The Moorsoms did manage to catch the homeward mail boat all right, but had only twenty-four hours in town.Thus the sentimental Willie could not see very much of them.This did not prevent him afterwards from relating at great length, with manly tears in his eyes, how poor Miss Moorsom - the fashionable and clever beauty -found her betrothed in Malata only to see him die in her arms.
Most people were deeply touched by the sad story.It was the talk of a good many days.
But the all-knowing Editor, Renouard's only friend and crony, wanted to know more than the rest of the world.From professional incontinence, perhaps, he thirsted for a full cup of harrowing detail.And when he noticed Renouard's schooner lying in port day after day he sought the sailing master to learn the reason.The man told him that such were his instructions.He had been ordered to lie there a month before returning to Malata.And the month was nearly up."I will ask you to give me a passage," said the Editor.
He landed in the morning at the bottom of the garden and found peace, stillness, sunshine reigning everywhere, the doors and windows of the bungalow standing wide open, no sight of a human being anywhere, the plants growing rank and tall on the deserted fields.For hours the Editor and the schooner's crew, excited by the mystery, roamed over the island shouting Renouard's name; and at last set themselves in grim silence to explore systematically the uncleared bush and the deeper ravines in search of his corpse.
What had happened? Had he been murdered by the boys? Or had he simply, capricious and secretive, abandoned his plantation taking the people with him.It was impossible to tell what had happened.
At last, towards the decline of the day, the Editor and the sailing master discovered a track of sandals crossing a strip of sandy beach on the north shore of the bay.Following this track fearfully, they passed round the spur of the headland, and there on a large stone found the sandals, Renouard's white jacket, and the Malay sarong of chequered pattern which the planter of Malata was well known to wear when going to bathe.These things made a little heap, and the sailor remarked, after gazing at it in silence -"Birds have been hovering over this for many a day.""He's gone bathing and got drowned," cried the Editor in dismay.
"I doubt it, sir.If he had been drowned anywhere within a mile from the shore the body would have been washed out on the reefs.
And our boats have found nothing so far."Nothing was ever found - and Renouard's disappearance remained in the main inexplicable.For to whom could it have occurred that a man would set out calmly to swim beyond the confines of life - with a steady stroke - his eyes fixed on a star!
Next evening, from the receding schooner, the Editor looked back for the last time at the deserted island.A black cloud hung listlessly over the high rock on the middle hill; and under the mysterious silence of that shadow Malata lay mournful, with an air of anguish in the wild sunset, as if remembering the heart that was broken there.
Dec.1913.
THE PARTNER
"And that be hanged for a silly yarn.The boatmen here in Westport have been telling this lie to the summer visitors for years.The sort that gets taken out for a row at a shilling a head - and asks foolish questions - must be told something to pass the time away.
D'ye know anything more silly than being pulled in a boat along a beach?...It's like drinking weak lemonade when you aren't thirsty.I don't know why they do it! They don't even get sick."A forgotten glass of beer stood at his elbow; the locality was a small respectable smoking-room of a small respectable hotel, and a taste for forming chance acquaintances accounts for my sitting up late with him.His great, flat, furrowed cheeks were shaven; a thick, square wisp of white hairs hung from his chin; its waggling gave additional point to his deep utterance; and his general contempt for mankind with its activities and moralities was expressed in the rakish set of his big soft hat of black felt with a large rim, which he kept always on his head.
His appearance was that of an old adventurer, retired after many unholy experiences in the darkest parts of the earth; but I had every reason to believe that he had never been outside England.
From a casual remark somebody dropped I gathered that in his early days he must have been somehow connected with shipping - with ships in docks.Of individuality he had plenty.And it was this which attracted my attention at first.But he was not easy to classify, and before the end of the week I gave him up with the vague definition, "an imposing old ruffian."One rainy afternoon, oppressed by infinite boredom, I went into the smoking-room.He was sitting there in absolute immobility, which was really fakir-like and impressive.I began to wonder what could be the associations of that sort of man, his "milieu," his private connections, his views, his morality, his friends, and even his wife - when to my surprise he opened a conversation in a deep, muttering voice.
I must say that since he had learned from somebody that I was a writer of stories he had been acknowledging my existence by means of some vague growls in the morning.
He was essentially a taciturn man.There was an effect of rudeness in his fragmentary sentences.It was some time before I discovered that what he would be at was the process by which stories - stories for periodicals - were produced.
What could one say to a fellow like that? But I was bored to death; the weather continued impossible; and I resolved to be amiable.
"And so you make these tales up on your own.How do they ever come into your head?" he rumbled.
I explained that one generally got a hint for a tale.
"What sort of hint?"
"Well, for instance," I said, "I got myself rowed out to the rocks the other day.My boatman told me of the wreck on these rocks nearly twenty years ago.That could be used as a hint for a mainly descriptive bit of story with some such title as 'In the Channel,'
for instance."
