying to piece this broken logic together, I heard someone moving on the opposite side of the house. Bert and I were alone in the bungalow. He, too, had been kept awake by the excitement of our meeting. Soon he began to pace softly up and down the far side of the verandah. I was debating in my mind the wisdom of going out to have another smoke with him, when his footsteps seemed to leave the porch and sink into the grass. In a moment I heard low voices outside, a little distance from the house. I couldn't make out what was being said. Suddenly I thought that someone must have come with a message from the ship. I jumped up and ran to the window.

"My window opened on the patch of moonlight across which I'd come earlier in the evening. He stood there now, as if waiting; and, before I could speak, a woman came toward him with a gliding, crouching step, starting out of the very shadow where I'd paused to hear the song. As she drew near, he held out his arms; she quickened her pace, like a jungle deer, and flung herself on his breast, uttering low, native cries. 'You are safe? You will not go?' she asked breathlessly. 'Safe?' he asked, bending above her 'Have you been watching?' She looked into his face with a glance of infinite concern. 'The man stood beside me, as I was about to call' said she 'I would have killed him, but I saw that you were warned' 'Thank God!' he exclaimed 'You should have known—and gone away' She drew her arms about his neck. 'I could not go!' she cried 'I had to see you!' 'Hush!' said he 'Speak lower—you will wake my friend'

"She used perfect English, though her language was picturesque. 'Your friend? Who is your friend?' she asked fiercely 'In all the time that you have dwelt here, no ships have waited, you have had no friends come. Who is your friend that comes in a great ship, unknown and unbidden?' He smiled down at her. 'Dear heart' said he 'he is more than brother to me, and I have not seen him for many years'

"She shrank away from him. 'Ah!' she cried 'Then he will take you—you will go?'

"'No, not yet' he told her 'Not, perhaps, for a long time'

"'But you will go?' she persisted 'Some day you will not be here—and, for me, the sun will fail to rise, and the moon and stars will grow cold, and all light will die—and you will not be here!'

"'I have told you, dear, it must be so' said he. 'You knew it long ago'

"Again her arms clasped him. 'No, no!' she cried 'I cannot let you! You are mine! Stay here. It is a fair land—and am I not fair?' She touched her breast 'You will not look at me!' said she.

"'I dare not!'

"'Then look!' she whispered.

"I saw him take her in his arms. So he had found ... this, beyond what he had hoped. Another wave of irritation at his heartlessness swept over me. I turned away angrily—then paused a moment, considering the true nature of the phenomenon that had appeared before me as if out of the sky. I felt that he hadn't sought this new entanglement. No, but he had evidently accepted it. Yet the woman had furnished the motive force, literally had flung herself at his head. Nonsense!—why be a prudish ass? It wasn't in the least a matter of morals; why persist, then, in viewing it on the moral plane? Incurable habit of conventionality, never so strong as when we strive to be unconventional! Here was a meeting of instincts and elements, a transaction in lucid terms, according to a simple formula. It was a phase of God's excruciating biological experiment. She wanted him alone, and had taken her way to get him. He was receptive, for he wanted love. Could she have awakened love in him, he would not have denied it. Failing that, he would be forced to seek elsewhere. In the meantime, why repel divine experience? ... But the shocking callousness of this experiment! While he dallied, detached and unconcerned, his life had been refreshed as if at a fountain of vitality. His heart sang with the knowledge that she loved him; he was happy, whole, and conscious of his power again. He'd said that he had recovered his self-respect—a curious choice of words, in view of the occasion; but now I understood what he had meant.... This had been her priceless gift to him.

"A quick exclamation outside drew me again to the window—could you fellows have kept away? He was trying to disengage her arms from about his neck. 'It cannot be!' said he decisively 'It is impossible! So, to save greater pain, I will go at once'

"She clung to him desperately. 'I do not understand' she cried.

