“You can’t blame him for that,” said the Resident.
“Of course I did everything I possibly could for him, sir, but the fact is, there wasn’t anything much I could do.”
“Well, the great thing is that you both escaped. It would have been very awkward for all of us if he’d been drowned.”
“I thought I’d better come and tell you the facts before you saw Campion, sir. I fancy he’s inclined to talk rather wildly about it. There’s no use exaggerating.”
“On the whole your stories agree pretty well,” said Willis, with a little smile.
Izzart looked at him blankly.
“Haven’t you seen Campion this morning? I heard from Goring that there’d been some trouble, and I looked in last night on my way home from the Fort after dinner. You’d already gone to bed.”
Izzart felt himself trembling, and he made a great effort to preserve his composure.
“By the way, you got away first, didn’t you?”
“I don’t really know, sir. You see, there was a lot of confusion.”
“You must have if you got over to the other side before he did.”
“I suppose I did then.”
“Well, thanks for coming to tell me,” said Willis, rising from his chair.
As he did so he knocked some books on the floor. They fell with a sudden thud. The unexpected sound made Izzart start violently, and he gave a gasp. The Resident looked at him quickly.
“I say, your nerves are in a pretty state.”
Izzart could not control his trembling.
“I’m very sorry, sir,” he murmured.
“I expect it’s been a shock. You’d better take it easy for a few days. Why don’t you get the doctor to give you something?”
“I didn’t sleep very well last night.”
The Resident nodded as though he understood. Izzart left the room, and as he passed out some man he knew stopped and congratulated him on his escape. They all knew of it. He walked back to the rest-house. And as he walked, he repeated to himself the story he had told the Resident. Was it really the same story that Campion had told? He had never suspected that the Resident had already heard it from Campion. What a fool he had been to go to bed! He should never have let Campion out of his sight. Why had the Resident listened without telling him that he already knew? Now Izzart cursed himself for having suggested that Campion was drunk and had lost his head. He had said this in order to discredit him, but he knew now that it was a stupid thing to do. And why had Willis said that about his having got away first? Perhaps he was holding his hand too; perhaps he was going to make inquiries; Willis was very shrewd. But what exactly had Campion said? He must know that; at whatever cost he must know. Izzart’s mind was seething, so that he felt he could hardly keep a hold on his thoughts, but he must keep calm. He felt like a hunted animal. He did not believe that Willis liked him; once or twice in the office he had blamed him because he was careless; perhaps he was just waiting till he got all the facts. Izzart was almost hysterical.
He entered the rest-house and there, sitting on a long chair, with his legs stretched out, was Campion. He was reading the papers which had arrived during their absence in the jungle. Izzart felt a blind rush of hatred well up in him as he looked at the little, shabby man who held him in the hollow of his hand.
“Hullo,” said Campion, looking up. “Where have you been?”
To Izzart it seemed that there was in his eyes a mocking irony. He clenched his hands, and his breath came fast.
“What have you been saying to Willis about me?” he asked abruptly.
The tone in which he put the unexpected question was so harsh that Campion gave him a glance of faint surprise.
“I don’t think I’ve been saying anything very much about you. Why?”
“He came here last night.”
Izzart looked at him intently. His brows were drawn together in an angry frown as he tried to read Campion’s thoughts.
“I told him you’d gone to bed with a headache. He wanted to know about our mishap.”
“I’ve just seen him.”
Izzart walked up and down the large and shaded room; now, though it was still early, the sun was hot and dazzling. He felt himself in a net. He was blind with rage; he could have seized Campion by the throat and strangled him, and yet, because he did not know what he had to fight against, he felt himself powerless. He was tired and ill, and his nerves were shaken. On a sudden the anger which had given him a sort of strength left him, and he was filled with despondency. It was as though water and not blood ran through his veins; his heart sank and his knees seemed to give way. He felt that if he did not take care, he would begin to cry. He was dreadfully sorry for himself.
“Damn you, I wish to God I’d never set eyes on you,” he cried pitifully.
“What on earth’s the matter?” asked Campion, with astonishment.
