Chapter VI: Part 6

That was all, and it sufficed. Whatever Hoyting knew was sure to be the right answer. It would take too long to expound Hoyting to those of you who don’t know him. Those of you who do will understand my faith. He’s like nothing so much, I’ve sometimes thought, as a badly tinkered craft plying between obscure and unsafe ports. Sometimes he carries junk, and sometimes treasure; you never know beforehand. But I always bargain for the cargo. Hoyting has wandered so much: the mere dust on the crazy little capstan may have blown from some unpronounceable paradise. He doesn’t always know, himself; he “steams for steaming’s sake,” Hoyting does. Somewhere inside his lurching bulk is an inexhaustible hunger for life, which has made of two hemispheres an insufficient meal. For some of us he’s an unfailing cache in the desert. Provided he has had life at first hand, the jackals are welcome to do the rest. So I had only to wait my moment. In Marseilles, that haven of ships, Hoyting’s tongue would be loosed. I should not have to wait long.

* * * * *

“Vermouth,” said Hoyting; “yes, just vermouth. I always did like Marseilles. Full of people who really want to get somewhere, and know how to go, and don’t talk more than is necessary. Brindisi’s disgusting. I never touch Brindisi if I can help it.”

“The Dorriens.” I held him to his promise.

“Oh, the Dorriens. Yes. Funny, the kind of thing a woman who looks like that is sometimes willing to muck about in. She seemed like a good sport, too. Ever been in Turkestan? I suppose not. If you go to places in this world, you haven’t time left for anything else. So very likely you never saw a Kirghiz nomad hunting on horseback with a golden eagle on his wrist. Using it like a falcon, you know. They go after wildish game--wolves and such. Ripping. But not very practical, after all. Mrs. Dorrien was a little like that. She was ripping, too. But I’ve always had a notion that Dorrien might have had better hunting with almost any other kind of woman.

“I don’t understand modern medical science--scrapping with ultravisible germs that good may come. Blood is different: when you see that, it’s your business to stop it anyhow. A flow of blood is the devil at war with man. You know it instinctively. I myself don’t hold much with anything that doesn’t come by instinct. And as for deciding things by theory! There wasn’t a mouldering idea any one had held since the Christian era that Mrs. Dorrien didn’t drag out of its grave to get help from. That was the trouble: all the mouldering ideas were knocking about together in her mind. And therefore, exit Dorrien.

“Do you know Soerabaya? No? It was there I saw them. I had known Dorrien long ago somewhere. There wasn’t much of any one else in that crazy thing that called itself a hotel--kept by a Portuguese Jew named D’Acunha. It was in the town, mind you, not in the suburbs, and the guests ran accordingly. Very good drinks, and plenty of mosquito-netting, but everything else in the place that mosquito-netting wouldn’t keep out. Mrs. Dorrien always dressed for dinner, I remember. Dorrien wasn’t happy. She had come to please him, though just why to Soerabaya I never made out, and was always reminding him of it, and he wasn’t pleased. They had left the little girl at home, and I dare say the mother wanted to get back to her. She kept saying she was afraid Aunt Emma wouldn’t have Virginia’s teeth properly straightened. Wonderful thing a woman is! Lizards climbing all round over the walls, and the eternal promise of a snake coiling up on the tail of her dress, and she’ll look past it all with her far-sighted eyes and say she is afraid a safe little kid at home with steam-heat and a governess isn’t having her teeth straightened.

“I didn’t come in on the Dorriens’ affairs at all at first, you understand. I was there on my own business, and I supposed they were. At least I supposed he was. I never could see what she got out of it: I’ll swear she never looked at scenery, and there wasn’t anything in the mucky little bazaars she wanted. Apparently they had no letters to European residents; or if they had, they didn’t use them. If ever a woman wasn’t meant for the tropics--” His voice trailed off for a little, then boomed out again, softly resonant, like a ship’s gong going intermittently somewhere beyond in the offing. “I admired her more than a little. But I saw that Dorrien had no show. Women are apt to shout with the majority. How is a husband going to be a majority, if he takes a line of his own? Oh, Dorrien was down and out from the start.

“They must have been worrying along in Soerabaya for two weeks. I think Dorrien stayed on like a cross child who knows he’s got to go home. He drags at his nurse’s hand, and asks questions about every object they pass. He wasn’t interested in the place, but at least it wasn’t a P. & O. port. He saw perfectly that the next stop would be. If I had had him alone, I could have amused him. Dorrien was the sort that finds an absorbing interest in native--eh--customs, and that sort of thing. But his wife naturally didn’t care about--sociology. She wandered around under the teaks and tamarinds, waiting for his last shadow of an excuse to fade out utterly. When he couldn’t chuck the bluff any more, she’d have him, and she knew it. She’d march him home.

“I myself didn’t quite know at first why Dorrien wanted to stay out there. One would have to have more general curiosity than the Dorriens appeared to, in order to find Soerabaya interesting. I knew that if his wife weren’t along, he’d drag me into every kind of native dive; but I knew, too, that he hadn’t come for the dives. He didn’t seem to be very much in love with the place. Who could be? He swore at everything, beginning with the monkeys and ending with the prices. He just didn’t want to go home--as if he knew he’d be put to bed in the dark and have to go to sleep, when he got there. Queer guy! You remember how big he was? He had a trick of looking round any room as if it were too small for him. And that voice of his, with never a modulation, and those red-brown eyes that seemed to take in everything and give back no comment? Then, one night, I thought I had struck it. He came across to my corner of porch about midnight.

