Chapter IX: Barabbas Town (3)

It was dark within, and a damp, musty draft brushed her face. In one corner lay a white shroud. As she saw it a suffocating sensation closed her throat. She knew that she was too late. But she bent and touched the cold forehead. At the contact, a great, bitter flood rose past her throat and overflowed. She remained kneeling, still as the body beside her.

The story of Pi-noi, the bayadere, crowding into her mind now, seemed unsubstantial as mist, a wisp of fog that had floated past, leaving only a memory to prove that it had existed. She felt defeat with a conviction that was final. Gone was her grandfather, gone was Dr. Garth, gone was Stephen Conquest; all who might have told. The woman of the peacock shawl, that flaming symbol of the mysterious forces that she had sought desperately to understand, drew her gaudy silks about her and melted into the shadows of her frame, to become eternally obscure. Her smile, that unforgettable smile, assumed, in retrospect, a touch of irony. It suggested that there might have been another reason for her grandfather's obsession: some intrigue, an affair of the bazaars, too sordid to be disclosed. Yes, Lhassa repeated to herself, she was defeated; she would never know the truth. In the years to come she would dream and wonder; dream of the dead city locked in Siamese jungles; wonder if between herself and the stone woman on its temple-wall was even the slightest bond. And always hovering over these fancies, mocking them, would be the creature in the peacock shawl, with her smile of irony.

And it came to Lhassa, suddenly, that this was the true Romance, to never really know, but to conjure out of dream-fog events as she wished them; to believe that in her was the royal blood of the Khmers; or that Conquest had merely painted her features into the portrait of Pi-noi, and that her secret was locked for ever in the smile of a canvas woman.

10

To Lhassa, the next two days were a sequence of superheated hours, divided into moments of doubt and strain and anxiety. Although Garon's wound was not fatal, there was, as always in such cases, the danger of a relapse or infection because of the lack of professional care. Most of the time he was unconscious; often he was delirious. Whenever he spoke (words and sounds harsh as the crackling of isinglass) a strange breathlessness seized Lhassa; fear of what the fever-talk might disclose. Nakoda Mubin assigned three Malay women to her, and she kept them busy fanning and bathing Garon. She herself attended to the dressing of his wound. As she watched him suffer--he lay still as a bronze figure under the haze of mosquito-netting--his agony seemed to extend and envelop her. He possessed her with such tyranny that her own bruises were absorbed in a greater pain, a pain as deep as motherhood. She would not believe him guilty of the crime that circumstance fastened upon him. He was a thief, yes, but not a murderer. And the fact that he had stolen, a fact that she kept before herself deliberately, did not shock her. His transgressions melted in the flame of suffering, and tempered, became pure metal. The end of the first day found her seated beside the sleeping man, her skin pale as ivory beneath the corona of copperish hair. Outside, gauze-winged creatures wheeled through the dusk, and a Mohammedan chanted toward Mecca. And, suddenly, she understood the beauty of blind forgiveness.

With morning Garon's temperature was lower. He awakened early and tried to talk, but she closed his lips with her cool hand. When he persisted she retreated to her quarters, leaving him in the charge of the native women. At noon (heat and a sultry blue sky) she returned. She was heavy with the weariness that muffles all pains. But she drew strength from the knowledge that nightfall would ease the strain. Conquest's men were due then; white men from the yacht. She could rest--rest.

Dusk had drenched the earth with lilac when shouts brought her outside. Natives were hurrying toward the gate. In the clearing, a fire was meshed in dull gold against violet shadows, and its light flickered upon the men who were surging through the gateway. She saw white faces, and broke into a run, trembling with excitement. As she approached, one of these faces turned and stared.

"Miss Camber!"

She heard her name with something of a shock. The man who spoke it wore white clothes and a pith-helmet. However, now that she was closer, his skin seemed dark as a native's. When he raised his head-gear she caught the flash of a familiar smile.

"You don't recognize me, eh?" he asked, with an accent as familiar as his smile. "The stain, probably; you know it has to wear off."

And then she knew. She tried to speak, but the words slipped back in her throat. Finally she forced a hysterical laugh.

"Captain Barthélemy...."

Vertigo clouded his face. But she heard him exclaim:

"_Mon Dieu!_ I did not know it would be such a shock! I thought.... Then he has not told you?"

She grasped his arm and clung until the dizziness passed.

"Garon? No."

"Garon!" he repeated. "You don't know who he is?"

