The Ragged Edge

  CHAPTER XIV

  Ruth lost the point entirely. The doctor expected her to seize uponthe subtle inference that there was something furtive, evencriminal, in the manner the patient set this obligation uponhumanity at large, to look after him in the event of his death. Theidea of anything criminal never entered her thoughts. Any man mighthave endeavoured to protect himself in this fashion, a man with noone to care, with an unnameable terror at the thought (as if itmattered!) of being buried in alien earth, far from the familiarplaces he loved.

  Close upon this came another thought. She had no place she loved.In all this world there was no sacred ground that said to her:Return! She was of all human beings the most lonely. Even now,during the recurring doubts of the future, the thought of theisland was repellent. She hated it, she hated the mission-house;she hated the sleek lagoon, the palms, the burning sky. But someday she would find a place to love: there would be rosy apples onthe boughs, and there would be flurries of snow blowing into herface. It was astonishing how often this picture returned: cold rosyapples and flurries of snow.

  "The poor young man!" she said.

  The doctor sensed that his bolt had gone wrong, but he could nottell how or why. He dared not go on. He was not sure that the boyhad put himself beyond the pale; merely, the boy's actions pointedthat way. If he laid his own suspicions boldly before the girl, andin the end the boy came clean, he would always be haunted by thewitless cruelty of the act.

  That night in his den he smoked many pipes. Twice he cleaned theold briar; still there was no improvement. He poured a pinch oftobacco into his palm and sniffed. The weed was all right. Probablysomething he had eaten. He was always forgetting that his tummy wasfifty-four years old.

  He would certainly welcome McClintock's advent. Mac would have somenew yarns to spin and a fresh turn-over to his celebrated liver. Hewas a comforting, humorous old ruffian; but there were few men inthe Orient more deeply read in psychology and physiognomy. It was,in a way, something of a joke to the doctor: psychology andphysiognomy on an island which white folks did not visit more thanthree or four times a year, only then when they had to. Why did thebeggar hang on down there, when he could have enjoyed all thatcivilization had to offer? Yes, he would be mighty glad to seeMcClintock; and the sooner he came the better.

  Sometimes at sea a skipper will order his men to trim, batten downthe hatches, and clear the deck of all litter. The barometer saysnothing, neither the sky nor the water; the skipper has the "feel"that out yonder there's a big blow moving. Now the doctor had the"feel" that somewhere ahead lay danger. It was below consciousness,elusive; so he sent out a call to his friend, defensively.

  * * * * *

  At the end of each day Ah Cum would inquire as to the progress ofthe patient, and invariably the answer was: "About the same." Thiswent on for ten days. Then Ah Cum was notified that the patient hadsat up in bed for quarter of an hour. Promptly Ah Cum wired theinformation to O'Higgins in Hong-Kong. The detective reckoned thathis quarry would be up in ten days more.

  To Ruth the thought of Hartford no longer projected upon her visiona city of spires and houses and tree-lined streets. Her fancifulimagination no longer drew pictures of the aunt in the doorway of awooden house, her arms extended in welcome. The doctor's lessons,perhaps delivered with too much serious emphasis, had destroyedthat buoyant confidence in her ability to take care of herself.

  Between Canton and Hartford two giants had risen, invisible butmenacing--Fear and Doubt. The unknown, previously so attractive,now presented another face--blank. The doctor had not heard fromhis people. She was reasonably certain why. They did not want her.

  Thus, all her interest in life began to centre upon the patient,who was apparently quite as anchorless as she was. Sometimes awhole morning would pass without Spurlock uttering a word beyondthe request for a drink of water. Again, he would ask a fewquestions, and Ruth would answer them. He would repeat theminnumerable times, and patiently Ruth would repeat her answers.

  "What is your name?"

  "Ruth."

  "Ruth what?"

  "Enschede; Ruth Enschede."

  "En-shad-ay. You are French?"

  "No. Dutch; Pennsylvania Dutch."

  And then his interest would cease. Perhaps an hour later he wouldbegin again.

  At other times he seemed to have regained the normal completely. Hewould discuss something she had been reading, and he would give hersome unexpected angle, setting a fictional character before herwith astonishing clearness. Then suddenly the curtain would fall.

  "What is your name?" To-day, however, he broke the monotony. "AnAmerican. Enschede--that's a queer name."

  "I'm a queer girl," she replied with a smile.

  Perhaps this was the real turning point: the hour in which thedisordered mind began permanently to readjust itself.