“‘My wife’s gone to bed, and I think she’s gone to sleep,’ he said. ‘There’s no sleep in me, and I shall swear at the lizards if I turn in. I should wake her. You know what these fool partitions are. Let’s talk. You never have anything to do.’ It wasn’t very polite, but it was quite true. I haven’t anything to do except see what things are like. When I’ve made an exhaustive study of all the degrees of civilization, I’m going home to vote. I don’t see that, until then, I’m equipped to.

“‘All right,’ I said. ‘I never sleep, I never write letters, and I never criticize. Go ahead.’

“Odd thing: that happened to be just what he wanted--to ‘go ahead’ indefinitely. I learned a lot of things about Dorrien that night. I made out from his talk that he must have mucked around a good deal with tuberculosis at home, but he’d dropped it. He told me some queer things about tuberculosis germs, but he had got tired of it. Exotic diseases were more in his line. He asked the most extraordinary number of questions about beri-beri and things like that. I never quite understood it all; but I think the commonness of tuberculosis bored him. The antipodes take men’s imaginations in different ways--who should know if I don’t?--and they had simply taken his, across all the world, by their physical malignancies. He didn’t give a copper cash for what you folk call psychology, but his brown eyes used to rake the meanest little streets in Soerabaya for any sign of disease. It might have been unpleasant if he hadn’t been such a loud-voiced, businesslike chap. If you ask me, I should say he had come to the East just as a sportsman goes to Africa for big game. There’s good hunting in Canada, I’m told, but some people want to hunt hippopotami just because hippopotami have such queer complexions. Dorrien could get interested in what the human body is capable of, regardless of unpleasantness. But he could as well have stayed at home and stuck to cancer, if he had wanted mere unpleasantness.

“‘The only thing I know anything about is leprosy,’ he said, that night, after a lot of queer talk. I very seldom argue; I just smoke and wait. You’ve _got_ to assume that people know their own business best. Dorrien had run down to Molokai while his wife stayed in Honolulu. I’ve never been there myself. He told me a lot about it that same night. He wasn’t romantic _pour deux sous_, Dorrien wasn’t; but he talked about it as if his heart were in it. I remember an old missionary chap who went on in the same way about the Fijis. Not that Dorrien held with the missionaries; but they both spoke with passion--as if sin and disease could draw men like lovers, panting with blind desire, sheer across the planet, just to help, and then die. Men will go out and overturn the stew-pots, and preach vegetarianism to cannibals, and go into the stew-pot themselves in the end, who couldn’t stand a week of Salvation Army slum-work. Dorrien was something like that, only with the idealism left out. He seemed all passionate perception, like a child. Yet somewhere in him was that thin little adamantine streak of pure intellectualism. If it hadn’t been there, he’d never have held together at all: there _must_ have been something inflexible for all that clay to mass itself upon. And so he somehow cared, when it came to leprosy. I suppose, some time or other, the thing had baffled him--tantalized him like an unscrupulous woman.

“It’s no use saying, ‘Why didn’t he love elsewhere?’ He happened not to. Meanwhile his wife was taking him home to a fashionable practice which he was sadly endangering by absence. And there were the little girl’s teeth, you see. There had been some excuse of a holiday combined with study of special conditions in the Orient, but all excuses had expired. He was facing a P. & O. boat, and he was just sparring for time. It was all rather a mess, as I had learned by three in the morning. But it distinctly wasn’t a mess that an outsider had anything to do with. To tell the truth, if Mrs. Dorrien hadn’t seemed such a good sport, I’d have had more faith in him; but who can ever tell? He left me finally and went to bed, and the next day Mrs. Dorrien went into the town to look up steamer connections while he made up sleep. At least, that was the account she gave.

“I went off into the interior for a few days; pretended I was going to look up a lot of ruins that, of course, I’d seen before--tombs of Arab priests and such. The hotel had got on my nerves, and the suburbs, full of Europeans, were even less what I was looking for. Besides, the Dorriens weren’t my affair; yet Dorrien was beginning to clutch me as if they were. I wouldn’t run away from any solitary creature, either man or woman--and I’ve been in some strange galleys, too--but when it comes to man and wife, ‘_ruf’ nicht die Polizei_,’ as the Germans have it. The Dorriens looked to me pretty near the breaking-point. I hoped they would either leave or have it out before I got back. When I got away, I forgot about it. I’m foot-loose, and nobody’s business is really mine. Fancy being responsible to and for a white-and-gold creature like Mrs. Dorrien! The very thought of it makes you want to take ship.

“That particular interior wasn’t much good--eternal rice-fields, and little villages, one just like another, full of little people. The vegetation was something you couldn’t dream, even on hashish, but I’m dead used to vegetation. I nosed around for a few days, and then decided to quit the island entirely. I had engagements elsewhere, if I chose to think so. Anyhow, I wanted something doing. So I went back to Soerabaya. You get boats from there all over.

“They said at the hotel that the Dorriens were leaving the next day. I didn’t look them up; but when I came down to dinner, Mrs. Dorrien was in her place, waiting for her husband. She beckoned to me and smiled, and I had to go over, though she looked more like a Frenchwoman than ever, and I was more a sweep than usual. I had to go; but I went thinking what a damn subtle thing marriage is at home, and how glad I was to be single. There are other sides to it, of course; but that’s the permanent one. Think of being married to a woman who would dress like that for an undercooked, half-caste dinner in a steaming Soerabaya hotel! Think, that is, of what she must be like at close range. She made me sit down.

