‘What the devil are you up to, Mac?’
He started. Walker was standing in the doorway and instinctively he turned round to hide what lay upon his desk.
‘Tidying up?’ quizzed Walker. ‘I’ve told ’em to put the grey in the trap. I’m going down to Tafoni to bathe. You’d better come along.’
‘All right,’ said Mackintosh.
So long as he was with Walker nothing could happen. The place they were bound for was about three miles away, and there was a fresh–water pool, separated by a thin barrier of rock from the sea, which the administrator had blasted out for the natives to bathe in. He had done this at spots round the island, wherever there was a spring; and the fresh water, compared with the sticky warmth of the sea, was cool and invigorating. They drove along the silent grassy road, splashing now and then through fords, where the sea had forced its way in, past a couple of native villages, the bell–shaped huts spaced out roomily and the white chapel in the middle, and at the third village they got out of the trap, tied up the horse, and walked down to the pool. They were accompanied by four or five girls and a dozen children. Soon they were all splashing about, snouting and laughing, while Walker, in a lava–lava, swam to and fro like an unwieldy porpoise. He made lewd jokes with the girls, and they amused themselves by diving under him and wriggling away when he tried to catch them. When he was tired he lay down on a rock, while the girls and the children surrounded him; it was a happy family; and the old man, huge, with his crescent of white hair and his shining bald crown, looked like some old sea god. Once Mackintosh caught a queer soft look in his eyes.
‘They’re dear children,’ he said. ‘They look upon me as their father.’
And then without a pause he turned to one of the girls and made an obscene remark which sent them all into fits of laughter. Mackintosh started to dress. With his thin legs and thin arms he made a grotesque figure, a sinister Don Quixote, and Walker began to make coarse jokes about him. They were acknowledged with little smothered laughs. Mackintosh struggled with his shirt. He knew he looked absurd, but he hated being laughed at. He stood silent and glowering.
‘If you want to get back in time for dinner you ought to come soon.’
‘You’re not a bad fellow, Mac. Only you’re a fool. When you’re doing one thing you always want to do another. That’s not the way we live.’
But all the same he raised himself slowly to his feet and began to put on his clothes. They sauntered back to the village, drank a bowl of kava with the chief, and then, after a joyful farewell from all the lazy villagers, drove home.
After dinner, according to his habit, Walker, lighting his cigar, prepared to go for a stroll. Mackintosh was suddenly seized with fear.
‘Don’t you think it’s rather unwise to go out at night by yourself just now?’
Walker stared at him with his round blue eyes.
‘What the devil do you mean?’
‘Remember the knife the other night. You’ve got those fellows’ backs up.’
‘Pooh! They wouldn’t dare.’
‘Someone dared before.’
‘That was only a bluff. They wouldn’t hurt me. They look upon me as a father. They know that whatever I do is for their own good.’
Mackintosh watched him with contempt in his heart. The man’s self–complacency outraged him, and yet something, he knew not what, made him insist.
‘Remember what happened this morning. It wouldn’t hurt you to stay at home just tonight. I’ll play piquet with you.’
‘I’ll play piquet with you when I come back. The Kanaka isn’t born yet who can make me alter my plans.’
‘You’d better let me come with you.’
‘You stay where you are.’
Mackintosh shrugged his shoulders. He had given the man full warning. If he did not heed it that was his own lookout. Walker put on his hat and went out. Mackintosh began to read; but then he thought of something; perhaps it would be as well to have his own whereabouts quite clear. He crossed over to the kitchen and, inventing some pretext, talked for a few minutes with the cook. Then he got out the gramophone and put a record on it, but while it ground out its melancholy tune, some comic song of a London music–hall, his ear was strained for a sound away there in the night. At his elbow the record reeled out its loudness, the words were raucous, but notwithstanding he seemed to be surrounded by an unearthly silence. He heard the dull roar of the breakers against the reef. He heard the breeze sigh, far up, in the leaves of the coconut trees. How long would it be? It was awful.
