Complete Works of Joseph Conrad (Illustrated) (788 page)

“I hope you will go and tell them something of me.  Something seen,” he said pressingly.

By this miserable subterfuge, like a man about to part with his life, he hoped to make her remember him a little longer.

“Certainly,” she said.  “I’ll be glad to call when I get back.  But that ‘when’ may be a long time.”

He heard a light sigh.  A cruel jealous curiosity made him ask —

“Are you growing weary, Miss Moorsom?”

A silence fell on his low spoken question.

“Do you mean heart-weary?” sounded Miss Moorsom’s voice.  “You don’t know me, I see.”

“Ah!  Never despair,” he muttered.

“This, Mr. Renouard, is a work of reparation.  I stand for truth here.  I can’t think of myself.”

He could have taken her by the throat for every word seemed an insult to his passion; but he only said —

“I never doubted the — the — nobility of your purpose.”

“And to hear the word weariness pronounced in this connection surprises me.  And from a man too who, I understand, has never counted the cost.”

“You are pleased to tease me,” he said, directly he had recovered his voice and had mastered his anger.  It was as if Professor Moorsom had dropped poison in his ear which was spreading now and tainting his passion, his very jealousy.  He mistrusted every word that came from those lips on which his life hung.  “How can you know anything of men who do not count the cost?” he asked in his gentlest tones.

“From hearsay — a little.”

“Well, I assure you they are like the others, subject to suffering, victims of spells. . . .”

“One of them, at least, speaks very strangely.”

She dismissed the subject after a short silence.  “Mr. Renouard, I had a disappointment this morning.  This mail brought me a letter from the widow of the old butler — you know.  I expected to learn that she had heard from — from here.  But no.  No letter arrived home since we left.”

Her voice was calm.  His jealousy couldn’t stand much more of this sort of talk; but he was glad that nothing had turned up to help the search; glad blindly, unreasonably — only because it would keep her longer in his sight — since she wouldn’t give up.

“I am too near her,” he thought, moving a little further on the seat.  He was afraid in the revulsion of feeling of flinging himself on her hands, which were lying on her lap, and covering them with kisses.  He was afraid.  Nothing, nothing could shake that spell — not if she were ever so false, stupid, or degraded.  She was fate itself.  The extent of his misfortune plunged him in such a stupor that he failed at first to hear the sound of voices and footsteps inside the drawing-room.  Willie had come home — and the Editor was with him.

They burst out on the terrace babbling noisily, and then pulling themselves together stood still, surprising — and as if themselves surprised.

CHAPTER VII

They had been feasting a poet from the bush, the latest discovery of the Editor.  Such discoveries were the business, the vocation, the pride and delight of the only apostle of letters in the hemisphere, the solitary patron of culture, the Slave of the Lamp — as he subscribed himself at the bottom of the weekly literary page of his paper.  He had had no difficulty in persuading the virtuous Willie (who had festive instincts) to help in the good work, and now they had left the poet lying asleep on the hearthrug of the editorial room and had rushed to the Dunster mansion wildly.  The Editor had another discovery to announce.  Swaying a little where he stood he opened his mouth very wide to shout the one word “Found!”  Behind him Willie flung both his hands above his head and let them fall dramatically.  Renouard saw the four white-headed people at the end of the terrace rise all together from their chairs with an effect of sudden panic.

“I tell you — he — is — found,” the patron of letters shouted emphatically.

“What is this!” exclaimed Renouard in a choked voice.  Miss Moorsom seized his wrist suddenly, and at that contact fire ran through all his veins, a hot stillness descended upon him in which he heard the blood — or the fire — beating in his ears.  He made a movement as if to rise, but was restrained by the convulsive pressure on his wrist.

“No, no.”  Miss Moorsom’s eyes stared black as night, searching the space before her.  Far away the Editor strutted forward, Willie following with his ostentatious manner of carrying his bulky and oppressive carcass which, however, did not remain exactly perpendicular for two seconds together.

“The innocent Arthur . . . Yes.  We’ve got him,” the Editor became very business-like.  “Yes, this letter has done it.”

He plunged into an inside pocket for it, slapped the scrap of paper with his open palm.  “From that old woman.  William had it in his pocket since this morning when Miss Moorsom gave it to him to show me.  Forgot all about it till an hour ago.  Thought it was of no importance.  Well, no!  Not till it was properly read.”