“Oh, don’t pretend. We’ve been pretending for two days, and I’m fed up with it.” His voice rose shrilly, it sounded odd in that robust and powerful man. “I’m fed up with it. I cut and run. I left you to drown. I know I behaved like a skunk. I couldn’t help it.”
Campion rose slowly from his chair.
“What are you talking about?”
His tone was so genuinely surprised that it gave Izzart a start. A cold shiver ran down his spine.
“When you called for help I was panic-stricken. I just caught hold of an oar and got Hassan to help me get away.”
“That was the most sensible thing you could do.”
“I couldn’t help you. There wasn’t a thing I could do.”
“Of course not. It was damned silly of me to shout. It was waste of breath, and breath was the very thing I wanted.”
“Do you mean to say you didn’t know?”
“When those fellows got me the mattress, I thought you were still clinging to the boat. I had an idea that I got away before you did.”
Izzart put both his hands to his head, and gave a hoarse cry of despair. “My God, what a fool I’ve been.”
The two men stood for a while staring at one another. The silence seemed endless.
“What are you going to do now?” asked Izzart at last.
“Oh, my dear fellow, don’t worry. I’ve been frightened too often myself to blame anyone who shows the white feather. I’m not going to tell a soul.”
“Yes, but you know.”
“I promise you, you can trust me. Besides, my job’s done here and I’m going home. I want to catch the next boat to Singapore.” There was a pause, and Campion looked for a while reflectively at Izzart. “There’s only one thing I’d like to ask you: I’ve made a good many friends here, and there are one or two things I’m a little sensitive about; when you tell the story of our upset, I should be grateful if you wouldn’t make out that I had behaved badly. I wouldn’t like the fellows here to think that I’d lost my nerve.”
Izzart flushed darkly. He remembered what he had said to the Resident. It almost looked as though Campion had been listening over his shoulder. He cleared his throat.
“I don’t know why you think I should do that.”
Campion chuckled good-naturedly, and his blue eyes were gay with amusement.
“The yellow streak,” he replied, and then, with a grin that showed his broken and discoloured teeth: “Have a cheroot, dear boy.”
P. & O.
MRS HAMLYN lay on her long chair and lazily watched the passengers come along the gangway. The ship had reached Singapore in the night, and since dawn had been taking on cargo; the winches had been grinding away all day, but by now her ears were accustomed to their insistent clamour. She had lunched at the Europe, and for lack of anything better to do had driven in a rickshaw through the gay, multitudinous streets of the city. Singapore is the meeting-place of many races. The Malays, though natives of the soil, dwell uneasily in towns, and are few; and it is the Chinese, supple, alert, and industrious, who throng the streets; the dark-skinned Tamils walk on their si
lent, naked feet, as though they were but brief sojourners in a strange land, but the Bengalis, sleek and prosperous, are easy in their surroundings, and self-assured; the sly and obsequious Japanese seem busy with pressing and secret affairs; and the English in their topees and white ducks, speeding past in motorcars or at leisure in their rickshaws, wear a nonchalant and careless air. The rulers of these teeming peoples take their authority with a smiling unconcern. And now, tired and hot, Mrs Hamlyn waited for the ship to set out again on her long journey across the Indian Ocean.
She waved a rather large hand, for she was a big woman, to the doctor and Mrs Linsell as they came on board. She had been on the ship since she left Yokohama, and had watched with acid amusement the intimacy which had sprung up between the two. Linsell was a naval officer who had been attached to the British Embassy at Tokio, and she had wondered at the indifference with which he took the attentions that the doctor paid his wife. Two men came along the gangway, new passengers, and she amused herself by trying to discover from their demeanour whether they were single or married. Close by, a group of men were sitting together on rattan chairs, planters she judged by their khaki suits and wide-brimmed double felt hats, and they kept the deck-steward busy with their orders. They were talking loudly and laughing, for they had all drunk enough to make them somewhat foolishly hilarious, and they were evidently giving one of their number a send-off; but Mrs Hamlyn could not tell which it was that was to be a fellow-passenger. The time was growing short. More passengers arrived, and then Mr Jephson with dignity strolled up the gangway. He was a consul and was going home on leave. He had joined the ship at Shanghai and had immediately set about making himself agreeable to Mrs Hamlyn. But just then she was disinclined for anything in the nature of a flirtation. She frowned as she thought of the reason which was taking her back to England. She would be spending Christmas at sea, far from anyone who cared two straws about her, and for a moment she felt a little twist of her heartstrings; it vexed her that a subject which she was so resolute to put away from her should so constantly intrude on her unwilling mind.