"'Dear heart' he answered 'I have seen too much, and failed too miserably, to want the spell to fall on you. All that I touch turns to ashes; whoever enters my life is cursed with my own pain'

"She gazed deeply into his eyes. 'I am not afraid' said she 'It is for this I love. For what is past, I have no memory. To-day lives, to-morrow we carry with us like a child unborn, but yesterday is dead. What do you seek? Love? Have I not given you all?' She threw out her arm in a sweeping gesture 'My love will never fail!' she cried.

"'I prize your love above all else' said he.

"'What do you seek?' she cried again, springing away, confronting him with a savage crouching intensity. 'Faith? Happiness? Peace? All are here. My people will honour you, for I am noble in the hills. What do you seek? Ask, and I will give!'

"He leaned toward her, held her at arm's length, returned her gaze. I heard him heave a sigh.

"'It is because you do not love!' said she quite low 'Before Allah, am I not fair? Why have I not your love? Look—we are alone. See how I hold you, feel my heart here, behold my eyes—ah!' Her face was close to his. 'If love lay in your heart, you could not stand thus' she whispered.

"'Stop!' he cried 'You cannot see...'

"'I cannot see, my eyes are dim with love!'

"He thrust her away suddenly, as if in fear. 'Listen' said he in a dead voice 'For many years I have followed a woman who would not love me. To the ends of the earth I have followed her, until I am weary, and heartsick, and must forget. I have left my home, I have forsaken my friends. But now I must return. Dear heart' said he 'if I were young and full of hope, I would not stand here idly, I would stay with you. But I have nothing left to offer. An old heart—broken—a brain without fire...'

"'I will make well the heart, and fire the brain!' she cried.

"He swayed toward her, met her in a brief embrace—then broke away. She gave a little cry. 'You will not?' said she 'I cannot ask again'

"'Dear, it is not to hurt you...' he began 'Why won't you understand?' He covered his face with his hands 'Oh, God, why can't I make you understand?'

"She pointed toward the house. 'It is because your friend has come' said she fiercely 'Never before have you been as to-night. Never before have you refused me. He brings you memory, and now you think of home. I should have killed him when I stood at his side!' She fell back a step, a savage figure, magnificently tall 'So—you have chosen' said she 'This which I offer, you throw down. What is it that you seek? What will you find? Is love so strong in your land, are nights like this, is happiness so deep? In convent-school I learned otherwise' He put out his hand; she drew away like a wild creature. 'No! It is done' she cried.

"A moment passed. He stood irresolute, the plaything of fate, while she devoured him with her eyes. Then, with a swift motion, she left him standing in the grass, and ran toward the shadow. He started to follow. She must have turned at the border of the jungle; I couldn't see her clearly, but she seemed to make a violent gesture, and the moonlight struck sharply on a bracelet that she wore"

VI

"Bert spent the following day with me aboard the ship; I had decided to remain another night in Anjer. We found much to talk about, but didn't approach the incident outside my window that morning; although I'd felt certain that he, not suspecting my awareness, would broach the subject. In fact, I more than once adroitly guided the conversation in this direction; but his mouth was closed. This gave me both alarm and satisfaction; at least, he took the affair with the seriousness that it deserved.

"Late in the afternoon, as we sat here under a little patch of awning spread from the spanker boom, we sighted a small barque to the westward, coming up the straits. She'd just appeared beyond the lower point, some three or four miles distant. Watching her idly through the glass—-I had a powerful telescope—I seemed to find something familiar about her; and a little later, when she had drifted another mile nearer, I suddenly recognized the craft. 'That's Halsted, in his little packet' I remarked 'Her name's the Senegal. You must have seen her before, if you've been here over six months. He makes two trips a year'

"Bert took the glass from my hand. 'I can't remember' said he after a moment's scrutiny 'Ships look all alike to me. Where has she come from? You seem to know about her'