“‘We are leaving to-morrow, Mr. Hoyting.’

“‘Sorry.’ I couldn’t screw out more.

“‘Yes. We’ve had our mail. We have to go.’ She straightened her shoulders and swept the room with a bored look, as if it were a ballroom full of men who danced badly. I didn’t know whether she was lying about the mail or not. I never get letters, thank God! I haven’t any address. What was certain was that I did not want her to tell me what was in their mail. I sidestepped.

“‘I don’t suppose Soerabaya will soon see the like of that dress again, Mrs. Dorrien.’ It _was_ the most civilized thing I’d seen in a long time, though of course I don’t frequent table d’hôtes in most places. Anyhow, you know how colonial Dutch women get themselves up. ‘Aren’t you afraid the lizards will spoil it?’

“‘This rag?’ The ‘rag’ was gold-colored, as she was, and her laugh clinked like gold. ‘I shall give it to the stewardess if she is half decent to me. We shall have to stop in Paris on the way back. I haven’t had so much as a new _sarong_ since we left America. My clothes are faded, tattered, fly-blown, tarnished with the sea.’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Is it really so long since you’ve seen a well-dressed woman? Surely in India--’ That was the best she could do for badinage, and she looked uneasily towards the door as she spoke.

“Suddenly Dorrien appeared in the door. She was silent through our greetings, though I thought she watched him. Whatever it was would break before morning, if it wasn’t already at that instant giving way. They hadn’t many hours’ grace, those two. Why the devil hadn’t I stayed in some undiscoverable, soaking little basket-hovel in the nearest village until the next morning? I didn’t know the people, I didn’t like them; but both of them would cling to me because I was white and because they couldn’t agree about anything in the world. I’ve always wished I had stayed away twenty-four hours more, that time--always. There was no reason under high heaven why I should be in it. And they were nice people, mind you; and neither one of them meant to be a cad. Why, there was nothing either one of them wanted that wasn’t perfectly decent and desirable in itself. They only wanted different things for each other, with the best conscience in the world. And people go on marrying, every day!

“‘I hear you’re going, Dorrien.’ There was no use in trying to be irrelevant. They would have turned any remark into a comment on themselves.

“‘Did Agatha tell you so?’

“‘Yes. And D’Acunha mentioned it when I got in.’

“‘There’s a P. & O. boat from Singapore next week Thursday.’ She looked straight at him.

“‘There’s a Royal Dutch Mail from Batavia next week Saturday,’ he flung back.

“She drew a scarf round her shoulders, despite the steaming heat. ‘Who wants to go to Rotterdam? If we’re going, let’s go sanely.’

“‘We can’t go sanely.’ And Dorrien was white beneath his sunburn as he said it.

“Some other people came in, and I didn’t scruple to talk to them. If the Dorriens were going to break, I, out of sheer patriotism, didn’t want them to break before a public like that. Perhaps I still had some hope of getting away. I’ve forgotten about that, but it seems reasonable. I do remember that I staved it off until after dinner. But they didn’t let me alone. They wanted a referee, I imagine; some one who would keep them from screaming insults at each other, or decide between them when they did.

“There’s something morally disintegrating about heat. I fancy that’s been said before, but _I_ know how true it is. My own nerves were on edge with it. Why didn’t they go up into the mountains somewhere and dance with Dutch residents, instead of sticking to ports? But I suppose that would only have postponed the catastrophe. Anyhow, it couldn’t hurt either of them to get out of that rotten temperature, no matter where they went. She was whiter than chalk, and Dorrien was nervous as a cat. Her voice jangled, and he twitched all over when she spoke. I didn’t see that there was a penny to choose between them for merit, except that she was stronger than he. They’d both break, but he’d break half a minute sooner. Ugh! it was bad!”

Hoyting breathed in the wind that blew gently against us off the Mediterranean waves. “You don’t know anything about heat. Dry heat doesn’t matter. When there’s nothing but steam to breathe--everything hot and vaporous and reeking--temperate people lose their poise. Soerabaya was like holding your head over a teakettle. Yes, I was sorriest for Dorrien. But why didn’t they go to the mountains and have it out, if they had to, in paradise?”

He was silent for some moments over his vermouth. I didn’t interrupt. I knew the rest would come. Uneasy reminiscence of the kind then wrinkling his face would only expedite his narrative. When he began again, it was abruptly, with a change of tone; but his eyes had never moved from the harbor lights.

“I was sorriest for Dorrien. I asked him over to smoke on my porch. Your porch is your sitting-room, you know, and you don’t go inside until you have to. I said, ‘Let’s throw bananas to the monkeys.’ The heat had gone to my head a little, too--heat and annoyance. He moved off at once. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Can’t I come and throw bananas to the monkeys?’ said Mrs. Dorrien. ‘Of course.’ We were all unnaturally serious, you see--a bad sign. I was in it, then, for as long as they chose to stay. What fool invented hospitality, I wonder?

“Dorrien had a little sense left. He began at once. ‘I’ve got a case of conscience to put to you, Hoyting.’ Even then I hoped I could stave it off.

“‘Conscience is a local matter,’ I answered; ‘territoriality of law. Don’t appeal to me. I’m an outsider.’