But a warning bell clanged loudly, and there was a general movement among the men who sat beside her.
“Well, if we don’t want to be taken on we’d better be toddling,” said one of them.
They rose and walked towards the gangway. Now that they were all shaking hands she saw who it was that they had come to see the last of. There was nothing very interesting about the man on whom Mrs Hamlyn’s eyes rested, but because she had nothing better to do she gave him more than a casual glance. He was a big fellow, well over six feet high, broad and stout; he was dressed in a bedraggled suit of khaki drill and his hat was battered and shabby. His friends left him, but they bandied chaff from the quay, and Mrs Hamlyn noticed that he had a strong Irish brogue; his voice was full, loud, and hearty.
Mrs Linsell had gone below and the doctor came and sat down beside Mrs Hamlyn. They told one another their small adventures of the day. The bell sounded again and presently the ship slid away from the wharf. The Irishman waved a last farewell to his friends, and then sauntered towards the chair on which he had left papers and magazines. He nodded to the doctor.
“Is that someone you know?” asked Mrs Hamlyn.
“I was introduced to him at the club before tiffin. His name is Gallagher. He’s a planter.”
After the hubbub of the port and the noisy bustle of departure, the silence of the ship was marked and grateful. They steamed slowly past green-clad, rocky cliffs (the P. & O. anchorage was in a charming and secluded cove), and came out into the main harbour. Ships of all nations lay at anchor, a great multitude, passenger boats, tugs, lighters, tramps; and beyond, behind the breakwater, you saw the crowded masts, a bare straight forest, of the native junks. In the soft light of the evening the busy scene was strangely touched with mystery, and you felt that all those vessels, their activity for the moment suspended, waited for some event of a peculiar significance.
Mrs Hamlyn was a bad sleeper and when the dawn broke she was in the habit of going on deck. It rested her troubled heart to watch the last faint stars fade before the encroaching day, and at that early hour the sea had often an immobility which seemed to make all earthly sorrows of little consequence. The light was wan, and there was a pleasant shiver in the air. But next morning, when she went to the end of the promenade deck, she found that someone was up before her. It was Mr Gallagher. He was watching the low coast of Sumatra which the sunrise like a magician seemed to call forth from the dark sea. She was startled and a little vexed, but before she could turn away he had seen her and nodded.
“Up early,” he said. “Have a cigarette?”
He was in pyjamas and slippers. He took his case from his coat pocket and handed it to her. She hesitated. She had on nothing but a dressing gown and a little lace cap which she had put over her tousled hair, and she knew that she must look a sight; but she had her reasons for scourging her soul.
“I suppose a woman of forty has no right to mind how she looks,” she smiled, as though he must know what vain thoughts occupied her. She took the cigarette. “But you’re up early too.”
“I’m a planter. I’ve had to get up at five in the morning for so many years that I don’t know how I’m going to get out of the habit.”
“You’ll not find it will make you very popular at home.”
She saw his face better now that it was not shadowed by a hat. It was agreeable without being handsome. He was of course much too fat, and his features, which must have been good enough when he was a young man, were thickened. His skin was red and bloated. But his dark eyes were merry; and though he could not have been less than five and forty his hair was black and thick. He gave you the impression of great strength. He was a heavy, ungraceful, commonplace man, and Mrs Hamlyn, except for the promiscuity of ship-board, would never have thought it worth while to talk to him.
“Are you going home on leave?” she hazarded.
“No, I’m going home for good.”
