Complete Works of Robert Louis Stevenson (Illustrated) (276 page)

‘Is it not?’ said Attwater. ‘Yes, the evenings here would be very pleasant if one had anything to do. By day, of course, one can shoot.’

‘You shoot?’ asked Herrick.

‘Yes, I am what you would call a fine shot,’ said Attwater. ‘It is faith; I believe my balls will go true; if I were to miss once, it would spoil me for nine months.’

‘You never miss, then?’ said Herrick.

‘Not unless I mean to,’ said Attwater. ‘But to miss nicely is the art. There was an old king one knew in the western islands, who used to empty a Winchester all round a man, and stir his hair or nick a rag out of his clothes with every ball except the last; and that went plump between the eyes. It was pretty practice.’

‘You could do that?’ asked Herrick, with a sudden chill.

‘Oh, I can do anything,’ returned the other. ‘You do not understand: what must be, must.’

They were now come near to the back part of the house. One of the men was engaged about the cooking fire, which burned with the clear, fierce, essential radiance of cocoanut shells. A fragrance of strange meats was in the air. All round in the verandahs lamps were lighted, so that the place shone abroad in the dusk of the trees with many complicated patterns of shadow.

‘Come and wash your hands,’ said Attwater, and led the way into a clean, matted room with a cot bed, a safe, or shelf or two of books in a glazed case, and an iron washing-stand. Presently he cried in the native, and there appeared for a moment in the doorway a plump and pretty young woman with a clean towel.

‘Hullo!’ cried Herrick, who now saw for the first time the fourth survivor of the pestilence, and was startled by the recollection of the captain’s orders.

‘Yes,’ said Attwater, ‘the whole colony lives about the house, what’s left of it. We are all afraid of devils, if you please! and Taniera and she sleep in the front parlour, and the other boy on the verandah.’

‘She is pretty,’ said Herrick.

‘Too pretty,’ said Attwater. ‘That was why I had her married. A man never knows when he may be inclined to be a fool about women; so when we were left alone, I had the pair of them to the chapel and performed the ceremony. She made a lot of fuss. I do not take at all the romantic view of marriage,’ he explained.

‘And that strikes you as a safeguard?’ asked Herrick with amazement.

‘Certainly. I am a plain man and very literal. WHOM GOD HATH JOINED TOGETHER, are the words, I fancy. So one married them, and respects the marriage,’ said Attwater.

‘Ah!’ said Herrick.

‘You see, I may look to make an excellent marriage when I go home,’ began Attwater, confidentially. ‘I am rich. This safe alone’ — laying his hand upon it — ’will be a moderate fortune, when I have the time to place the pearls upon the market. Here are ten years’ accumulation from a lagoon, where I have had as many as ten divers going all day long; and I went further than people usually do in these waters, for I rotted a lot of shell, and did splendidly. Would you like to see them?’

This confirmation of the captain’s guess hit Herrick hard, and he contained himself with difficulty. ‘No, thank you, I think not,’ said he. ‘I do not care for pearls. I am very indifferent to all these...’

‘Gewgaws?’ suggested Attwater. ‘And yet I believe you ought to cast an eye on my collection, which is really unique, and which — oh! it is the case with all of us and everything about us! — hangs by a hair. Today it groweth up and flourisheth; tomorrow it is cut down and cast into the oven. Today it is here and together in this safe; tomorrow — tonight! — it may be scattered. Thou fool, this night thy soul shall be required of thee.’

‘I do not understand you,’ said Herrick.

‘Not?’ said Attwater.

‘You seem to speak in riddles,’ said Herrick, unsteadily. ‘I do not understand what manner of man you are, nor what you are driving at.’

Attwater stood with his hands upon his hips, and his head bent forward. ‘I am a fatalist,’ he replied, ‘and just now (if you insist on it) an experimentalist. Talking of which, by the bye, who painted out the schooner’s name?’ he said, with mocking softness, ‘because, do you know? one thinks it should be done again. It can still be partly read; and whatever is worth doing, is surely worth doing well. You think with me? That is so nice! Well, shall we step on the verandah? I have a dry sherry that I would like your opinion of.’

Herrick followed him forth to where, under the light of the hanging lamps, the table shone with napery and crystal; followed him as the criminal goes with the hangman, or the sheep with the butcher; took the sherry mechanically, drank it, and spoke mechanical words of praise. The object of his terror had become suddenly inverted; till then he had seen Attwater trussed and gagged, a helpless victim, and had longed to run in and save him; he saw him now tower up mysterious and menacing, the angel of the Lord’s wrath, armed with knowledge and threatening judgment. He set down his glass again, and was surprised to see it empty.