“‘Aren’t we all in Soerabaya together?’ Her voice rasped its way in.

“‘Yes; but I hope you don’t mean to decide anything according to Soerabaya.’

“‘Do you really think at the moment we’re capable of doing otherwise?’ She had me there: it was the mean truth. We weren’t. That reeking heat would decide for us. I don’t think she had meant him to appeal to me, but I fancy she didn’t mind. If he hadn’t done it, she would have. It was inevitable.

“Dorrien went on: ‘I had a letter when the mails came in two days ago, offering me a big post. Agatha and I don’t agree about it.’

“‘You don’t think it big enough?’ I was so relieved that I thought I could speak lightly--Heaven forgive my folly! If it was just some little feud of their ambitions, they’d be all right as soon as they were off the land. But her face didn’t relax.

“‘He has been offered the chance of exiling himself on Molokai with eight hundred lepers.’ She had brought the jangling tones into a kind of ironic gamut. ‘_That_ is the kingdom he is offered. And he thinks--my God! he wants to go!’ She broke down utterly and wept, great sobs, like a man’s, coming up from her chest and shaking her frail body. Women don’t usually cry that way; there’s trouble in it when they do.

“‘But he isn’t going.’ It was only decent to comfort her. ‘You say you are sailing for Europe.’

“Dorrien did not speak. Her sobs slowed gradually. She was making a terrible effort for the power to speak coherently, to get in her arguments, her pleas, her threats. I suppose I was her last dim substitute for public opinion. She was trying to bring the world to bear on him in Soerabaya, and there was only I to be the world.

“Now, how could I have known I was going to run into a thing like that, out there on the other edge of Java? Do I look like Mrs. Grundy? She hated me, mind you; she was terribly afraid of me; she couldn’t a bit trust me to see the thing her way; but there was no one else. I was an American, and I had had the bad luck to know Dorrien long before. She wasn’t trying any feminine wiles; she was just pleading for civilization, as she understood it, against mad and monstrous ideas that she hadn’t dreamed existed, except inaccessibly. Caste goes deeper than sex--among us, anyhow. I don’t know what she thought about Dorrien, really. Probably he merely seemed to her, for the moment, to have obliterated deliberately all his caste-marks. I’ve always held that, if a man did the work, it wasn’t up to the woman to tell him how to do it; and I remembered how Dorrien had felt about leprosy. Probably he could do good work there. I fancied he knew what he wanted. Some one had to be at Molokai; why, or why not, Dorrien?

“I looked at him. He was sitting perfectly straight and uncomfortable, his mad eyes fixed, as if they were glass, on the palm-boughs out beyond the smoky porch-lamp. Nothing to be done there. And when I turned back to her, I simply--oh, abominably, I grant you--laughed aloud. The notion of expecting a woman like that to live on a leper island! It had been bad enough to see her in Soerabaya. I was sorry, fundamentally and genuinely sorry, for Dorrien; but it ought to have been patent even to him that Mrs. Dorrien couldn’t go to Molokai. Nothing but an exclusive love, the kind we’ve all heard about and never experienced, would have made her do it. She and Dorrien had nothing of that sort to go upon, I was absolutely sure.

“‘But you’re sailing.’ I clung to Dorrien’s explicit words.

“‘By Heaven, I’m not!’ His lips just moved. He looked like a statue conceived in madness, carved with scorn.

“‘I grant some one has to go’--she was apparently trying to be extraordinarily generous--‘but why he? It’s not his place or his life. It’s not what he’s fit for. It’s not asked of him. He has me; he has Virginia. Virginia!’ She had turned to me, her shoulder blotting out Dorrien. It seemed that they had to communicate through me; they had ceased to address each other. ‘Has he a right,’ she went on, ‘to take us to a place like that? Has a husband, a father, no responsibilities? Even if I don’t matter, must Virginia live and die among those monsters?’

“How could I say, I ask you, that Virginia must? I had never seen Virginia. I had nothing to do with these people. Why didn’t they see that? I don’t believe, you know, that they ever saw it. I might have been Rhadamanthus in a poor disguise.

“Mrs. Dorrien stopped, and cried quietly into her handkerchief. Her husband took up the talk.

“‘God knows I’ve wasted life long enough. It’s a chance in a million, man--the one chance in the whole world. Give me ten years there, and I’ll know, I tell you. I’ll find a cure. I’ll track the filthy germ. I’ve never had half a show, pulling old ladies through bronchitis. It’s no work for a man. I’ve been ashamed to look at myself in a glass for two years. I’ve gone a little way; I swear I’m on the right track. It’s the kind of thing I can do. I haven’t a bedside manner; Agatha has that. Those poor wretches don’t need a bedside manner. They need some one to avenge them. She’s ambitious. Well, let her give me my head for ten years, and she can cover herself with my medals. We’ll come back, when I’ve done my work, and she can queen it all over Europe.’

“He was incoherent, overweening, inconsequent, but terrifyingly in earnest. More probably than not, she would have a suicide on her hands, I thought, if she did take him home. It didn’t look as if she would get him past Suez.

“Mrs. Dorrien sat with her hands folded in her lap, breathing hard, but quite silent. They were appalling, that pair. I’d have given a good deal to hear a little repartee just then. But the mortal insult would have been to suggest that either one should speak to the other. The queerest night I ever spent, and I’ve been through some I didn’t believe in, myself, the next day. Well, all I wanted was to have it over; I didn’t care how brutally I hastened it.

