The Ragged Edge Read online

  CHAPTER VIII

  Slowly Ruth entered her own room. She opened her suitcase--new andsmelling strongly of leather--and took out of it a book, dogearedand precariously held together, bound in faded blue cloth andbearing the inscription: The Universal Handbook. Herein was the sumof human knowledge in essence.

  In the beginning it was a dictionary. Words were given with theiroriginal meaning, without their ramifications. If you were a poetin need of rhymes, you had only to turn to a certain page. Or, ifyou were about to embark upon a nautical career, here was all theinformation required. It also told you how to write on alloccasions, how to take out a patent, how to doctor a horse, and whoAchates was. You could, if you were ambitious to round out youreducation, memorize certain popular foreign phrases.

  But beyond "amicable agreement in which mutual concessions aremade," the word "compromise" was as blank as the Canton wall atnight. There were words, then, that ran on indefinitely, withreversals? Here they meant one thing; there, the exact opposite. Tobe sure, Ruth had dimly been aware of this; but now for the firsttime she was made painfully conscious of it. Mutual concessions!--andthen to turn it around so that it suggested that an act of kindnessmight be interpreted as moral obloquy!

  Walls; queer, invisible walls that receded whenever she reachedout, but that still remained between her and what she sought. Thewall of the sky, the wall of the horizon, the wall behind whicheach human being hid--the wall behind which she herself was hiding!If only her mother had lived, her darling mother!

  Presently the unhappy puzzlement left her face; and an inward glowbegan to lighten it. The curtain before one mystery was torn aside,and she saw in reality what lay behind the impulse that had led herinto the young man's room. Somebody to whom she would be necessary,who for days would have to depend upon her for the needs of life.An inarticulate instinct which now found expression. Upon what thisinstinct was based she could not say; she was conscious only of itsinsistence. Briefly explained, she was as the child who discardsthe rag baby for the living one. Spurlock was no longer a manbefore this instinct; he was a child in trouble.

  Her cogitations were dissipated by a knock on the door. The visitorwas the hotel manager, who respectfully announced that the doctorwas ready for her. So Ruth took another step toward herdestination, which we in our vanity call destiny.

  "Will he live?" asked Ruth.

  "Thanks to you," said the doctor. "Without proper medical care, hewould have been dead by morning." He smiled at her as he smiled atdeath, cheerfully.

  The doctor's smile is singular; there is no other smile thatreaches the same level. It is the immediate inspiration ofconfidence; it alleviates pain, because we know by that smile thatpain is soon to leave us; it becomes the bulwark against ourdepressive thoughts of death; and it is the promise that we stillhave a long way to go before we reach the Great Terminal.

  In passing, why do we fear death? For our sins? Rather, isn't itthe tremendous inherent human curiosity to know what is going tohappen to-morrow that causes us to wince at the thought ofannihilation? A subconscious resentment against the idea ofentering darkness while our neighbour will proceed with his pettyaffairs as usual?

  "It's nip and tuck," said the doctor; "but we'll pull him through.Probably his first serious bout with John Barleycorn. If he hadeaten food, this wouldn't have happened. It is not a dissipatedface."

  "No; it is only--what shall I say?--troubled. The ragged edge."

  "Yes. This is also the ragged edge of the world, too. It is thebottom of the cup, where all the dregs appear to settle. But thischap is good wine yet. We'll have him on his way before many days.But ... he must want to live in order that the inclination torepeat this incident may not recur. The manager tells me that youare an American. So am I. For ten years I've been trying to gohome, but my conscience will not permit me, I hate the Orient. Itdrives one mad at times. Superstition--you knock into it whicheverway you turn. The Oriental accepts my medicines kowtowing, and whenmy back is turned, chucks the stuff out of the window and burnsjoss-sticks. I hate this part of the world."

  "So do I," replied Ruth.

  "You have lived over here?"--astonished.

  "I was born in the South Seas and I am on my way to America, to anaunt."

  "Well, it's mighty fine of you to break your journey in thisfashion--for someone you don't know, a passer-by."

  He held out his dry hard hand into which she placed hers. Themanager had sketched the girl's character, or rather hadinterpreted it, from the incidents which had happened since dinner."You will find her new." New? That did not describe her. Here,indeed, was a type with which he had never until now come intocontact--a natural woman. She would be extraordinarily interestingas a metaphysical study. She would be surrendering to all herimpulses--particularly the good impulses--many of which society hadcondemned long since because they entailed too much trouble.Imagine her, putting herself to all this delay and inconveniencefor a young wastrel she did not know and who, the moment he got onhis feet, would doubtless pass out of her life without so much asThank you! And it was ten to one that she would not comprehend theingratitude. To such characters, fine actions are in themselvessufficient.