  "I've been wondering, until this morning, if you were real."

  "I've been wondering, too."

  "Are you a real nurse?"

  "Yes."

  "Professional?"

  "Why do you wish to know?"

  "Professional nurses wear a sort of uniform."

  "While I look as if I had stepped out of the family album?"

  He frowned perplexedly. "Where did I hear that before?"

  "Perhaps that first day, in the water-clock tower."

  "I imagine I've been in a kind of trance."

  "And now you are back in the world again, with things to do andplaces to go. There is a button loose on that coat under yourpillow. Shall I sew it on for you?"

  "If you wish."

  This readiness to surrender the coat to her surprised Ruth. She hadprepared herself to meet violent protest, a recurrence of thatburning glance. But in a moment she believed she understood. He wasnormal now, and the coat was only a coat. It had been his feveredimagination that had endued the garment with some extraordinaryvalue. Gently she raised his head and withdrew the coat from underthe pillow.

  "Why did I want it under my pillow?" he asked.

  "You were a little out of your head."

  Gravely he watched the needle flash to and fro. He noted the strongwhite teeth as they snipped the thread. At length the task wasdone, and she jabbed the needle into a cushion, folded the coat,and rose.

  "Do you want it back under the pillow?"

  "Hang it over a chair. Or, better still, put all my clothes in thetrunk. They litter up the room. The key is in my trousers."

  This business over, she returned to the bedside with the key. Shefelt a little ashamed of herself, a bit of a hypocrite. Everyarticle in the trunk was fully known to her, through a recountingof the list by the doctor. To hand the key back in silence was likeoffering a lie.

  "Put it under my pillow," he said.

  Immediately she had spoken of the loose button he knew thathenceforth he must show no concern over the disposition of thatcoat. He must not in any way call their attention to it. He mustpreserve it, however, as they preserved the Ark of the Covenant. Itwas his redemption, his ticket out of hell--that blue-serge coat.To witness this girl sewing on a loose button, flopping the coatabout on her knees, tickled his ironic sense of humour; andlaughter bubbled into his throat. He smothered it down with such agood will that the reaction set his heart to pounding. The wallsrocked, the footrail of the bed wavered, and the girl's head hadthe nebulosity of a composite photograph. So he shut his eyes.Presently he heard her voice.

  "I must tell you," she was saying. "We went through yourbelongings. We did not know where to send ... in case you died.There was nothing in the pockets of the coat."

  "Don't worry about that." He opened his eyes again.

  "I wanted you to know. There is nobody, then?"

  "Oh, there is an aunt. But if I were dying of thirst, in a desert,I would not accept a cup of water at her hands. Will you read tome? I am tired; and the sound of your voice makes me drowsy."

  Half an hour later she laid aside the book. He was asleep. Sheleaned forward, her chin
in her palms, her elbows on her knees, andshe set her gaze upon his face and kept it there in dreamycontemplation. Supposing he too wanted love and his arms were asempty as hers?

  Some living thing that depended upon her. The doll she had neverowned, the cat and the dog that had never been hers: here theywere, strangely incorporated in this sleeping man. He depended uponher, for his medicine, for his drink, for the little amusement itwas now permissible to give him. The knowledge breathed into herheart a satisfying warmth.

  At noon the doctor himself arrived. "Go to lunch," he ordered Ruth.He wanted to talk with the patient, test him variously; and hewanted to be alone with him while he put these tests. His idea wasto get behind this sustained listlessness. "How goes it?" he began,heartily. "A bit up in the world again; eh?"

  "Why did you bother with me?"

  "Because no human being has the right to die. Death belongs to God,young man."

  "Ah." The tone was neutral.

  "And had you been the worst scoundrel unhung, I'd have seen to itthat you had the same care, the same chance. But don't thank me;thank Miss Enschede. She caught the fact that it was something morethan strong drink that laid you out. If they hadn't sent for me,you'd have pegged out before morning."

  "Then I owe my life to her?"

  "Positively."

  "What do you want me to do?"

  The doctor thought this query gave hopeful promise. "Alwaysremember the fact. She is something different. When I told her thatthere were no available nurses this side of Hong-Kong, she offeredher services at once, and broke her journey. And I need not tellyou that her hotel bill is running on the same as yours."

  "Do you want me to tell her that I am grateful?"

  "Well, aren't you?"

  "I don't know; I really don't know."

  "Look here, my boy, that attitude is all damned nonsense. Here youare, young, sound, with a heart that will recover in no time,provided you keep liquor out of it. And you talk like that! Whatthe devil have you been up to, to land in this bog?" It was a castat random.