His black eyes twinkled. He was of a communicative turn, and before it was time for Mrs Hamlyn to go below in order to have her bath he had told her a good deal about himself. He had been in the Federated Malay States for twenty-five years, and for the last ten had managed an estate in Selatan. It was a hundred miles from anything that could be described as civilization and the life had been lonely; but he had made money; during the rubber boom he had done very well, and with an astuteness which was unexpected in a man who looked so happy-go-lucky he had invested his savings in government stock. Now that the slump had come he was prepared to retire.
“What part of Ireland do you come from?” asked Mrs Hamlyn.
“Galway.”
Mrs Hamlyn had once motored through Ireland and she had a vague recollection of a sad and moody town with great stone warehouses, deserted and crumbling, which faced the melancholy sea. She had a sensation of greenness and of soft rain, of silence and of resignation. Was it here that Mr Gallagher meant to spend the rest of his life? He spoke of it with boyish eagerness. The thought of his vitality in that grey world of shadows was so incongruous that Mrs Hamlyn was intrigued.
“Does your family live there?” she asked.
“I’ve got no family. My mother and father are dead. So far as I know I haven’t a relation in the world.”
He had made all his plans, he had been making them for twenty-five years, and he was pleased to have someone to talk to of all these things that he had been obliged for so long only to talk to himself about. He meant to buy a house and he would keep a motor-car. He was going to breed horses. He didn’t much care about shooting; he had shot a lot of big game during his first years in the F.M.S.; but now he had lost his zest. He didn’t see why the beasts of the jungle should be killed; he had lived in the jungle so long. But he could hunt.
“Do you think I’m too heavy?” he asked.
Mrs Hamlyn, smiling, looked him up and down with appraising eyes.
“You must weigh a t
on,” she said.
He laughed. The Irish horses were the best in the world, and he’d always kept pretty fit. You had a devil of a lot of walking exercise on a rubber estate and he’d played a good deal of tennis. He’d soon get thin in Ireland. Then he’d marry. Mrs Hamlyn looked silently at the sea coloured now with the tenderness of the sunrise. She sighed.
“Was it easy to drag up all your roots? Is there no one you regret leaving behind? I should have thought after so many years, however much you’d looked forward to going home, when the time came at last to go it must have given you a pang.”
“I was glad to get out. I was fed up. I never want to see the country again or anyone in it.”
One or two early passengers now began to walk round the deck and Mrs Hamlyn, remembering that she was scantily clad, went below.
During the next day or two she saw little of Mr Gallagher, who passed his time in the smoking-room. Owing to a strike the ship was not touching at Colombo and passengers settled down to a pleasant voyage across the Indian Ocean. They played deck games, they gossiped about one another, they flirted. The approach of Christmas gave them an occupation, for someone had suggested that there should be a fancy-dress dance on Christmas Day, and the ladies set about making their dresses. A meeting was held of the first-class passengers to decide whether the second-class passengers should be invited, and notwithstanding the heat the discussion was animated. The ladies said that the second-class passengers would only feel ill-at-ease. On Christmas Day it was expected that they would drink more than was good for them and unpleasantness might ensue. Everyone who spoke insisted that there was in his (or her) mind no idea of class distinction, no one would be so snobbish as to think there was any difference between first- and second-class passengers as far as that went, but it would really be kinder to the second-class passengers not to put them in a false position. They would enjoy themselves much more if they had a party of their own in the second-class cabin. On the other hand, no one wanted to hurt their feelings, and of course one had to be more democratic nowadays (this was in reply to the wife of a missionary in China who said she had travelled on the P. & O. for thirty-five years and she had never heard of the second-class passengers being invited to a dance in the first-class saloon) and even though they wouldn’t enjoy it, they might like to come. Mr Gallagher, dragged unwillingly from the card-table, because it had been foreseen that the voting would be close, was asked his opinion by the consul. He was taking home in the second-class a man who had been employed on his estate. He raised his massive bulk from the couch on which he sat.
The Complete Short Stories of W. Somerset Maugham - I - East and West Page 41