"'Why, Australia, of course!' I exclaimed, suddenly remembering his own point of departure for Anjer 'You must have seen this little barque in Melbourne, if you were familiar with the waterfront. Halsted runs a sort of packet service from there to Singapore'

"'Halsted, Halsted' said Bert 'No, I think I've never met anyone of that name—certainly not there. Look, Nichols, he seems to have run into a strip of calm'

"'Yes, and that strip of calm will spread until it covers the straits' I answered 'I know the box he's in—he's just about an hour too late. There's a nasty current off the point, with a tide-rip on the ebb. He'll drift away from us for several hours, then slip back in the night, when he picks up the land breeze'

"After supper we went ashore. I planned to sail in the morning, but should be down the China Sea again in three months' time. Bert had promised to make his arrangements in the meanwhile, and to leave Anjer with me on my return. I'd urged him to come at once, and would have waited a day or two longer, but he wouldn't listen to it. It was another calm, hazy evening, with no wind on the water, but a faint languorous breeze among the palms. We sat on the verandah planning the future, if you please; he seemed to want to talk about the world, and I felt it best to encourage the inclination.

"'Well, old man' said he at last 'I've got to turn in. I'm weary to the bone—didn't sleep well last night, at all. This has been an exciting time for me, you know'

"'Go ahead, and leave me here to finish out my smoke' I answered 'I'll be all right—I know my way about'

"To tell the truth, I welcomed the opportunity to sit for a while alone, in the midst of the luminous night, close to the land. Perhaps I might achieve the hint of a solution; I was baffled and pained by the tremendous vital difficulties I'd observed. The wind had risen; it swept down the hillside in a solid breath of sweetness, softly clashing together the broad leaves of the palms. Halsted, it occurred to me in a wandering moment, would now be creeping up under the lee of the land. I drew my chair to the edge of the verandah. The scene of the previous night stood vividly before me; I couldn't keep my eyes away from that region of heavy shadow, where she stood at my elbow undecided whether to kill me or let me go. Suddenly I started; was there a movement in the shadow? I watched it narrowly—-and, by Jove, in a moment she actually materialized there, as if in answer to my thoughts; advanced, became substantial, and moved into the moonlight, coming swiftly in my direction. I remained seated, chained to my chair. She came to the railing and put her hand lightly on my arm, as if administering caution. Her eyes were level with mine.

"'I must see you' said she in a repressed voice 'I have waited for him to go'

"'Me?' I exclaimed, for my first thought had been that she'd mistaken the figure on the verandah 'What do you want of me?'

"'Like you, I am his friend' she answered simply.

"'Yes?...' I parried. Face to face with her, I saw how beautiful she was. She had the golden Malay skin, dusky, full, smooth as dark marble; across her brow she wore an ornament of ivory and carved blackwood; her breast was bare in a long slit, shadowed like the face of a quiet pool. The moonlight revealed her, the jungle stood at her back: and through her hand on my arm I felt the blood of the East, rustling like water in the hills after a tropical rain.

"I stood up abruptly. 'All are his friends' said I. She lifted her eyebrows. 'Has it been thus?' she asked with meaning. I nodded, marvelling meanwhile at her admirable directness; a woman pure as diamond, true as steel. She lived, like light, in instantaneous collimation. 'Yes' said I 'he has found many friends'

"She pondered the fact. 'But none have loved him with the heart?' Was it a question, or a statement? 'Many' I answered 'but none gained the answer' 'None?' she asked, searchingly 'You know, and I can only repeat what is true' said I 'His heart is given to one who wears it on a chain for play'

"She trembled at the thought. 'Where is she?' she demanded. I told her that I didn't know. 'Not ... home?' she asked 'Not there?...' She stretched out a hand vaguely. 'Oh, no' said I, relieved to be able to speak an open word 'Then it is not for her that he goes?' she cried, pathetically relieved. 'No' said I again. She leaned toward me, as if to make a critical examination. 'Why have you come, to change and take him from me?' she asked bitterly. 'I came by chance, without knowing' I answered 'It is the hand of destiny' Throwing back her head, with a passionate gesture she flung an uplifted arm across her eyes. 'Is she so beautiful?' she cried in a low voice, like one pleading with fate.