Renouard and Miss Moorsom emerged from the shadows side by side, a well-matched couple, animated yet statuesque in their calmness and in their pallor.  She had let go his wrist.  On catching sight of Renouard the Editor exclaimed:

“What — you here!” in a quite shrill voice.

There came a dead pause.  All the faces had in them something dismayed and cruel.

“He’s the very man we want,” continued the Editor.  “Excuse my excitement.  You are the very man, Renouard.  Didn’t you tell me that your assistant called himself Walter?  Yes?  Thought so.  But here’s that old woman — the butler’s wife — listen to this.  She writes: All I can tell you, Miss, is that my poor husband directed his letters to the name of H. Walter.”

Renouard’s violent but repressed exclamation was lost in a general murmur and shuffle of feet.  The Editor made a step forward, bowed with creditable steadiness.

“Miss Moorsom, allow me to congratulate you from the bottom of my heart on the happy — er — issue. . . “

“Wait,” muttered Renouard irresolutely.

The Editor jumped on him in the manner of their old friendship.  “Ah, you!  You are a fine fellow too.  With your solitary ways of life you will end by having no more discrimination than a savage.  Fancy living with a gentleman for months and never guessing.  A man, I am certain, accomplished, remarkable, out of the common, since he had been distinguished” (he bowed again) “by Miss Moorsom, whom we all admire.”

She turned her back on him.

“I hope to goodness you haven’t been leading him a dog’s life, Geoffrey,” the Editor addressed his friend in a whispered aside.

Renouard seized a chair violently, sat down, and propping his elbow on his knee leaned his head on his hand.  Behind him the sister of the professor looked up to heaven and wrung her hands stealthily.  Mrs. Dunster’s hands were clasped forcibly under her chin, but she, dear soul, was looking sorrowfully at Willie.  The model nephew!  In this strange state!  So very much flushed!  The careful disposition of the thin hairs across Willie’s bald spot was deplorably disarranged, and the spot itself was red and, as it were, steaming.

“What’s the matter, Geoffrey?”  The Editor seemed disconcerted by the silent attitudes round him, as though he had expected all these people to shout and dance.  “You have him on the island — haven’t you?”

“Oh, yes: I have him there,” said Renouard, without looking up.

“Well, then!”  The Editor looked helplessly around as if begging for response of some sort.  But the only response that came was very unexpected.  Annoyed at being left in the background, and also because very little drink made him nasty, the emotional Willie turned malignant all at once, and in a bibulous tone surprising in a man able to keep his balance so well —

“Aha!  But you haven’t got him here — not yet!” he sneered.  “No!  You haven’t got him yet.”

This outrageous exhibition was to the Editor like the lash to a jaded horse.  He positively jumped.

“What of that?  What do you mean?  We — haven’t — got — him — here.  Of course he isn’t here!  But Geoffrey’s schooner is here.  She can be sent at once to fetch him here.  No!  Stay!  There’s a better plan.  Why shouldn’t you all sail over to Malata, professor?  Save time!  I am sure Miss Moorsom would prefer. . .”

With a gallant flourish of his arm he looked for Miss Moorsom.  She had disappeared.  He was taken aback somewhat.

“Ah!  H’m.  Yes. . . . Why not.  A pleasure cruise, delightful ship, delightful season, delightful errand, del . . . No!  There are no objections.  Geoffrey, I understand, has indulged in a bungalow three sizes too large for him.  He can put you all up.  It will be a pleasure for him.  It will be the greatest privilege.  Any man would be proud of being an agent of this happy reunion.  I am proud of the little part I’ve played.  He will consider it the greatest honour.  Geoff, my boy, you had better be stirring to-morrow bright and early about the preparations for the trip.  It would be criminal to lose a single day.”

He was as flushed as Willie, the excitement keeping up the effect of the festive dinner.  For a time Renouard, silent, as if he had not heard a word of all that babble, did not stir.  But when he got up it was to advance towards the Editor and give him such a hearty slap on the back that the plump little man reeled in his tracks and looked quite frightened for a moment.