‘You go always armed?’ he said, and the next moment could have plucked his tongue out.

‘Always,’ said Attwater. ‘I have been through a mutiny here; that was one of my incidents of missionary life.’

And just then the sound of voices reached them, and looking forth from the verandah they saw Huish and the captain drawing near.

CHAPTER 9. THE DINNER PARTY

They sat down to an island dinner, remarkable for its variety and excellence; turtle soup and steak, fish, fowls, a sucking pig, a cocoanut salad, and sprouting cocoanut roasted for dessert. Not a tin had been opened; and save for the oil and vinegar in the salad, and some green spears of onion which Attwater cultivated and plucked with his own hand, not even the condiments were European. Sherry, hock, and claret succeeded each other, and the Farallone champagne brought up the rear with the dessert.

It was plain that, like so many of the extremely religious in the days before teetotalism, Attwater had a dash of the epicure. For such characters it is softening to eat well; doubly so to have designed and had prepared an excellent meal for others; and the manners of their host were agreeably mollified in consequence.

A cat of huge growth sat on his shoulders purring, and occasionally, with a deft paw, capturing a morsel in the air. To a cat he might be likened himself, as he lolled at the head of his table, dealing out attentions and innuendoes, and using the velvet and the claw indifferently. And both Huish and the captain fell progressively under the charm of his hospitable freedom.

Over the third guest, the incidents of the dinner may be said to have passed for long unheeded. Herrick accepted all that was offered him, ate and drank without tasting, and heard without comprehension. His mind was singly occupied in contemplating the horror of the circumstances in which he sat. What Attwater knew, what the captain designed, from which side treachery was to be first expected, these were the ground of his thoughts. There were times when he longed to throw down the table and flee into the night. And even that was debarred him; to do anything, to say anything, to move at all, were only to precipitate the barbarous tragedy; and he sat spellbound, eating with white lips. Two of his companions observed him narrowly, Attwater with raking, sidelong glances that did not interrupt his talk, the captain with a heavy and anxious consideration.

‘Well, I must say this sherry is a really prime article,’ said Huish. ‘‘Ow much does it stand you in, if it’s a fair question?’

‘A hundred and twelve shillings in London, and the freight to Valparaiso, and on again,’ said Attwater. ‘It strikes one as really not a bad fluid.’

‘A ‘undred and twelve!’ murmured the clerk, relishing the wine and the figures in a common ecstasy: ‘O my!’

‘So glad you like it,’ said Attwater. ‘Help yourself, Mr Whish, and keep the bottle by you.’

‘My friend’s name is Huish and not Whish, sit,’ said the captain with a flush.

‘I beg your pardon, I am sure. Huish and not Whish, certainly,’ said Attwater. ‘I was about to say that I have still eight dozen,’ he added, fixing the captain with his eye.

‘Eight dozen what?’ said Davis.

‘Sherry,’ was the reply. ‘Eight dozen excellent sherry. Why, it seems almost worth it in itself; to a man fond of wine.’

The ambiguous words struck home to guilty consciences, and Huish and the captain sat up in their places and regarded him with a scare.

‘Worth what?’ said Davis.

‘A hundred and twelve shillings,’ replied Attwater.

The captain breathed hard for a moment. He reached out far and wide to find any coherency in these remarks; then, with a great effort, changed the subject.

‘I allow we are about the first white men upon this island, sir,’ said he.

Attwater followed him at once, and with entire gravity, to the new ground. ‘Myself and Dr Symonds excepted, I should say the only ones,’ he returned. ‘And yet who can tell? In the course of the ages someone may have lived here, and we sometimes think that someone must. The cocoa palms grow all round the island, which is scarce like nature’s planting. We found besides, when we landed, an unmistakable cairn upon the beach; use unknown; but probably erected in the hope of gratifying some mumbo jumbo whose very name is forgotten, by some thick-witted gentry whose very bones are lost. Then the island (witness the Directory) has been twice reported; and since my tenancy, we have had two wrecks, both derelict. The rest is conjecture.’

‘Dr Symonds is your partner, I guess?’ said Davis.

‘A dear fellow, Symonds! How he would regret it, if he knew you had been here!’ said Attwater.

‘‘E’s on the Trinity ‘All, ain’t he?’ asked Huish.

‘And if you could tell me where the Trinity ‘All was, you would confer a favour, Mr Whish!’ was the reply.