"I heard a slight movement behind me, and whirled, to find Bert standing in the doorway. He gazed from one to the other of us in troubled silence; then crossed the porch and stood beside me at the rail. She heard his step, and turned, a superb figure, her uplifted arm still shading her eyes.

"'Nichols, I'm awfully sorry...' he began weakly.

"'Ah!' she cried, her arrow-like candour tearing the veil he would have dropped. She went to him swiftly. 'All day I have wandered in the hills' said she 'All day I have thought of your choice. I have asked the forest, why? and the mountains, why? and the great ocean, why? I have held up my hands to the white clouds, to the sun of life and wisdom, asking why, why? Now I have come to you—and him—to ask you, why? My Love' said she softly 'I think it is that you do not understand, and your words fall without knowledge. You are the light of life to me, and the breath of the body. I cannot live alone. You have taken my heart from my breast, and now would carry it with you to a strange land, where it would perish and die. But these are words—you cannot mean them. You will not go. See how I hold you fast!'

"He gazed at her in trepidation. 'It is decided' said he 'When the ship returns, I am to go' 'Then I shall follow!' she told him. 'I shall go with you ... home' He snatched his hands away. 'Oh, no, you can't!' he shouted 'It isn't what you think' 'Blind one' she answered 'would I not be near you?' He started violently; she took his lands again. 'Then stay with me, here in my land, which waits for us alone. Stay with me in these nights that never end!'

"He sighed profoundly. 'It would soon be over....'

"'When it had ended, we could die' she whispered 'I would gladly die thus, having lived for a time. Stay with me till love grows cold!'

"He pushed her off like one dazed and distracted. For a long while he stood perfectly motionless. 'Stay!' she whispered once more 'Be quiet—let me think' said he. She pressed against the railing. 'Look down!' said she 'To-night we live—but there may be no to-morrow!' While she was speaking, clear and sharp across the water came the rattle of a falling anchor-chain.

"He seemed to stiffen where he stood. His face in the moonlight looked sterner than its wont, set in the struggle that came hard to him. 'No!' he cried in a loud voice. The word seemed to echo among the palms, a tragic whisper of universal negation. She gazed at him a moment in naked terror—then tottered and sank slowly to the ground, uttering little stifled cries. I saw him leap the railing and kneel beside her; but I didn't wait for more. I'd stayed too long already; and what was coming would be harder than what had gone.

"It must have been fully an hour later, after I'd lost the path and threshed around in the jungle until I was tired out, that I succeeded in regaining the bungalow. Bert was sitting on the porch, alone. I dropped into a chair beside him. 'Too bad, old man' said he, observing the state of my white linens 'It was decent of you, though'

"'Yes, we're a decent breed, aren't we?' I snapped in reply 'Anyway, let's not balance a heart against an hour of discomfort and a suit of clothes' He turned his head and looked me over. 'I can't say that I blame you' he exclaimed 'But honestly, old man, I think she will forget' 'I don't' said I 'Did you?' He winced, but I went on angrily 'You ought to know better by this time. You've had a double experience now—the chaser and the chased....' 'Hold on, Nichols!' he interrupted 'You're getting unpardonable. What would you have me do? Do you want me to stay here and live with her?' 'No, I don't!' I shouted 'I merely want a revision of life and human nature—no one to be unhappy, no love to go unrequited, no heart to be thrown away' He laughed. 'I'd like that, too' said he.

