Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated) (12 page)

‘What’s that?’ said Maisie, quickly. ‘It sounds like a heart beating.

Where is it?’

Dick was so angry at this sudden wrench to his pleadings that he could not trust himself to speak, and in this silence caught the sound. Maisie from her seat under the gun watched him with a certain amount of fear.

She wished so much that he would be sensible and cease to worry her with over-sea emotion that she both could and could not understand. She was not prepared, however, for the change in his face as he listened.

‘It’s a steamer,’ he said, — ’a twin-screw steamer, by the beat. I can’t make her out, but she must be standing very close in-shore. Ah!’ as the red of a rocket streaked the haze, ‘she’s standing in to signal before she clears the Channel.’

‘Is it a wreck?’ said Maisie, to whom these words were as Greek.

Dick’s eyes were turned to the sea. ‘Wreck! What nonsense! She’s only reporting herself. Red rocket forward — there’s a green light aft now, and two red rockets from the bridge.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It’s the signal of the Cross Keys Line running to Australia. I wonder which steamer it is.’ The note of his voice had changed; he seemed to be talking to himself, and Maisie did not approve of it. The moonlight broke the haze for a moment, touching the black sides of a long steamer working down Channel. ‘Four masts and three funnels — she’s in deep draught, too. That must be the Barralong, or the Bhutia. No, the Bhutia has a clopper bow. It’s the Barralong, to Australia. She’ll lift the Southern Cross in a week, — lucky old tub! — oh, lucky old tub!’

He stared intently, and moved up the slope of the fort to get a better view, but the mist on the sea thickened again, and the beating of the screws grew fainter. Maisie called to him a little angrily, and he returned, still keeping his eyes to seaward. ‘Have you ever seen the Southern Cross blazing right over your head?’ he asked. ‘It’s superb!’

‘No,’ she said shortly, ‘and I don’t want to. If you think it’s so lovely, why don’t you go and see it yourself?’

She raised her face from the soft blackness of the marten skins about her throat, and her eyes shone like diamonds. The moonlight on the gray kangaroo fur turned it to frosted silver of the coldest.

‘By Jove, Maisie, you look like a little heathen idol tucked up there.’ The eyes showed that they did not appreciate the compliment. ‘I’m sorry,’ he continued. ‘The Southern Cross isn’t worth looking at unless someone helps you to see. That steamer’s out of hearing.’

‘Dick,’ she said quietly, ‘suppose I were to come to you now, — be quiet a minute, — just as I am, and caring for you just as much as I do.’

‘Not as a brother, though You said you didn’t — in the Park.’

‘I never had a brother. Suppose I said, “Take me to those places, and in time, perhaps, I might really care for you,” what would you do?’

‘Send you straight back to where you came from, in a cab. No, I wouldn’t; I’d let you walk. But you couldn’t do it, dear. And I wouldn’t run the risk. You’re worth waiting for till you can come without reservation.’

‘Do you honestly believe that?’

‘I have a hazy sort of idea that I do. Has it never struck you in that light?’

‘Ye — es. I feel so wicked about it.’

‘Wickeder than usual?’

‘You don’t know all I think. It’s almost too awful to tell.’

‘Never mind. You promised to tell me the truth — at least.’

‘It’s so ungrateful of me, but — but, though I know you care for me, and I like to have you with me, I’d — I’d even sacrifice you, if that would bring me what I want.’

‘My poor little darling! I know that state of mind. It doesn’t lead to good work.’

‘You aren’t angry? Remember, I do despise myself.’

‘I’m not exactly flattered, — I had guessed as much before, — but I’m not angry. I’m sorry for you. Surely you ought to have left a littleness like that behind you, years ago.’

‘You’ve no right to patronise me! I only want what I have worked for so long. It came to you without any trouble, and — and I don’t think it’s fair.’

‘What can I do? I’d give ten years of my life to get you what you want.

But I can’t help you; even I can’t help.’

A murmur of dissent from Maisie. He went on — ’And I know by what you have just said that you’re on the wrong road to success. It isn’t got at by sacrificing other people, — I’ve had that much knocked into me; you must sacrifice yourself, and live under orders, and never think for yourself, and never have real satisfaction in your work except just at the beginning, when you’re reaching out after a notion.’

‘How can you believe all that?’