His words seemed to beat down upon her brain and break into bits; she tried to pick up the fragments, to piece them together. For a moment she could only shake her head. Finally:

"You mean"--incredulously--"the money he stole ... Hanoi...."

He spread out his hands in a very Latin manner, smiling.

"That was a clever plan of one of the cleverest men in the colonies. Major Lestron is his name--Lestron of the secret service. At least, that was his rank; now"--a shrug--"perhaps head of the department or a resident superior--even a governor. After this, he can become almost anything he wishes!"

She caught his arm and held, for she was weak and flecks danced before her.

"Come to my house," she managed to say. "He's in the next one, wounded. You must tell me everything--everything--now--without delay. I--I--why, I thought you were.... Come!"

When they reached the veranda she sank into a chair, motioning him into another. About them the darkness was purple, swarming with brilliant fireflies. Reflections from the near-by fire stained the contours of her face and form; hinted at Barthélemy's dark skin and eyes.

"The ship," she began confusedly; "the report that you had--had died. I don't know where to tell you to start--only start quickly! The money ... Hanoi...."

"As I said, a very clever hoax," he resumed. "Only Major Lestron and the governor knew the truth. It was arranged that Lestron should take the money, be convicted, and sentenced to exile in Cayenne. Not even the officials there were to know. As a prisoner, he would have a better chance to clear the Black Parrot mystery, and, incidentally, work on the governor's greatest hobby, prison reform. If the present system of penal colonization could be proved faulty and inefficient, it would be a victory for the governor, a score against his political enemies. So Lestron went--as a convict. The situation was so precarious that after he was freed by the Black Parrot and left Guiana, he abandoned communication with the governor except through a rather ingenious method involving the buying and selling of birds. Oh, Lestron had a difficult rôle! You see, Conquest, who was at the bottom of it all, was on the boat that came to take Lestron and the escaped convicts away from Guiana; and evidently he suspected Lestron, for he put him ashore on Thursday Island. Lestron believed he was being tested, so he pretended to--well, to go to the devil. He drank. And it was a wise move, for he _was_ followed--by Conquest himself! But he had passed the test, and was accepted."

Barthélemy paused; shrugged.

"May I smoke? You won't join me?" He lighted a cigarette before he continued. "As to what happened on the _Cambodia_: I recognized Lestron, and, believing him an escaped convict, put him under arrest." She saw his white shoulders move in another shrug. "Lestron was in a corner; I sha'n't go into the details. At Kep, a port on the Cambodian coast, he went ashore, but swam back and hid in my cabin. I thought he had broken parole--until I found him there. He told me everything; said the affair was larger than he had anticipated; and outlined a plan whereby we could coöperate. After arranging my clothes in a manner to make it appear that I had committed suicide, we swam ashore; it was necessary that I vanish completely. We went overland to Pnom-penh, and there telegraphed the governor for permission to put our plan into action. It was granted, and I, transformed into an East Indian, accompanied Lestron to Saigon as his servant. He told Conquest, whom we met there, that a Captain Barthélemy had recognized him on shipboard and he had killed him....

"Of course, you were a complication. Before we left the _Cambodia_ it was decided that it would be better to let you go on to Saigon, and, if no other course opened up after you arrived, let you be held prisoner by Conquest. You see, we were playing a desperate game. Soon after you reached Saigon, Lestron and I left for Sadok. Conquest had agreed to confine you in a house in Cholon, in the care of some woman he knew; otherwise, we would have taken some measure to protect you. We had a plan, but, _sacré gars!_ it was disrupted when Conquest suddenly carried you off on his yacht!

"The night you reached Sadok I came to your veranda--you remember?--to tell you the truth. I acted against Lestron's orders, for he believed you would be a better ally if you were kept in ignorance. I disagreed. But--he happened to catch me. The next morning he sent me to Kuching to get help from the rajah of Sarawak. Conquest, you comprehend, was a British subject; so the aid of a British officer would prevent any possible entanglements. I went and ... well, there is little more, except that when I returned, with help, I heard what had happened, and we started for the village immediately. Yesterday we reached the camp down the river and learned of the new trouble. Naturally, we expected to have to fight, but this morning a messenger from the sultan brought news of what had taken place. Needless to say, I was greatly relieved. I thought ... ah, a thousand terrible things, dear mademoiselle! Now tell me your story. I am more than anxious to hear."

She shuddered. "Salazar," she began, and recounted her grim adventures.