He heard a hoarse laugh.
‘Wonders will never cease. It’s not often you play yourself a tune, Mac’
Walker stood at the window, red–faced, bluff and jovial.
‘Well, you see I’m alive and kicking. What were you playing for?’
Walker came in.
‘Nerves a bit dicky, eh? Playing a tune to keep your pecker up?’
‘I was playing your requiem.’
‘What the devil’s that?’
‘‘Alf o’ bitter an’ a pint of stout.’
‘A rattling good song too. I don’t mind how often I hear it. Now I’m ready to take your money off you at piquet.’
They played and Walker bullied his way to victory, bluffing his opponent, chaffing him, jeering at his mistakes, up to every dodge, browbeating him, exulting. Presently Mackintosh recovered his coolness, and standing outside himself, as it were, he was able to take a detached pleasure in watching the overbearing old man and in his own cold reserve. Somewhere Manuma sat quietly and awaited his opportunity.
Walker won game after game and pocketed his winnings at the end of the evening in high good–humour.
‘You’ll have to grow a little bit older before you stand much chance against me, Mac. The fact is I have a natural gift for cards.’
‘I don’t know that there’s much gift about it when I happen to deal you fourteen aces.’
‘Good cards come to good players,’ retorted Walker. ‘I’d have won if I’d had your hands.’
He went on to tell long stories of the various occasions on which he had played cards with notorious sharpers and to their consternation had taken all their money from them. He boasted. He praised himself. And Mackintosh listened with absorption. He wanted now to feed his hatred; and everything Walker said, every gesture, made him more detestable. At last Walker got up.
‘Well, I’m going to turn in,’ he said with a loud yawn. ‘I’ve got a long day tomorrow.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘I’m driving over to the other side of the island. I’ll start at five, but I don’t expect I shall get back to dinner till late.’
They generally dined at seven.
‘We’d better make it half past seven then.’
‘I guess it would be as well.’
Mackintosh watched him knock the ashes out of his pipe. His vitality was rude and exuberant. It was strange to think that death hung over him. A faint smile flickered in Mackintosh’s cold, gloomy eyes.
‘Would you like me to come with you?’
‘What in God’s name should I want that for? I’m using the mare and she’ll have enough to do to carry me; she don’t want to drag you over thirty miles of road.’
‘Perhaps you don’t quite realize what the feeling is at Matautu. I think it would be safer if I came with you.’
Walker burst out into contemptuous laughter.
‘You’d be a fine lot of use in a scrap. I’m not a great hand at getting the wind up.’
Now the smile passed from Mackintosh’s eyes to his lips. It distorted them painfully.
‘Quem deus vult perdere prius dementat.’
‘What the hell is that?’ said Walker.
‘Latin,’ answered Mackintosh as he went out.
And now he chuckled. His mood had changed. He had done all he could and the matter was in the hands of fate. He slept more soundly than he had done for weeks. When he awoke next morning he went out. After a
good night he found a pleasant exhilaration in the freshness of the early air. The sea was a more vivid blue, the sky more brilliant, than on most days, the trade wind was fresh, and there was a ripple on the lagoon as the breeze brushed over it like velvet brushed the wrong way. He felt himself stronger and younger. He entered upon the day’s work with zest. After luncheon he slept again, and as evening drew on he had the bay saddled and sauntered through the bush. He seemed to see it all with new eyes. He felt more normal. The extraordinary thing was that he was able to put Walker out of his mind altogether. So far as he was concerned he might never have existed.
He returned late, hot after his ride, and bathed again. Then he sat on the veranda, smoking his pipe, and looked at the day declining over the lagoon. In the sunset the lagoon, rosy and purple and green, was very beautiful. He felt at peace with the world and with himself. When the cook came out to say that dinner was ready and to ask whether he should wait, Mackintosh smiled at him with friendly eyes. He looked at his watch.
‘It’s half past seven. Better not wait. One can’t tell when the boss’ll be back.’