‘There’s no question of belief or disbelief. That’s the law, and you take it or refuse it as you please. I try to obey, but I can’t, and then my work turns bad on my hands. Under any circumstances, remember, four-fifths of everybody’s work must be bad. But the remnant is worth the trouble for it’s own sake.’

‘Isn’t it nice to get credit even for bad work?’

‘It’s much too nice. But —  — May I tell you something? It isn’t a pretty tale, but you’re so like a man that I forget when I’m talking to you.’

‘Tell me.’

‘Once when I was out in the Soudan I went over some ground that we had been fighting on for three days. There were twelve hundred dead; and we hadn’t time to bury them.’

‘How ghastly!’

‘I had been at work on a big double-sheet sketch, and I was wondering what people would think of it at home. The sight of that field taught me a good deal. It looked just like a bed of horrible toadstools in all colours, and — I’d never seen men in bulk go back to their beginnings before. So I began to understand that men and women were only material to work with, and that what they said or did was of no consequence. See? Strictly speaking, you might just as well put your ear down to the palette to catch what your colours are saying.’

‘Dick, that’s disgraceful!’

‘Wait a minute. I said, strictly speaking. Unfortunately, everybody must be either a man or a woman.’

‘I’m glad you allow that much.’

‘In your case I don’t. You aren’t a woman. But ordinary people, Maisie, must behave and work as such. That’s what makes me so savage.’ He hurled a pebble towards the sea as he spoke. ‘I know that it is outside my business to care what people say; I can see that it spoils my output if I listen to ‘em; and yet, confound it all,’ — another pebble flew seaward, — ’I can’t help purring when I’m rubbed the right way. Even when I can see on a man’s forehead that he is lying his way through a clump of pretty speeches, those lies make me happy and play the mischief with my hand.’

‘And when he doesn’t say pretty things?’

‘Then, belovedest,’ — Dick grinned, — ’I forget that I am the steward of these gifts, and I want to make that man love and appreciate my work with a thick stick. It’s too humiliating altogether; but I suppose even if one were an angel and painted humans altogether from outside, one would lose in touch what one gained in grip.’

Maisie laughed at the idea of Dick as an angel.

‘But you seem to think,’ she said, ‘that everything nice spoils your hand.’

‘I don’t think. It’s the law, — just the same as it was at Mrs. Jennett’s.

Everything that is nice does spoil your hand. I’m glad you see so clearly.’

‘I don’t like the view.’

‘Nor I. But — have got orders: what can do? Are you strong enough to face it alone?’

‘I suppose I must.’

‘Let me help, darling. We can hold each other very tight and try to walk straight. We shall blunder horribly, but it will be better than stumbling apart. Maisie, can’t you see reason?’

‘I don’t think we should get on together. We should be two of a trade, so we should never agree.’

‘How I should like to meet the man who made that proverb! He lived in a cave and ate raw bear, I fancy. I’d make him chew his own arrow-heads.

Well?’

‘I should be only half married to you. I should worry and fuss about my work, as I do now. Four days out of the seven I’m not fit to speak to.’

‘You talk as if no one else in the world had ever used a brush. D’you suppose that I don’t know the feeling of worry and bother and can’t-get-at-ness? You’re lucky if you only have it four days out of the seven. What difference would that make?’

‘A great deal — if you had it too.’

‘Yes, but I could respect it. Another man might not. He might laugh at you. But there’s no use talking about it. If you can think in that way you can’t care for me — yet.’

The tide had nearly covered the mud-banks and twenty little ripples broke on the beach before Maisie chose to speak.

‘Dick,’ she said slowly, ‘I believe very much that you are better than I am.’

‘This doesn’t seem to bear on the argument — but in what way?’

‘I don’t quite know, but in what you said about work and things; and then you’re so patient. Yes, you’re better than I am.’

Dick considered rapidly the murkiness of an average man’s life. There was nothing in the review to fill him with a sense of virtue. He lifted the hem of the cloak to his lips.

‘Why,’ said Maisie, making as though she had not noticed, ‘can you see things that I can’t? I don’t believe what you believe; but you’re right, I believe.’

‘If I’ve seen anything, God knows I couldn’t have seen it but for you, and I know that I couldn’t have said it except to you. You seemed to make everything clear for a minute; but I don’t practice what I preach. You would help me.... There are only us two in the world for all purposes, and — and you like to have me with you?’