‘I suppose she has a native crew?’ said Davis.

‘Since the secret has been kept ten years, one would suppose she had,’ replied Attwater.

‘Well, now, see ‘ere!’ said Huish. ‘You have everything about you in no end style, and no mistake, but I tell you it wouldn’t do for me. Too much of “the old rustic bridge by the mill”; too retired, by ‘alf. Give me the sound of Bow Bells!’

‘You must not think it was always so,’ replied Attwater, ‘This was once a busy shore, although now, hark! you can hear the solitude. I find it stimulating. And talking of the sound of bells, kindly follow a little experiment of mine in silence.’ There was a silver bell at his right hand to call the servants; he made them a sign to stand still, struck the bell with force, and leaned eagerly forward. The note rose clear and strong; it rang out clear and far into the night and over the deserted island; it died into the distance until there only lingered in the porches of the ear a vibration that was sound no longer. ‘Empty houses, empty sea, solitary beaches!’ said Attwater. ‘And yet God hears the bell! And yet we sit in this verandah on a lighted stage with all heaven for spectators! And you call that solitude?’

There followed a bar of silence, during which the captain sat mesmerised.

Then Attwater laughed softly. ‘These are the diversions of a lonely, man,’ he resumed, ‘and possibly not in good taste. One tells oneself these little fairy tales for company. If there SHOULD happen to be anything in folk-lore, Mr Hay? But here comes the claret. One does not offer you Lafitte, captain, because I believe it is all sold to the railroad dining cars in your great country; but this Brine-Mouton is of a good year, and Mr Whish will give me news of it.’

‘That’s a queer idea of yours!’ cried the captain, bursting with a sigh from the spell that had bound him. ‘So you mean to tell me now, that you sit here evenings and ring up... well, ring on the angels... by yourself?’

‘As a matter of historic fact, and since you put it directly, one does not,’ said Attwater. ‘Why ring a bell, when there flows out from oneself and everything about one a far more momentous silence? the least beat of my heart and the least thought in my mind echoing into eternity for ever and for ever and for ever.’

‘O look ‘ere,’ said Huish, ‘turn down the lights at once, and the Band of ‘Ope will oblige! This ain’t a spiritual seance.’

‘No folk-lore about Mr Whish — I beg your pardon, captain: Huish not Whish, of course,’ said Attwater.

As the boy was filling Huish’s glass, the bottle escaped from his hand and was shattered, and the wine spilt on the verandah floor. Instant grimness as of death appeared on the face of Attwater; he smote the bell imperiously, and the two brown natives fell into the attitude of attention and stood mute and trembling. There was just a moment of silence and hard looks; then followed a few savage words in the native; and, upon a gesture of dismissal, the service proceeded as before.

None of the party had as yet observed upon the excellent bearing of the two men. They were dark, undersized, and well set up; stepped softly, waited deftly, brought on the wines and dishes at a look, and their eyes attended studiously on their master.

‘Where do you get your labour from anyway?’ asked Davis.

‘Ah, where not?’ answered Attwater.

‘Not much of a soft job, I suppose?’ said the captain.

‘If you will tell me where getting labour is!’ said Attwater with a shrug. ‘And of course, in our case, as we could name no destination, we had to go far and wide and do the best we could. We have gone as far west as the Kingsmills and as far south as Rapa-iti. Pity Symonds isn’t here! He is full of yarns. That was his part, to collect them. Then began mine, which was the educational.’

‘You mean to run them?’ said Davis.

‘Ay! to run them,’ said Attwater.

‘Wait a bit,’ said Davis, ‘I’m out of my depth. How was this? Do you mean to say you did it single-handed?’

‘One did it single-handed,’ said Attwater, ‘because there was nobody to help one.’

‘By God, but you must be a holy terror!’ cried the captain, in a glow of admiration.

‘One does one’s best,’ said Attwater.

‘Well, now!’ said Davis, ‘I have seen a lot of driving in my time and been counted a good driver myself; I fought my way, third mate, round the Cape Horn with a push of packet rats that would have turned the devil out of hell and shut the door on him; and I tell you, this racket of Mr Attwater’s takes the cake. In a ship, why, there ain’t nothing to it! You’ve got the law with you, that’s what does it. But put me down on this blame’ beach alone, with nothing but a whip and a mouthful of bad words, and ask me to... no, SIR! it’s not good enough! I haven’t got the sand for that!’ cried Davis. ‘It’s the law behind,’ he added; ‘it’s the law does it, every time!’