“‘Why don’t you go alone?’

“He looked at me then; he had only spoken to me before. Dominated by that look, I began to piece together my own scraps of traveller’s knowledge. Then I kicked myself. I didn’t need all the unphraseable explanations that gathered silently in his eyes. I knew, of course, what he just refrained from replying. It was the last leash on him--the thinnest thread of control. If that snapped, if I jerked it, we should be saying, all three of us together, monstrous things. I held hard on the leash.

“‘He can’t go alone.’ Her voice was just a whisper. She was shocked to the core of her, and I saw that, to that extent at least, they had had it out. I was sorry for her then--sorry without regard to my fast-ebbing admiration. She had been flung on the horns of a dilemma, and they were goring her cruelly. They couldn’t, poor devils, get peace with honor.”

Hoyting ordered more vermouth, and lighted the next of the undiminishing procession of cigarettes. He wandered away from the actual story for a little, and I let him, knowing that in the end he would get his fox and goose and bag of corn all safe across, like the man in the riddle.

“Dorrien wasn’t the sort of man you’d expect to find in scientific research. He was too human, too impressionable. A scientist oughtn’t to notice Javanese singing girls. They ought to be to him as the female of the flounder. I don’t mean for a minute that Dorrien was a cad, that he was anything but--complete. He was a scientist of sorts, at least by predilection; but he was also healthy and immensely masculine. He couldn’t personify Science and then treat her as if she were really a woman. He knew the difference. I’ve seen men who didn’t. They are the lucky ones. Dorrien was unlucky: he had no end of conflicting desires. He wanted abnormal conditions _plus_ a normal life; and he wanted a little fame thrown in. I dare say he also wanted Mrs. Dorrien and the little girl whose teeth had to be straightened. Just at that moment, he thought he wanted more than all the rest a chance to do his appointed work. But he was honest, damn him! honest. He knew that Science could never, for him, be a mistress, and he wasn’t a man to exist on merely Platonic relations. I’ve always admired him for not blinking facts when he must have been sorely tempted to. But what they must have gone through, of bitter exposition, those two, in the days of my absence! I didn’t see any way out of it. He wanted incompatible goods. And so, by heavens! did she.”

Hoyting dropped his chin on his chest and closed his eyes wearily for a moment.

“If she had been a different sort, even, they might have pulled through. But look at it. She was ambitious and sentimental. She wanted his success. She’d have been willing enough to send him out alone if he had lied to her about possibilities. He had had the honesty to realize them, and the utter brutality to tell her--that was perfectly clear from the state of both of them. Probably he didn’t think he had a right to withhold the information from her; or he might have thought it would be a clinching argument for her going with him. If you ask me, I think she was very near hating him for having enlightened her as to the dangers. Women of her kind don’t like such assumptions. And it didn’t give her a _beau rôle_. There wasn’t anything, and wouldn’t be, God knows, for her to be jealous of. But there was everything prospectively, if he went, to pity him for. A wife couldn’t fling him into that; not when he wouldn’t even pose, not when he didn’t scruple to say what she was flinging him into. However much she may have wanted to say ‘Go,’ she couldn’t. If he had only pretended to be other than he was, she could have made it out to herself that both of them were martyrs, he to his work, she to--oh, well, to the little girl. She was the kind of woman who could condone an infidelity, I imagine, in a cold, superior way; but her principles would hardly permit her to face it beforehand. And that wasn’t all--that wasn’t all. Of course she had asked him first of all--she would have--about the danger of infection; and it was evident from every suffering line in both their faces that he hadn’t hesitated to dot his i’s. She knew what was dangerous and what was not, and she knew that if Dorrien went alone he was lost. I pitied her. She had hunted, during two days, for a _beau rôle_, and she couldn’t find one. Her only hope was to get him home and trust that he would get over it, like some kind of fit. And he wouldn’t; that was clear. The only suggestion I could think of was that they should divorce, and that he should proceed to find another woman who adored him, and take her out there. That isn’t the kind of suggestion you make to people; it doesn’t sound sympathetic. It isn’t practical, either; it leaves too much to be done too quickly. Moreover, it had almost certainly never occurred to either of them that they didn’t love each other as much as any other two people did.

“And they expected me to say something! They had spent forty-eight hours trying, quite in vain, to find a way out, and then had the appalling cheek and the pathetic confidence to bring it to me!

“‘I can’t argue this matter,’ I said finally. ‘You must see that.’

“They didn’t see it. It was a perfectly impersonal clutch they were strangling me with. They hadn’t any notion of their own dismaying breach of reticence. We were all in Soerabaya--which was hell--together; and conventions didn’t exist. Also, I couldn’t any more get out of it than if we had been more literally in Hell and they ineluctable and imperishable shades. I had to go on.

“‘She won’t go,’ I said at last to Dorrien. ‘And you absolutely can’t go alone?’

“He didn’t speak, but he turned his eyes on me again. I seemed to read in them that the question had been put to him before, and that he would not again go through the agony of answering. Not that the answer in those silent eyes wasn’t clear. Then, after a little, he did speak. ‘Ask her if she counsels me to go alone.’

“My very spirit revolted at the way they had laid hands on me. Anything I said was bound to be damnable for one or the other of them. I swore I’d get out of the thing non-partisan if I insulted them both.