‘Of course I do. I wonder if you can realise how utterly lonely I am!’

‘Darling, I think I can.’

‘Two years ago, when I first took the little house, I used to walk up and down the back-garden trying to cry. I never can cry. Can you?’

‘It’s some time since I tried. What was the trouble? Overwork?’

‘I don’t know; but I used to dream that I had broken down, and had no money, and was starving in London. I thought about it all day, and it frightened me — oh, how it frightened me!’

‘I know that fear. It’s the most terrible of all. It wakes me up in the night sometimes. You oughtn’t to know anything about it.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Never mind. Is your three hundred a year safe?’

‘It’s in Consols.’

‘Very well. If any one comes to you and recommends a better investment, — even if I should come to you, — don’t you listen. Never shift the money for a minute, and never lend a penny of it, — even to the red-haired girl.’

‘Don’t scold me so! I’m not likely to be foolish.’

‘The earth is full of men who’d sell their souls for three hundred a year; and women come and talk, and borrow a five-pound note here and a ten-pound note there; and a woman has no conscience in a money debt.

Stick to your money, Maisie, for there’s nothing more ghastly in the world than poverty in London. It’s scared me. By Jove, it put the fear into me! And one oughtn’t to be afraid of anything.’

To each man is appointed his particular dread, — the terror that, if he does not fight against it, must cow him even to the loss of his manhood. Dick’s experience of the sordid misery of want had entered into the deeps of him, and, lest he might find virtue too easy, that memory stood behind him, tempting to shame, when dealers came to buy his wares. As the Nilghai quaked against his will at the still green water of a lake or a mill-dam, as Torpenhow flinched before any white arm that could cut or stab and loathed himself for flinching, Dick feared the poverty he had once tasted half in jest. His burden was heavier than the burdens of his companions.

Maisie watched the face working in the moonlight.

‘You’ve plenty of pennies now,’ she said soothingly.

‘I shall never have enough,’ he began, with vicious emphasis. Then, laughing, ‘I shall always be three-pence short in my accounts.’

‘Why threepence?’

‘I carried a man’s bag once from Liverpool Street Station to Blackfriar’s Bridge. It was a sixpenny job, — you needn’t laugh; indeed it was, — and I wanted the money desperately. He only gave me threepence; and he hadn’t even the decency to pay in silver. Whatever money I make, I shall never get that odd threepence out of the world.’

This was not language befitting the man who had preached of the sanctity of work. It jarred on Maisie, who preferred her payment in applause, which, since all men desire it, must be of he right. She hunted for her little purse and gravely took out a threepenny bit.

‘There it is,’ she said. ‘I’ll pay you, Dickie; and don’t worry any more; it isn’t worth while. Are you paid?’

‘I am,’ said the very human apostle of fair craft, taking the coin. ‘I’m paid a thousand times, and we’ll close that account. It shall live on my watch-chain; and you’re an angel, Maisie.’

‘I’m very cramped, and I’m feeling a little cold. Good gracious! the cloak is all white, and so is your moustache! I never knew it was so chilly.’

A light frost lay white on the shoulder of Dick’s ulster. He, too, had forgotten the state of the weather. They laughed together, and with that laugh ended all serious discourse.

They ran inland across the waste to warm themselves, then turned to look at the glory of the full tide under the moonlight and the intense black shadows of the furze bushes. It was an additional joy to Dick that Maisie could see colour even as he saw it, — could see the blue in the white of the mist, the violet that is in gray palings, and all things else as they are, — not of one hue, but a thousand. And the moonlight came into Maisie’s soul, so that she, usually reserved, chattered of herself and of the things she took interest in, — of Kami, wisest of teachers, and of the girls in the studio, — of the Poles, who will kill themselves with overwork if they are not checked; of the French, who talk at great length of much more than they will ever accomplish; of the slovenly English, who toil hopelessly and cannot understand that inclination does not imply power; of the Americans, whose rasping voices in the hush of a hot afternoon strain tense-drawn nerves to breaking-point, and whose suppers lead to indigestion; of tempestuous Russians, neither to hold nor to bind, who tell the girls ghost-stories till the girls shriek; of stolid Germans, who come to learn one thing, and, having mastered that much, stolidly go away and copy pictures for evermore. Dick listened enraptured because it was Maisie who spoke. He knew the old life.