The Ragged Edge, Harold MacGrath [great books of all time txt] 📗

I can't invent; the thing won't come."

"Shall I tell you a real story?"

"Something you have seen?"

"Yes."

"Tell it. Perhaps what I need is something to bite in."

So she told him the adventure of the two beachcombers in the typhoon, and how they became regenerated by their magnificent courage.

"That's tremendous!" he cried. "Lord, if I can only remember to write it exactly as you told it!" He jumped to his feet. "I'll tackle it to-night!"

"But it's after ten!"

"What's that got to do with it? ... The roofs of the native huts scattering in the wind! ... the absolute agony of the twisting palms!.... and those two beggars laughing as they breasted death! Girl, you've gone and done it!"

He leaned down and caught her by the hand, and then raced with her to the bungalow.

Five hours later she tiptoed down the hall and paused at the threshold of what they now called his study. There were no doors in the bungalow; instead, there were curtains of strung bead and bamboo, always tinkling mysteriously. His pipe hung dead in his teeth, but the smoke was dense about him. His hand flew across the paper. As soon as he finished a sheet, he tossed it aside and began another. Occasionally he would lean back and stare at the window which gave upon the sea. But she could tell by the dullness of his eyes that he saw only some inner vision.

Unobserved, she knelt and kissed the threshold: for she knew what kisses were now. The curtain tinkled as her head brushed it, but he neither saw nor heard.


CHAPTER XXII


Every morning at dawn it was Spurlock's custom to take a plunge in the lagoon. Ruth took hers in the sea, but was careful never to go beyond her depth because of the sharks. She always managed to get back to the bungalow before he did.

As she came in this morning she saw that the lamp was still burning in the study; so she stopped at the door. Spurlock lay with his head on his arms, asleep. The lamp was spreading soot over everything and the reek of kerosene was stronger than usual. She ran to the lamp and extinguished it. Spurlock slept on. It was still too dark for reading, but she could see well enough to note the number of the last page-fifty-six.

Ruth wore a printed cotton kimono. She tied the obi clumsily about her waist, then gently laid her hand on the bowed head. He did not move. Mischief bubbled up in her. She set her fingers in the hair and tugged, drawing him to a sitting posture and stooping so that her eyes would be on the level with his when he awoke.

He opened his eyes, protestingly, and beheld the realization of his dream. He had been dreaming of Ruth-an old recurrency of that dream he had had in Canton, of Ruth leading him to the top of the mountain. For a moment he believed this merely a new phase of the dream. He smiled.

"The Dawn Pearl!" he said, making to recline again.

But she was relentless. "Hoddy, wake up!" She jerked his head to and fro until the hair stung.

"What?... Oh!... Well, good Lord!" He wrenched loose his head and stood up, sending the chair clattering to the floor. Rollo barked.

"Go and take your plunge while I attend to breakfast."

He started to pick up a sheet of manuscript, but she pushed him from the table toward the doorway; and he staggered out of the bungalow, suddenly stretched his arms, and broke into a trot.

Ruth returned to the table. The tropical dawn is swift. She could now see to read; so she stirred the manuscript about until she came upon the first page. "The Beachcombers."

Romance! The Seven Seas are hers. She roves the blue fields of the North, with the clean North Wind on her lips and her blonde head jewelled with frost-mocking valour and hardihood! Out of the West she comes, riding the great ships and the endless steel ways that encompass the earth, and smoke comes with her and the glare of furnace fires-commerce! From the East she brings strange words upon her tongue and strange raiment upon her shoulders and the perfume of myrrh-antiquity! But oh! when she springs from the South, her rosy feet trailing the lotus, ripe lequats wreathing her head, in one hand the bright torch of danger and in the other the golden apples of love, with her eyes full of sapphires and her mouth full of pearls!

"With her eyes full of sapphires and her mouth full of pearls." All day long the phrase interpolated her thoughts.

A week later the manuscript was polished and typewritten, ready for the test. Spurlock felt very well pleased with himself. To have written a short story in a week was rather a remarkable feat.

It was at breakfast on this day that he told Ruth he had sent to Batavia for some dresses. They would arrive sometime in June.

"That gown is getting shabby."

Ruth spread out the ruffled skirt, sundrily torn and soiled. "I haven't worn anything else in weeks. I haven't touched the other."

"Anything like that?"

"Yes; but the colour is lavender."

"Wear that to-night, then. It fits your style. You are very lovely, Ruth."

She wanted to dance. The joy that filled her veins with throbbing fire urged her to rise and go swinging and whirling and dipping. She sat perfectly still, however.

"I am glad you think that," she replied. "Please tell me whenever I am at fault."