The boy nodded, and in a moment Mackintosh saw him carry across the yard a bowl of steaming soup. He got up lazily, went into the dining–room, and ate his dinner. Had it happened? The uncertainty was amusing and Mackintosh chuckled in the silence. The food did not seem so monotonous as usual, and even though there was Hamburger steak, the cook’s invariable dish when his poor invention failed him, it tasted by some miracle succulent and spiced. After dinner he strolled over lazily to his bungalow to get a book. He liked the intense stillness, and now that the night had fallen the stars were blazing in the sky. He shouted for a lamp and in a moment the Chink pattered over on his bare feet, piercing the darkness with a ray of light. He put the lamp on the desk and noiselessly slipped out of the room. Mackintosh stood rooted to the floor, for there, half hidden by untidy papers, was his revolver. His heart throbbed painfully, and he broke into a sweat. It was done then.
He took up the revolver with a shaking hand. Four of the chambers were empty. He paused a moment and looked suspiciously out into the night, but there was no one there. He quickly slipped four cartridges into the empty chambers and locked the revolver in his drawer.
He sat down to wait.
An hour passed, a second hour passed. There was nothing. He sat at his desk as though he were writing, but he neither wrote nor read. He merely listened. He strained his ears for a sound travelling from a far distance. At last he heard hesitating footsteps and knew it was the Chinese cook.
‘Ah–Sung,’ he called.
The boy came to the door.
‘Boss velly late,’ he said. ‘Dinner no good.’
Mackintosh stared at him, wondering whether he knew what had happened, and whether, when he knew, he would realize on what terms he and Walker had been. He went about his work, sleek, silent, and smiling, and who could tell his thoughts?
‘I expect he’s had dinner on the way, but you must keep the soup hot at all events.’
The words were hardly out of his mouth when the silence was suddenly broken into by a confusion, cries, and a rapid patter of naked feet. A number of natives ran into the compound, men and women and children; they crowded round Mackintosh and they all talked at once. They were unintelligible. They were excited and frightened and some of them were crying. Mackintosh pushed his way through them and went to the gateway. Though he had scarcely understood what they said he knew quite well what had happened. And as he reached the gate the dog–cart arrived. The old mare was being led by a tall Kanaka, and in the dog–cart crouched two men, trying to hold Walker up. A little crowd of natives surrounded it.
The mare was led into the yard and the natives surged in after it. Mackintosh shouted to them to stand back and the two policemen, appearing suddenly from God knows where, pushed them violently aside. By now he had managed to understand that some lads, who had been fishing, on their way back to their village had come across the cart on the home side of the ford. The mare was nuzzling about the herbage and in the darkness they could just see the great white bulk of the old man sunk between the seat and the dashboard. At first they thought he was drunk and they peered in, grinning, but then they heard him groan, and guessed that something was amiss. They ran to the village and called for help. It was when they returned, accompanied by half a hundred people, that they discovered Walker had been shot.
With a sudden thrill of horror Mackintosh asked himself whether he was already dead. The first thing at all events was to get him out of the cart, and that, owing to Walker’s corpulence, was a difficult job. It took four strong men to lift him. They jolted him and he uttered a dull groan. He was still alive. At last they carried him into the house, up the stairs, and placed him on his bed. Then Mackintosh was able to see him, for in the yard, lit only by half a dozen hurricane lamps, everything had been obscured. Walker’s white ducks were stained with blood, and the men who had carried him wiped their hands, red and sticky, on their lava–lavas. Mackintosh held up the lamp. He had not expected the old man to be so pale. His eyes were closed. He was breathing still, his pulse could be just felt but it was obvious that he was dying. Mackintosh had not bargained for the shock of horror that convulsed him. He saw that the native clerk was there, and in a voice hoarse with fear told him to go into the dispensary and get what was necessary for a hypodermic injection. One of the policemen had brought up the whisky, and Mackintosh forced a little into the old man’s mouth. The room was crowded with natives. They sat about the floor, speechless now and terrified, and every now and then one wailed aloud. It was very hot, but Mackintosh felt cold, his hands and his feet were like ice, and he had to make a violent effort not to tremble in all his limbs. He did not know what to do. He did not know if Walker was bleeding still, and if he was, how he could stop the bleeding.