“‘I won’t ask her,’ I said. ‘I won’t have anything more to do with it. It’s a devilish mess, and one of you has to go under. But I won’t lift a finger to determine which one. You may take that from me straight, both of you.’

“We ought by rights to have been tearing about that porch dramatically; but we all sat perfectly still in sheer exhaustion, dripping with sweat and breathing in quiet, regular pants. I wish--I wish it had never been.

“‘You won’t even tell him that he can’t go at all? Such a simple thing as that?’ She flung out her hands in a queer, uncertain way. She was very far gone.

“‘I won’t tell him anything. Good night.’ I pulled myself out of my chair and leaned over the railing. I don’t know how long I looked down into the hot little garden. I didn’t mean to be a beast. Were you ever in a place where you couldn’t stir a muscle without committing murder? No, I suppose not. Well, that’s what I felt like. It seemed inevitable that pretty soon they’d trap me into saying something that sounded like advice; and it looked to me as if any advice, once followed, would be fatal. There wasn’t any right way out, they being what they were. It was up to whatever Power had made them. It was absolutely _not_ up to me. I began counting lizards on the railing. Every bone in my body ached with stiffness when I finally turned round. They had gone.”

Hoyting lighted a cigarette. He had finished it, and lighted another, before he spoke again.

“The next morning I got off on a filthy little tramp steamer at four o’clock. It wasn’t a steamer the Dorriens could possibly take. I don’t think they would even have known about it. Then I made straight for China; I was pretty sure neither one of them would think of China. And by that time I had got back nerve enough to be quite sure that I had done right in keeping my hands off. But--I never asked any one what became of them. Now you say you know.”

“Oh, yes, I know. Dorrien’s dead.”

“They went back?”

“Yes, they went back. That was eight years ago?”

Hoyting began to count up the continents on his fingers. “Australia last year--South America--Siberia--the Transvaal, before that. Yes, it would have been eight years ago.”

To my surprise, I found myself reluctant to bring out the truth. Hoyting, as he talked, had been so vividly aware of the Dorriens, had made it so evident how real to him and repellent was that remembered scene, that my hesitation was not unnatural.

“He practised at home for a number of years, doing some research when he had time. He went back into public work to some extent--boards and commissions again. Her family seemed to manage him entirely.” Then I stopped.

Hoyting waited. The lights in the harbor began to lessen, great patches of shadow spacing them. I waited, too, to gather strength. It had all become horrible to me now, and permeated with the sordidness that spoils tragedy.

“He shot himself.”

“He cared so much as that?” Hoyting’s huge finger flicked off the cigarette ash before there was need.

“He had--oh, I only heard it, Hoyting!” I cried. “I don’t know the whole of it. Who does? But those damned Hewells took it up--I suppose by way of condoning the suicide--and made a martyr of him.”

“Go on.”

“He had somehow in the laboratory--you know the danger; and Dorrien was a reckless chap, those last years, not like himself, his friends said. They all used to worry over his riding, his shooting, his yachting--everything.”

I broke off. It was extremely hard to tell the man who apparently knew most about Dorrien, even though he had never called Dorrien friend. “He had somehow, through a cut, the slip of an instrument--I don’t know the sickening scientific detail of it--inoculated himself with a disease he was working with. He made nothing of it at the time, I’m told. Everybody had forgotten it. Suddenly--when he found out what he was in for, I suppose--he shot himself. After what you’ve told me, I should say it was probably from disgust. Why blame him?”

“What was it?” Hoyting had not stirred, but his voice had changed immeasurably.

“Tuberculosis.”

The great shoulders shrugged once. I felt impelled to explain--a miserable little feverish strut. And before Hoyting, of all men!

“It gives the measure of his revolt--a man who had cured so many, and could have cured himself mechanically, you might say; a man whose special business in life had been to snap his fingers at that particular plague. That’s why, until you told me all this, I never understood. Now it’s clear enough.”

I shut my eyes, glad to put the ironic thing away, glad to be at peace, with no further need to speak of it. When I opened them again, I was alone. Hoyting, the foot-loose, was gone.

THE CASE OF PARAMORE

For the sake of moral values I ought to wish, I suppose, that Paramore had been a more conspicuous figure. There is moral significance in the true tale of Paramore--the tale which has been left to me in trust by Hoyting. I cursed Hoyting when he did it; for Paramore’s reputation was nothing to me, and what Paramore knew or didn’t know was in my eyes unspeakably unimportant. I wish it clearly understood, you see, that if Paramore deliberately confused exogamy and endogamy in the Australian bush, it doesn’t in the least matter to me. Paramore is only a symbol. As a symbol, I am compelled to feel him important. That is why I wish that his name were ringing in the ears and vibrating on the lips of all of you. His bad anthropology doesn’t matter--a dozen big people are delightedly setting that straight--but the adventure of his soul immensely does. Rightly read, it’s as sound as a homily and as dramatic as Euripides. The commonest field may be chosen by opposing generals to be decisive; and in a day history is born where before only the quiet wheat has sprung. Paramore is like that. The hostile forces converged by chance upon his breast.