"The silence lengthened between us, as we gazed across the placid harbour, thinking our own thoughts. In the brilliant moonlight, every object in the roadstead was plainly discernible. 'I see your friend has arrived' said Bert suddenly 'He's anchored pretty close to your vessel. By Jove, that must have been his chain..' 'It was' I answered, musing on the fortuitousness of events that shape our lives. 'Now he seems to be getting a boat into the water. Where are your night glasses?' In a moment Bert brought them to me. Aboard the new arrival there was an unaccountable flurry, but I couldn't make out the scene below the rail. In a short while, however, a boat appeared out of the shadow there, and swam toward us through the bright moonlight. 'I wonder why he's coming ashore, at this time of night' I murmured. 'Can't imagine' Bert replied. Soon we heard the chunking of oars in the rowlocks, and two or three quick commands. The boat was nearing the beach. She passed for a moment behind the point of the jetty. Now she had reached the landing. A confusion of voices broke out, loud and jarring, pitched in a key of anger and violence. Then, cutting the stillness like a knife, came a sudden sharp cry.

"My heart leaped into my mouth. 'My God, did you hear that?' asked Bert, breathlessly. 'Keep still—it sounded like a woman's voice' said I. We leaned across the rail, straining our eyes, but couldn't see what was taking place; the landing lay too close under the trees. After the cry, an absolute silence had fallen. This lasted a full minute. Then a man's voice started up, the same angry, jarring tone 'Give way, boys!' Almost immediately, we heard the sound of the oars again.

"The unexpectedness of the occurrence had held us spellbound; we stood gazing at each other like two wooden images. Then, in the same instant, we found our voices, began to confer hurriedly, and started on the run for the centre of the verandah, where a broad flight of steps led down to the jetty path. At the head of the path we both halted as if transfixed. Someone was coming up from the landing. The moonlight plainly showed it to be a woman. She advanced slowly, stopping now and then, staggering as she walked. When she drew nearer, we could see that she was hatless and empty-handed. She walked like a somnambulist, gazing fixedly on the ground before her, now and then holding out a hand as if to feel the way. At the last turn of the path, she stopped and raised her head. Bert, at my side, made a low strangling sound. Evidently discovering us, she started forward again. Her face was quite terrible. All hope seemed gone from it, like the dead face of a suicide that I once saw; her eyes stared at us blankly, and she clutched with one hand at the bosom of her dress.

"'Who is there?' she asked brokenly.

"Bert left my side and flung himself toward her. 'Helen!' he cried. She would have fallen, but he caught her in his arms. 'Helen!' said he again, with his face close to hers.

"'Bert?' she asked in eager fearfulness. Her low voice seemed to tear the heart. She gazed at him long and deep, while desperation turned to wonder in her eyes.

"For the second time that evening I fled the scene of life's amazing hazard. This time I hurried down the path with all haste, making for the jetty; by shouting, I should be able to raise the ship and have a boat sent ashore for me. As I glanced back at the corner, I saw Bert help the woman up the steps. I thought I heard her sobbing; but, in a moment, I realized that the sound came from another direction. Off among the trees, in the heavy shadow, someone was uttering smothered, choking cries. I broke into a run. The ways of the land were getting too damnably complicated altogether; I wanted to surround myself again with a safe strip of water.

VII

Nichols reached for another cigar. "And that's the way he found her" he went on "For it wouldn't be true to say that she had found him; until the moment in front of the bungalow when he took her in his arms, she hadn't dreamed that he was there.

"I heard the final chapter of their romance while we were going up the China Sea; I'd waited for him, after all, and had taken them both north with me. After Bert had left Melbourne, she had missed him, and had awakened to the realization that she'd driven him out of her life. So she discovered what it meant to her, what she'd been doing, and bowed before the law that through any wrong keeps the heart pure and the spirit ready to fulfil itself. She had determined to follow, but couldn't locate him. Some said he was in Singapore, some in Hong Kong; the consensus of many vague rumours, however, agreed that he had gone north into the China Sea region. It was familiar ground to her; she had friends there, and sources of information. She's always known of Halsted's packet service; the next time he came around, she had taken passage in the Senegal for an indeterminate trip up the coast.