The clerk brought the hypodermic needle.
‘You give it to him,’ said Mackintosh. ‘You’re more used to that sort of thing than I am.’
His head ached horribly. It felt as though all sorts of little savage things were beating inside it, trying to get out. They watched for the effect of the injection. Presently Walker opened his eyes slowly. He did not seem to know where he was.
‘Keep quiet,’ said Mackintosh. ‘You’re at home. You’re quite safe.’
Walker’s lips outlined a shadowy smile.
‘They’ve got me,’ he whispered.
‘I’ll get Jervis to send his motor–boat to Apia at once. We’ll get a doctor out by tomorrow afternoon.’
There was a long pause before the old man answered.
‘I shall be dead by then.’
A ghastly expression passed over Mackintosh’s pale face. He forced himself to laugh.
‘What rot! You keep quiet and you’ll be as right as rain.’
‘Give me a drink,’ said Walker. ‘A stiff one.’
With shaking hand Mackintosh poured out whisky and water, half and half, and held the glass while Walker drank greedily. It seemed to restore him. He gave a long sigh and a little colour came into his great fleshy face. Mackintosh felt extraordinarily helpless. He stood and stared at the old man. ‘If you’ll tell me what to do I’ll do it,’ he said.
‘There’s nothing to do. Just leave me alone. I’m done for.’
He looked dreadfully pitiful as he lay on the great bed, a huge, bloated, old man; but so wan, so weak, it was heart–rending. As he rested, his mind seemed to grow clearer.
‘You were right, Mac,’ he said presently. ‘You warned me.’
‘I wish to God I’d come with you.’
‘You’re a good chap, Mac, only you don’t drink.’
There was another long silence, and it was clear that Walker was sinking. There was an internal haemorrhage and even Mackintosh in his ignorance could not fail to see that his chief had but an hour or two to live. He stood by the side of the bed stock–still. For half an hour perhaps Walker lay with his eyes closed, then he opened them.
‘They’ll give you my job,’ he said, slowly. ‘Last time I was in Apia I told them you were all right. Finish my road. I want to think that’ll be done. All round the island.’
‘I don’t want your job. You’ll get all right.’
Walker shook his head wearily.
‘I’ve had my day. Treat them fairly, that’s the great thing. They’re children. You must always remember that. You must be firm with them, but you must be kind. And you must be just. I’ve never made a bob out of them. I haven’t saved a hundred pounds in twenty years. The road’s the great thing. Get the road finished.’
Something very like a sob was wrung from Mackintosh.
‘You’re a good fellow, Mac. I always liked you.’
He closed his eyes, and Mackintosh thought that he would never open them again. His mouth was so dry that he had to get himself something to drink. The Chinese cook silently put a chair for him. He sat down by the side of the bed and waited. He did not know how long a time passed. The night was endless. Suddenly one of the men sitting there broke into uncontrollable sobbing, loudly, like a child, and Mackintosh grew aware that the room was crowded by this time with natives. They sat all over the floor on their haunches, men and women, staring at the bed.
‘What are all these people doing here?’ said Mackintosh. ‘They’ve got no right. Turn them out, turn them out, all of them.’
His words seemed to rouse Walker, for he opened his eyes once more, and now they were all misty. He wanted to speak, but he was so weak that Mackintosh had to strain his ears to catch what he said.
‘Let them stay. They’re my children. They ought to be here.’
Mackintosh turned to the natives.
‘Stay where you are. He wants you. But be silent.’
A faint smile came over the old man’s white face.
‘Come nearer,’ he said.
Mackintosh bent over him. His eyes were closed and the words he said were like a wind sighing through the fronds of the coconut trees.
Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated) Page 304