“You are a heaven-born discoverer and a first-rate manager. . . He’s right.  It’s the only way.  You can’t resist the claim of sentiment, and you must even risk the voyage to Malata. . . “ Renouard’s voice sank.  “A lonely spot,” he added, and fell into thought under all these eyes converging on him in the sudden silence.  His slow glance passed over all the faces in succession, remaining arrested on Professor Moorsom, stony eyed, a smouldering cigar in his fingers, and with his sister standing by his side.

“I shall be infinitely gratified if you consent to come.  But, of course, you will.  We shall sail to-morrow evening then.  And now let me leave you to your happiness.”

He bowed, very grave, pointed suddenly his finger at Willie who was swaying about with a sleepy frown. . . . “Look at him.  He’s overcome with happiness.  You had better put him to bed . . . “ and disappeared while every head on the terrace was turned to Willie with varied expressions.

Renouard ran through the house.  Avoiding the carriage road he fled down the steep short cut to the shore, where his gig was waiting.  At his loud shout the sleeping Kanakas jumped up.  He leaped in.  “Shove off.  Give way!” and the gig darted through the water.  “Give way!  Give way!”  She flew past the wool-clippers sleeping at their anchors each with the open unwinking eye of the lamp in the rigging; she flew past the flagship of the Pacific squadron, a great mass all dark and silent, heavy with the slumbers of five hundred men, and where the invisible sentries heard his urgent “Give way!  Give way!” in the night.  The Kanakas, panting, rose off the thwarts at every stroke.  Nothing could be fast enough for him!  And he ran up the side of his schooner shaking the ladder noisily with his rush.

On deck he stumbled and stood still.

Wherefore this haste?  To what end, since he knew well before he started that he had a pursuer from whom there was no escape.

As his foot touched the deck his will, his purpose he had been hurrying to save, died out within.  It had been nothing less than getting the schooner under-way, letting her vanish silently in the night from amongst these sleeping ships.  And now he was certain he could not do it.  It was impossible!  And he reflected that whether he lived or died such an act would lay him under a dark suspicion from which he shrank.  No, there was nothing to be done.

He went down into the cabin and, before even unbuttoning his overcoat, took out of the drawer the letter addressed to his assistant; that letter which he had found in the pigeon-hole labelled “Malata” in young Dunster’s outer office, where it had been waiting for three months some occasion for being forwarded.  From the moment of dropping it in the drawer he had utterly forgotten its existence — till now, when the man’s name had come out so clamorously.  He glanced at the common envelope, noted the shaky and laborious handwriting: H. Walter, Esqre.  Undoubtedly the very last letter the old butler had posted before his illness, and in answer clearly to one from “Master Arthur” instructing him to address in the future: “Care of Messrs. W. Dunster and Co.”  Renouard made as if to open the envelope, but paused, and, instead, tore the letter deliberately in two, in four, in eight.  With his hand full of pieces of paper he returned on deck and scattered them overboard on the dark water, in which they vanished instantly.

He did it slowly, without hesitation or remorse.  H. Walter, Esqre, in Malata.  The innocent Arthur — What was his name?  The man sought for by that woman who as she went by seemed to draw all the passion of the earth to her, without effort, not deigning to notice, naturally, as other women breathed the air.  But Renouard was no longer jealous of her very existence.  Whatever its meaning it was not for that man he had picked up casually on obscure impulse, to get rid of the tiresome expostulations of a so-called friend; a man of whom he really knew nothing — and now a dead man.  In Malata.  Oh, yes!  He was there secure enough, untroubled in his grave.  In Malata.  To bury him was the last service Renouard had rendered to his assistant before leaving the island on this trip to town.

Like many men ready enough for arduous enterprises Renouard was inclined to evade the small complications of existence.  This trait of his character was composed of a little indolence, some disdain, and a shrinking from contests with certain forms of vulgarity — like a man who would face a lion and go out of his way to avoid a toad.  His intercourse with the meddlesome journalist was that merely outward intimacy without sympathy some young men get drawn into easily.  It had amused him rather to keep that “friend” in the dark about the fate of his assistant.  Renouard had never needed other company than his own, for there was in him something of the sensitiveness of a dreamer who is easily jarred.  He had said to himself that the all-knowing one would only preach again about the evils of solitude and worry his head off in favour of some forlornly useless protégé of his.  Also the inquisitiveness of the Editor had irritated him and had closed his lips in sheer disgust.