"Unfortunately, Halsted also knew of her. He was a beastly sort of character. The moment they got outside he grew familiar, and soon was making forthright approaches. She was the only woman on the vessel; the other passenger was an elderly man, to whom she couldn't hope to look for protection. She, of course, was a woman of experience, as capable of protecting herself as is humanly possible; but there are limits to the power of the mind over brute force, when passion is engaged. Make no mistake—her aversion from him was virginal, and nothing could have induced her submission.

"'I took my revolver on deck one morning, to show him my marksmanship' said she 'I shot a bird on the end of the spanker gaff. Then I got him on one side, and told him what I would do. I told him that I should be constantly on the watch, and that I would shoot him dead if he came near me. It was the only way—but I knew he was a coward'

"So this was the situation on board the Senegal—on the one hand defiance, on the other baulked and fermenting desire. Halsted watched her as a cat watches a mouse, trying to catch her off guard. Throughout the afternoon while they had been coming up the straits, even while my glass had been looking them over, the silent battle had been going on. The presence of the land had filled her with nameless apprehension. Then they had run into the calm; in this condition, the supper hour had arrived. She had waited on deck until she thought the others would be nearly finished; when she entered the forward cabin, she saw that she had waited too long. The mate and the old gentleman had gone on deck forward; Halsted sat there alone. She had to pass him to reach her seat. As she attempted to slip by, he rose suddenly and crushed her in his arms. The Chinese steward in the pantry turned his back on the scene.

"'My hand fell on a table knife' said she 'I fought him with it—succeeded in cutting him badly about the hands. The blood frightened him; he had to let me go. I've never seen a human being in such a dreadful rage. He swore he wouldn't keep me on board an hour longer'

"The rage had persisted; as soon as the sails had been furled, after dropping the anchor, he had put a boat overboard and bundled her into it, bag and baggage—well he knew that she was in no position to make trouble for him. She had thought of trying to attract the attention of the other vessel, but finally had decided that she had better take her chances on land. She had supposed there were white people ashore; at the landing, where her things had been pitched at her feet, she had asked Halsted the way to the settlement. When he'd told her brutally what an abandoned place it was, she'd suddenly lost heart. It was then that we had heard her cry out.

"'Go up to the consulate bungalow' Halsted had told her 'See the lights? Somebody must live up there'

"So she had climbed the hill, trusting to luck, which had already arranged the scene. It might have been vastly different, you know. Suppose she had found him with the native woman? Well, suppose it—the renunciation would merely have changed hands. Inexorable formula!—for them, one or the other; for him, heads I win, tails you lose"

VIII

Nichols went to the rail, and stood for some time in silence, facing the land. "And I have seen the other" said he slowly "It was about a year later that my course led me again through Sunda Straits, and I arrived at Anjer on another evening of moonlight and stillness and awakened memory. After the anchor was down I ordered a boat to be set overboard, and went ashore in the late evening to revisit the bungalow. As I went up the path, the shadows seemed to start and move about me, and a wandering breeze stirred the palm trees with a quick rustle as of departing feet. I found the wreck of a rattan chair standing on the verandah, pulled it to the railing, and sat there a long while facing the oval of grass flooded with moonlight, the fixed scene, as it were, where the actors of this unseen drama had stalked through their extravagant business and said their futile words.

"Nothing had changed; I seemed as if I had left the place but yesterday. I turned to the heavy shadow where I had seen and heard her last, the shadow that must have marked the end of a hillside trail; and it wasn't surprising to me, but only natural, to see her standing there once more, her form drawn back as if from a sight she didn't dare behold. In a moment the tense figure moved. She walked like a tiger, with a crouching step of absolute grace, cautious yet unafraid. Crossing the oval, she came directly to the railing. I got up hastily, in excitement and alarm; and we faced each other without speaking for quite a period.

"'You?...' said she at last in a low voice, drawing back. Her hand tightened on the rail. She was regally beautiful.