"_Mon Dieu!_" Barthélemy exclaimed when she had finished; and, "_Dieu de Dieu!_"

She sat still for a moment, gazing at the fireflies that punctuated the gloom. Then she rose.

"I shall have to go to him now," she announced. "Wait!"--as Barthélemy started to rise--"I would rather go alone. Come in--in a few minutes. You understand?"

That he did was evident by his silence. He stood at the top of the ladder while she descended, the tip of his cigarette augmenting the glow of the fireflies.

When she entered the room where Garon lay--she still thought of him as Garon--the Malay woman fanning him put down the palm-leaf and moved out. It was dark, but not too dark for her to see that his eyes were open. Her hand trembled as she felt his forehead. It was moist.

"Have they come?" he asked.

"Yes."

She seated herself on the side of the bed, looking over him and through the window. Warm stars jetted the darkness, and a muffled clamor--subdued voices and indistinguishable sounds--floated in from the night. After a brief hesitation, she said:

"I have seen Captain Barthélemy. He is coming in a moment." She paused, then added, "It was cruel to keep me in ignorance, cruel. You did it just to make me suffer, didn't you? Yet"--she relented--"yet I suppose you thought it was wise--and perhaps it was."

She heard him sigh. But he did not speak.

"Haven't you anything to tell me before he comes?" Another sigh. "You mean"--his voice husky--"about Bangkok and the doctor?"

She smiled to herself faintly. But her heart contracted. "I mean anything you wish."

After a seemingly interminable silence he spoke.

"The Buddha. A green devil; you remember I called it that? It caused it all. I took it out of Siam strapped to my back. That was my--my hump. Grim humor, eh? Yes, a green devil. We went to the doctor's house to get it, my boy and I. He had.... But I told you that. We entered through a gate opening into the garden. I had warned Sua-Mok--Sua-Mok was my boy--I had warned him against violence. Before we entered I saw the doctor sitting at a table with a toy ship in his hands. His back was toward us. I had to get the Buddha; it was the price of admittance to Conquest's household. I knew it could be returned to the temple after the affair. So I instructed Sua-Mok to bind the doctor while I covered him with a pistol. I told him to have care. I gave him my slendong and...."

She suppressed a shudder. The stars in the window suddenly froze to points of ice. Garon raised himself on one elbow, and she started to press him back, but the impulse was overcome by a deadly inertia.

"And...."

"No!" she commanded. "Don't say it!"

He made a strangled sound, sharp with bitterness.

"The law!" he declared savagely. "The law! It begins with clean hands, but before the finish they are as black as the criminal's!"

He broke off, exhausted; sank upon the pillows; lay there, breathing heavily.

She got up, seeming to float away in a mist of silk. In the doorway she halted, her hands groping for the frame, her eyes raised to the sky. A sense of tremendous catastrophe fell upon her; the temple that she had built came crashing down, gilded spires, ivory minarets, and all. The blue slendong had betrayed her to a reality more brutal than disillusion. And yet that very tragedy, she realized, was an initiation into a higher arcanum. The gods had fallen; but they were only images. Romance was not dead. The memory of Stephen Conquest lived to deny that. In some mysterious way he reclaimed the blue slendong ... Stephen Conquest, a flash on a dark sea, a glimmer too incredible to be real....

As she stood there, gazing into world-sprayed darkness, she felt something of the ache and immensity of space; something of the smallness of earth-man as compared to the endless chains of stars and the still but ever moving machinery of universe upon universe. Frightened, she turned--turned to Garon.

In the window above his bed, seen between black branches, were stars, gleaming as through prison bars. They brought to mind a remark Barthélemy had made; and a great surge rose in her, a surge that carried her to the bedside.

"Do you remember," she asked in a voice of thrilling timbre; "that I said I would learn the truth, and, if circumstances justified it, see that you were sent back to Guiana? Do you remember?" He did not answer, and she continued. "Captain Barthélemy said you could become a resident or even a governor. A governor, Garon! Don't you see?" She paused; caught her breath. "Go back to Guiana! Go back and pay in mercy for that night in Bangkok. Go back and wipe out the filth and fever, the injustice and cruelty! Go back--for me!"

The flame of her fervency must have touched him, for he raised himself again, and she could hear the quickened tempo of his breathing.

"Go back?" he repeated. "Go back ... alone?"

For an instant she stood motionless; then, her eyes filled with inscrutable wisdom, she lifted her arms in a gesture exultant and possessive.

"You go alone," she pronounced softly.