"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.
"Give me another drink. I've got something to say."
This time Mackintosh gave him his whisky neat. Walker collected his strength in a final effort of will.
"Don't make a fuss about this. In 'ninety-five when there were troubles white men were killed, and the fleet came and shelled the villages. A lot of people were killed who'd had nothing to do with it. They're damned fools at Apia. If they make a fuss they'll only punish the wrong people. I don't want anyone punished."
He paused for a while to rest.
"You must say it was an accident. No one's to blame. Promise me that."
"I'll do anything you like," whispered Mackintosh.
"Good chap. One of the best. They're children. I'm their father. A father don't let his children get into trouble if he can help it."
A ghost of a chuckle came out of his throat. It was astonishingly weird and ghastly.
"You're a religious chap, Mac. What's that about forgiving them? You know."
For a while Mackintosh did not answer. His lips trembled.
"Forgive them, for they know not what they do?"
"That's right. Forgive them. I've loved them, you know, always loved them."
He sighed. His lips faintly moved, and now Mackintosh had to put his ears quite close to them in order to hear.
"Hold my hand," he said.
Mackintosh gave a gasp. His heart seemed wrenched. He took the old man's hand, so cold and weak, a coarse, rough hand, and held it in his own. And thus he sat until he nearly started out of his seat, for the silence was suddenly broken by a long rattle. It was terrible and unearthly. Walker was dead. Then the natives broke out with loud cries. The tears ran down their faces, and they beat their breasts.
Mackintosh disengaged his hand from the dead man's, and staggering like one drunk with sleep he went out of the room. He went to the locked drawer in his writing-desk and took out the revolver. He walked down to the sea and walked into the lagoon; he waded out cautiously, so that he should not trip against a coral rock, till the water came to his arm-pits. Then he put a bullet through his head.
An hour later half a dozen slim brown sharks were splashing and struggling at the spot where he fell.
III
The Fall of Edward Barnard
Bateman Hunter slept badly. For a fortnight on the boat that brought him from Tahiti to San Francisco he had been thinking of the story he had to tell, and for three days on the train he had repeated to himself the words in which he meant to tell it. But in a few hours now he would be in Chicago, and doubts assailed him. His conscience, always very sensitive, was not at ease. He was uncertain that he had done all that was possible, it was on his honour to do much more than the possible, and the thought was disturbing that, in a matter which so nearly touched his own interest, he had allowed his interest to prevail over his quixotry. Self-sacrifice appealed so keenly to his imagination that the inability to exercise it gave him a sense of disillusion. He was like the philanthropist who with altruistic motives builds model dwellings for the poor and finds that he has made a lucrative investment. He cannot prevent the satisfaction he feels in the ten per cent which rewards the bread he had cast upon the waters, but he has an awkward feeling that it detracts somewhat from the savour of his virtue. Bateman Hunter knew that his heart was pure, but he was not quite sure how steadfastly, when he told her his story, he would endure the scrutiny of Isabel Longstaffe's cool grey eyes. They were far-seeing and wise. She measured the standards of others by her own meticulous uprightness and there could be no greater censure than the cold silence with which she expressed her disapproval of a conduct that did not satisfy her exacting code. There was no appeal from her judgment, for, having made up her mind, she never changed it. But Bateman would not have had her different. He loved not only the beauty of her person, slim and straight, with the proud carriage of her head, but still more the beauty of her soul. With her truthfulness, her rigid sense of honour, her fearless outlook, she seemed to him to collect in herself all that was most admirable in his countrywomen. But he saw in her something more than the perfect type of the American girl, he felt that her exquisiteness was peculiar in a way to her environment, and he was assured that no city in the world could have produced her but Chicago. A pang seized him when he remembered that he must deal so bitter a blow to her pride, and anger flamed up in his heart when he thought of Edward Barnard.
But at last the train steamed in to Chicago and he exulted when he saw the long streets of grey houses. He could hardly bear his impatience at the thought of State and Wabash with their crowded pavements, their hustling traffic, and their noise. He was at home. And he was glad that he had been born in the most important city in the United States. San Francisco was provincial, New York was effete; the future of America lay in the development of its economic possibilities, and Chicago, by its position and by the energy of its citizens, was destined to become the real capital of the country.
"I guess I shall live long enough to see it the biggest city in the world," Bateman said to himself as he stepped down to the platform.
His father had come to meet him, and after a hearty handshake, the pair of them, tall, slender, and well-made, with the same fine, ascetic features and thin lips, walked out of the station. Mr Hunter's automobile was waiting for them and they got in. Mr Hunter caught his son's proud and happy glance as he looked at the street.
"Glad to be back, son?" he asked.
"I should just think I was," said Bateman.
His eyes devoured the restless scene.
"I guess there's a bit more traffic here than in your South Sea island," laughed Mr Hunter. "Did you like it there?"
"Give me Chicago, dad," answered Bateman.
"You haven't brought Edward Barnard back with you."
"No."
"How was he?"
Bateman was silent for a moment, and his handsome, sensitive face darkened.
"I'd sooner not speak about him, dad," he said at last.
"That's all right, my son. I guess your mother will be a happy woman to-day."
They passed out of the crowded streets in the Loop and drove along the lake till they came to the imposing house, an exact copy of a château on the Loire, which Mr Hunter had built himself some years before. As soon as Bateman was alone in his room he asked for a number on the telephone. His heart leaped when he heard the voice that answered him.
"Good-morning, Isabel," he said gaily.
"Good-morning, Bateman."
"How did you recognise my voice?"
"It is not so long since I heard it last. Besides, I was expecting you."
"When may I see you?"
"Unless you have anything better to do perhaps you'll dine with us to-night."
"You know very well that I couldn't possibly have anything better to do."
"I suppose that you're full of news?"
He thought he detected in her voice a note of apprehension.
"Yes," he answered.
"Well, you must tell me to-night. Good-bye."
She rang off. It was characteristic of her that she should be able to wait so many unnecessary hours to know what so immensely concerned her. To Bateman there was an admirable fortitude in her restraint.
At dinner, at which beside himself and Isabel no one was present but her father and mother, he watched her guide the conversation into the channels of an urbane small-talk, and it occurred to him that in just such a manner would a marquise under the shadow of the guillotine toy with the affairs of a day that would know no morrow. Her delicate features, the aristocratic shortness of her upper lip, and her wealth of fair hair suggested the marquise again, and it must have been obvious, even if it were not notorious, that in her veins flowed the best blood in Chicago. The dining-room was a fitting frame to her fragile beauty, for Isabel had caused the house, a replica of a palace on the Grand Canal at Venice, to be furnished by an English expert in the style of Louis XV; and the graceful decoration linked with the name of that amorous monarch enhanced her loveliness and at the same time acquired from it a more profound significance. For Isabel's mind was richly stored, and her conversation, however light, was never flippant. She spoke now of the Musicale to which she and her mother had been in the afternoon, of the lectures which an English poet was giving at the Auditorium, of the political situation, and of the Old Master which her father had recently bought for fifty thousand dollars in New York. It comforted Bateman to hear her. He felt that he was once more in the civilised world, at the centre of culture and distinction; and certain voices, troubling and yet against his will refusing to still their clamour, were at last silent in his heart.