I have implied that Paramore was never conspicuous. That is to be more merciful than just. The general public cares no more, I suppose, than I do about the marriage customs of Australian aborigines. But nowadays the general public has in pay, as it were, an army of scientists in every field. We all expect to be told in our daily papers of their most important victories, and have a comfortable feeling that we, as the age, are subsidizing research. By the same token, if they deceive us, we--the age--are personally injured and fall to “muck-raking.” It is typical that no one had been much interested in Paramore until he was discredited, and that then, quite without intelligible documents, we all began to despise him. The situation, for that matter, was not without elements of humor. The facts, as I and the general public knew them, were these--before Hoyting, with his damnable inside information, came into it.

Paramore sprang one day, full-armed, from some special academic obscurity. He had scraped together enough money to bury himself in the Australian bush and grapple face to face with primitive religion in its most concrete form. Each to his taste; and I dare say some casual newspaper readers wished him godspeed. There followed the proper interval of time; then an emaciated Paramore suddenly emerging, laden with note-books; then the published volume, very striking and revolutionary, a treasure-house of authentic and indecent anecdote. He could write, too, which was part of his evil fate; so that a great many people read him. That, however, was not Paramore’s fault. His heart, I believe, was in Great Russell Street, where the Royal Anthropologists have power to accept or reject. He probably wanted the alphabet picturesquely arranged after his name. At all events, he got it in large measure. You see, his evidence completely upset a lot of hard-won theories about mother-right and group-marriage; and he didn’t hesitate to contradict the very greatest. He actually made a few people speak lightly of _The Golden Bough_. No scientist had ever spent so long at primitive man’s very hearth as Paramore had. It was a tremendous achievement. He had data that must have been more dangerous to collect than the official conversation of nihilists. It was his daring that won him the momentary admiration of the public to which exogamy is a ludicrously unimportant noun. Very soon, of course, every one forgot.

It was not more than two years after his book was printed that the newspapers took him up again. Most of them appended to the despatch a brief biography of Paramore. No biographies were needed in Great Russell Street. This was the point where the comic spirit decided to meddle. A few Germans had always been protesting at inconsistencies in Paramore’s book, and no one had paid any attention to them. There is always a learned German protesting somewhere. The general attitude among the great was: any one may challenge or improve Paramore’s conclusions--in fact, it’s going to be our delightful task for ten years to get more out of Paramore than he can get out of himself--but do get down on your knees before the immense amount of material he has taken the almost fatal trouble to collect for us. No other European was in a position to discredit Paramore. It took an Australian planter to do that. Whitaker was his quite accidentally notorious name. The comic spirit pushed him on a North German Lloyder at Melbourne, to spend a few happy months in London. It was perfectly natural that people who talked to him at all should mention Paramore. The unnatural thing was that he knew all about Paramore. He didn’t tell all he knew--as I learned afterward--but he told at least enough to prove that Paramore hadn’t spent so much time in the bush as would have been absolutely necessary to compile one-quarter of his note-books. Whitaker was sufficiently reticent about what Paramore had been doing most of the time; but he knew for a fact, and took a sporting interest in proving it, that Paramore had never been west of the Musgrave Range. That in itself sufficed to ruin Paramore. It was perfectly easy, then, for the little chorus from Bonn, Heidelberg, etc., to prove in their meticulous way that both his cribbing and lying (his whole treatment of Spencer and Gillen was positively artistic) had all been mere dust-throwing. Of course, what Paramore really had achieved ceased from that moment to count. He had blasphemed; and the holy inquisition of science would do the rest. It all took a certain amount of time, but that was the net result.

Paramore made no defence, oddly enough. Some kind people arranged an accidental encounter between him and Whitaker. The comic spirit was hostess, and the newspapers described it. It gave the cartoonists a happy week. Then an international complication intervened, and the next thing the newspapers found time to say about him was that he had gone to the Upper Niger, still on folk-lore bent. That fact would have been stupendous if it hadn’t been so unimportant. Two years later, the fickle press returned to him just long enough to say that he had died. I certainly thought then that we had heard the last of him. But the comic spirit had laid her inexorable finger on Hoyting. And suddenly, as if in retribution for my spasmodic interest in Paramore’s beautiful fraud, Hoyting sent for me.

I went to one of the rue de Rivoli hotels and met him by appointment. Of course, he hadn’t told me what it was about. Hoyting never writes; and he puts as little into a telegram as a frugal old maid. Any sign from Hoyting, however, would have sufficed to bring me to Paris; and I stayed in my hotel, never budging even for the Salon, so close at hand, until Hoyting appeared in my sitting-room.

I asked Hoyting no questions. I hadn’t an idea of what he wanted. It might, given Hoyting, be anything. He began without preliminaries--except looking frightfully tired. That, for Hoyting, was a rather appalling preliminary.

“Three months ago I was in Dakar. I don’t know just why I had drifted to Sénégal, except that I’ve come to feel that if there must be colonial governments they had better be French. If there was any special thing that pushed me, I’ve forgotten it.

“They were decentish people, those French officers and their wives. A little stiff always, never expatriated, never quite at ease in their African inn, but not half so likely to go _fantee_ as the romantic Briton. And once a fortnight the little boats from Bordeaux would come in, bringing more of them. I rather liked them; but, even so, there wasn’t any particular reason for my staying so long in Dakar. I hung on like an alarm that has been set. I couldn’t go off--or on--until the moment I was set for. I don’t suppose the alarm-clock knows until the vibration begins within it. Something kept me there in that dull, glaring, little official town, with its dry dock and torpedo basin, which, of course, they had managed to endow with the flavor of provincial France. They do that everywhere--you’ll have noticed?