"I wish you did have some faults, Ruth. You're an angel of goodness."

"No, no! I have had wicked thoughts."

He laughed and pushed back his chair. "So has the butterfly evil thoughts. We're to be given a treat to-night. McClintock will be tuning up the piano to-day. I say, I'll take the yarn over and read it to McClintock. That old chap has a remarkable range in reading. But, hang it, I know it's good!"

"Of course it is!"

In the afternoon he began work on another tale. It was his purpose to complete four or five stories before he sent any away. But to-day he did not get beyond half a dozen desultory start-offs. From McClintock's came an infernal tinkle-tinkle, tump-tump ! There was no composing with such a sound hammering upon the ear. But eventually Spurlock laughed. Not so bad. Battle, murder, and sudden death-and an old chap like McClintock tuning his piano in the midst of it. He made a note of the idea and stored it away.

He read "The Beachcombers" to McClintock that night after coffee; and when he had done, the old trader nodded.

"That's a good story, lad. You've caught the colour and the life. But it sounds too real to be imagined. You've never seen a typhoon, have you?"

"No."

"Well, imagination beats me!"

"It's something Ruth saw. She told me the tale the other night, and I've only elaborated it."

"Ah, I see." McClintock saw indeed-two things: that the boy had no conceit and that this odd girl would always be giving. "Well, it's a good story."

He offered cigars, and Ruth got up. She always left the table when they began to smoke. Spurlock had not coached her on this line of conduct. Somewhere she had read that it was the proper thing to do and that men liked to be alone with their tobacco. She hated to leave; for this hour would be the most interesting. Both Spurlock and McClintock stood by their chairs until she was gone.

"Yes, sir," said McClintock, as he sat down; "that's South Sea stuff, that yarn of yours. I like the way you shared it. I have read that authors are very selfish and self-centred."

"Oh, Ruth couldn't put it on paper, to be sure; but there was no reason to hide the source."

"Have you told her?"

"Told her? Told her what?" Spurlock sat straight in his chair.

"You know what I mean," said the trader, gravely. "In spots you are a thoroughbred; but here's a black mark on your ticket, lad. My friend the doctor suspected it, and so do I. You are not a tourist seeking adventure. You have all the earmarks of a fugitive from justice."

Spurlock grew limp in his chair. "If you thought that, why did you give me this job?"-his voice faint and thick.

"The doctor and I agreed to give you a chance-for her sake. Without realizing what she has done, she's made a dreadful mess of it. A child-as innocent as a child! Nothing about life; bemused by the fairy stories you writers call novels! I don't know what you have done; I don't care. But you must tell her."

"I can't! I can't-not now!"

"Bat!-can't you see that she's the kind who would understand and forgive? She loves you."

The walls appeared to rock; bulging shadows reached out; the candle flames became mocking eyes; and the blood drummed thunderously in Spurlock's ears. The door to the apocalypse had opened!

"Loves me? . . . Ruth?"

"Why the devil not? Why do you suppose she married you if she didn't love you? While you read I watched her face. It was in her eyes-the big thing that comes but once. But you! Why the devil did
you marry her ? That's the thing that confounds me."

"God help me, what a muddle!" The cigar crumbled in Spurlock's hand.

"All life is a muddle, and we are all muddlers, more or less. It is a matter of degree. Lord, I am sixty. For thirty years I have lived alone; but once upon a time I lived among men. I know life. I sit back now, letting life slip by and musing upon it; and I find my loneliness sweet. I have had my day; and there were women in it. So, when I tell you she loves you, I know. Supposing they find you and take you away?-and she unprepared? Have you thought of that? Why did you marry her?"

"God alone knows!"

"And you don't love her! What kind of a woman do you want, anyhow?"-with rising anger. He saw the tragedy on the boy's face; but he was merciless. "Are you a poltroon, after all?"

"That's it! I ought to have died that night!"

"Or is there a taint of insanity in your family history? Alone and practically penniless like yourself! You weren't even stirred by gratitude. You just married her. Lad, that fuddles me!"

"Did you bring me down here to crucify me?" cried Spurlock, in passionate rebellion.

"No, lad," said McClintock, his tone becoming kindly. "Only, what you have done is out of all human calculation. You did not marry her because you loved her; you did not marry because she might have had money; you did not marry her out of gratitude; you did not marry her because you had to. You just married her! But there she is-'with her eyes full of sapphires and her mouth full of pearls'!" McClintock quoted with gentle irony. "What have you got there in your breast-a stone? Is there blood or water in your veins?"

The dam broke, but not with violence. A vast relief filled Spurlock's heart as he decided to tell this man everything which related to Ruth. This island was the one haven he had; he might be forced to