  His guardian angel warned Spurlock to speak carefully. "I have beenvery unhappy."

  "So have we all. But we get over it. And you will."

  After a moment Spurlock said: "Perhaps I am an ungrateful dog."

  "That's better. Remember, if there's anything you'd like to get offyour chest, doctors and priests are in the same boat."

  With no little effort--for the right words had a way of tumblingback out of reach--he marshalled his phrases, and as he utteredthem, closed his eyes to lessen the possibility of a break. "I'monly a benighted fool; and having said that, I have saideverything. I'm one of those unfortunate duffers who have too muchimagination--the kind who build their own chimeras and then runaway from them. How long shall I be kept in this bed?"

  "That's particularly up to you. Ten days should see you on yourfeet. But if you don't want to get up, maybe three times ten days."

  There had never been, from that fatal hour eight months gone downto this, the inclination to confess. He had often read about it,and once he had incorporated it in a story, that invisible forcewhich sent men to prison and to the gallows, when a tonguecontrolled would have meant liberty indefinite. As for himself,there had never been a touch of it. It was less will thaneducation. Even in his fevered hours, so the girl had said, histongue had not betrayed him. Perhaps that sealed letter was a formof confession, and thus relieved him on that score. And yet thatcould not be: it was a confession only in the event of his death.Living, he knew that he would never send that letter.

  His conscience, however, was entirely another affair. He couldneither stifle nor deaden that. It was always jabbing him withwhite-hot barbs, waking or sleeping. But it never said: "Tellsomeone! Tell someone!" Was he something of a moral pervert, then?Was it what he had lost--the familiar world--rather than what hehad done?

  He stared dully at the footrail. For the present the desire to flywas gone. No doubt that was due to his helplessness. When he was upand about, the idea of flight would return. But how far could hefly on a few hundred? True, he might find a job somewhere; butevery footstep from behind...!

  "Who is she? Where does she come from?"

  "You mean Miss Enschede?"

  "Yes. That dress she has on--my mother might have worn it."

  He was beginning to notice things, then? The doctor was pleased.The boy was coming around.

  "Miss Enschede was born on an island in the South Seas. She issetting out for Hartford, Connecticut. The dress was her mother's,and she was wearing it to save a little extra money."

  The doctor had entered the room fully determined to tell thepatient the major part of Ruth's story, to inspire him with properrespect and gratitude. Instead, he could not get beyond these minordetails--why she wore the dress, whence she had come, and whithershe was bound. The idea of this sudden reluctance was elusive; thefact was evident but not the reason for it.

  "How would you like a job on a copra plantation?" he asked,irrelevantly to the thoughts crowding one another in his mind. "Outof the beaten track, with a real man for an employer? How wouldthat strike you?"

  Interest shot into Spurlock's eyes; it spread to his wan face. Outof the beaten track! He must not appear too eager. "I'll need a jobwhen I quit this bed. I'm not particular what or where."

  "That kind of talk makes you sound like a white man. Of course, Ican't promise you the job definitely. But I've an old friend on theway here, and he knows the game down there. If he hasn't a job foryou, he'll know someone who has. Managers and accountants arealways shifting about, so he tells me. It's mighty lonesome downthere for a man bred to cities."

  "Find me the job. I don't care how lonesome it is."

  Out of the beaten track! thought Spurlock. A forgotten islandbeyond the ship lanes, where that grim Hand would falter and moveblindly in its search for him! From what he had read, therewouldn't be much to do; and in the idle hours he could write.

  "Thanks," he said, holding out a thin white hand. "I'll be veryglad to take that kind of a job, if you can find it."

  "Well, that's fine. Got you interested in something, then? Wouldyou like a peg?"

  "No. I hated the stuff. There was a pleasant numbness in thebottle; that's why I went to it."

  "Thought so. But I had to know for sure. Down there, whisky raisesthe very devil with white men. Don't build your hopes too high; butI will do what I can. While there's life there's hope. Buck up."

  "I'm afraid I don't understand."

  "Understand what?"

  "You or this girl. There are, then, in this sorry world, people whocan be disinterestedly kind!"

  The doctor laughed, gave Spurlock's shoulder a pat, and left theroom. Outside the door he turned and stared at the panels. Whyhadn't he gone on with the girl's story? What instinct had stuffedit back into his throat? Why the inexplicable impulse to hurry thisrather pathetic derelict on his way?