“I used to go up sometimes in the comparative cool of the evening to dine with the Fathers. It isn’t that I hold with them much--Rome was introduced to me in my childhood as the Scarlet Woman--but all travellers have the same tale to tell. They are incomparable missionaries. And it stands to reason that they can get on better with savages than the rest of you. You can meet magic only with magic. It was they who introduced me to Paramore.”

“Oh, it’s Paramore!” I exclaimed. “Heaven, forgive you, Hoyting, you are always in at the death. How do you manage it? But fancy being in at Paramore’s! By the way, I suppose you know that no one knows anything except that he’s dead.”

“Umph! Well, I do,” returned Hoyting. “That’s what I was set for--like the clock: to turn up at the Mission House just when he was brought in there with fever. I don’t go hunting for things like that, you understand. I’d as soon have thought of staying on for Madame Pothier’s _beaux yeux_.”

“I didn’t know you knew whether eyes were fine or not.”

“I suppose I don’t. But I can guess. There are always other people to tell you. Anyhow, her fine eyes were all for _le bon Dieu_ and Pothier. She was a good sort--married out of a little provincial convent-school to a man twice her age, and taking ship within a month for Sénégal. She loved him--for his scars, probably, Desdemona-fashion. Have you ever noticed that a woman often likes a man better for a crooked white seam across his face that spoils all the modelling? Naïve notions women have about war! They tiptoe round the carnage, making eyes at the slayers. Oh, in imagination, of course. And if they once appreciate how they really feel about it, they begin to gabble about disarmament.”

Hoyting fingered the dingy little packet that he had taken out of his pocket and laid on my table. He looked far away out of the window for a moment, narrowing his eyes as if trying to focus them on another hemisphere.

“So he was taken to the Pothiers’.”

“You’re leaving out a lot,” I interrupted. “Why ‘so,’ and why to the Pothiers? You said to the Mission.”

“Oh”--His brows knitted. He didn’t like filling up his own gaps. The things Hoyting takes it for granted one will know about his exotic context! “The Mission was full of patients--an epidemic had been running through the converts, and it was up to them to prove that the sacrament of baptism wasn’t some deadly process of inoculation. As I say, it’s all magic, white or black. Poor Paramore wasn’t a convert--he was by way of being an agnostic, I imagine--and the Fathers weren’t, in a sense, responsible for him. Yet one must do them the justice to say that they’d never have sent him away if they hadn’t had a better place to send him to. The Mission was no place at the moment for a man with fever--sweating infection as it was, and full of frightened patients who were hiding _gri-gris_ under their armpits and looking more than askance at the crucifixes over the doors. The Pothiers had known Paramore two years before, when he had stopped in Dakar on his way into the interior. They took him in quite naturally and simply. Paramore had noticed her fine eyes, I believe--oh, in all honor and loyalty. There were lots of ways in which he wasn’t a rotter. He was merely the finest liar in the world--and a bit of a Puritan to boot.

“Is there any combination life hasn’t exhausted, I wonder?” Hoyting walked to the window, his hands in his pockets, looking down at the eternal race of the taxicabs below. “Think of what may be going by in any one of those taxis. And Paramore _was_ a bit of a Puritan, for all his years of fake anthropology.”

His face was heavily weary as presently he turned it to me.

“I was involved in Paramore’s case. I’ve been to the bottom of this thing, I tell you. Paramore overflowed--emptied himself like a well; and at the end there was absolutely nothing left in his mind; it was void, up to the black brim. Then he died--quite vacuous. He had simply poured out his inner life around me. I was left alone in Dakar, swimming in the infernal pool of Paramore’s cerebrations. You can’t, on the banks of the Sénégal, refer a man to his solicitors. If Paramore had been a Catholic, I could have turned his case over to the Bishop. But bishops had nothing to do with Paramore. And that’s where you come in.”

“Oh, I come in, do I?” I asked a little fearfully. No one wants to come in where Hoyting leaves off.

“Of course. Why else did I make an appointment with you? You’ll take this packet when you leave. You don’t suppose I’m going to London!”

“I didn’t know Paramore.”

“No; but I did. And when I’ve told you, you’ll see. I don’t take a trip like this for nothing. I hate the very smell of the asphalt.”

“Go on.” It’s what one always says to Hoyting.

“I can’t tell it coherently--though I can tell it, I suppose, more coherently than he did. In the first place, what do you know about him?”

The question sent a flood of dingy reminiscence welling slowly and muddily up through my consciousness. I thought for a moment. What, after all, was there to tell about Paramore except that he had lied, and that in the end he had been discredited as lavishly as for a time he had been believed? For any one else I might have made a sprightly little story out of the elliptical narrative of the newspapers; but no one that I know of has ever tried to be a _raconteur_ for Hoyting. He has use only for the raw material; art disgusts him. I gave him as rapid a _précis_ as I could, suppressing all instinct to embroider it.

When I had finished: “He’s completely discredited, then?”

I waved my hands. “My dear Hoyting, no one would take Paramore’s word about the manners and customs of his own household.”

“It’s a pity,” said Hoyting simply. “It makes it harder for you.”

“I’ve nothing to do with Paramore. If there’s one thing that interests me less than his disaster, it’s his rehabilitation.” I didn’t mean to be flippant, but Hoyting’s ominousness invited it.

“Oh, rehabilitation--no; I dare say, between us, we couldn’t manage that. I merely want to get the truth off my hands.”