"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 to 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 to-night. 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 to-morrow."
"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 realise what the feeling is at Matautu. I think it would be safer if I came with you."
Walker burst 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 verandah, 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.