  Perhaps her odd beauty--and that too was natural--stirred thesethoughts into being. Ashen blonde, a shade that would never excitethe cynical commentary which men applied to certain types ofblondes. It would be protective; it would with age turn to silverunnoticeably. A disconcerting gray eye that had a mystifying depth.In the artificial light her skin had the tint and lustre of ayellow pearl. She would be healthy, too, and vigorous. Not theexplosive vigour of the north-born, but that which would quietlymeet physical hardships and bear them triumphantly.

  All this while he was arranging the medicines on the stand andjotting down his instructions on a chart sheet. He had absorbed herin a single glance, and was now defining her as he worked. After awhile he spoke again.

  "Our talking will not bother him. He will be some time in thiscomatose state. Later, there will be fever, after I've got hisheart pumping. Now, he must have folks somewhere. I'm going throughhis pockets. It's only right that his people should know where heis and what has happened to him."

  But he searched in vain. Aside from some loose coin and a trunkkey, there was nothing in the pockets: no mail, no letter ofcredit, not even a tailor's label. Immediately he grasped the factthat there was drama here, probably the old drama of the fugitive.He folded the garments carefully and replaced them on the chair.

  "I'm afraid we'll have to dig into his trunk," he said. "There'snothing in his clothes. Perhaps I ought not to; but this isn't acase to fiddle-faddle over. Will you stand by and watch me?"

  The contents of the trunk only thickened the fog. Here again theclothes were minus the labels. All the linen was new and stampedwith the mark of Whiteaway, Laidlaw & Co., British merchants withbranches all over the East. At the bottom of the trunk was a largemanila envelope, unmarked. The doctor drew out the contentshopefully.

  "By George!" he exclaimed. "Manuscripts! Why, this chap is awriter, or is trying to be. And will you look! His name neatly cutout from each title page. This is clear over my head."

  "A novelist?" cried Ruth, thrilling. And yet the secondary emotionwas one of suspicion. That a longing of hers should be realized inthis strange fashion was difficult to believe: it vaguely suggestedsomething of a trap.

  "Or trying to be," answered the doctor. "Evidently he could notdestroy these children of his. No doubt they've all been rejected;but he couldn't throw them overboard. I suspect he has a bit ofvanity. I'll tell you what. I'll leave these out, and to-morrow youcan read them through. Somewhere you may stumble upon a clew to hisidentity. To-morrow I'll wire Cook's and the American Express inHong-Kong to see if there is any mail. Taber is the name. What ishe--English or American?"

  "American. What is a Yale man?"

  "Did he say he was a Yale man?"

  "He and Ah Cum were talking...."

  "I see. Ah Cum is a Yale man and so is this Taber."

  "But what is it?"

  "An American university. Now, I'll be getting along. Give him hismedicine every half hour. Keep his arms down. I'll have my man Wuover here as soon as I can get in touch with him. We'll get thischap on his feet if only to learn what the trouble is."

  Downstairs he sought the hotel manager.

  "Can you pull him through?" was the anxious question.

  "Hope to. The next few hours will tell. But it's an odd case. Hisname is Taber?"

  "Howard Taber."

  "Confidentially, I'm assured that he has another."

  "What gives you that idea?"

  "Well, we could find no letter of credit, no letters, no labels inhis clothes--not a single clew to his real identity. And stonybroke."

  "Not quite," replied the manager. "He left an envelope with somemoney in it. Perhaps I'd better open it now." The envelopecontained exactly five hundred dollars. "How long will he be laidup?"

  "Three or four weeks, if he doesn't peg out during the night."

  The manager began some computations. "There won't be much left foryou," he said.

  "That's usual. There never is much left for me. But I'm notworrying about that. The thing is to get the patient on his feet.He may have resources of which we know nothing," the doctor addedoptimistically.

  "But, I say, that girl is a queer one."

  "I shouldn't call her queer. She's fine. She'll be mightyinteresting to watch."

  "For an old bachelor?"

  "A human old bachelor. Has she any funds?"

  "She must have. She's headed for America. Of course, I don'tbelieve she's what you would call flush. But I'll take care of herbill, if worst comes to worst. Evidently her foresight has saved mea funeral. I'll remember that. But "fine" is the word. How thedeuce, though, am I going to account for her? People will be askingquestions when they see her; and if I tell the truth, they'll startto snubbing her. You understand what I mean. I don't want her hurt.But we've got to cook up some kind of a story to protect her."

  "I hadn't thought of that. It wouldn't do to say that she was fromthe hospital. She's too pretty and unusual. Besides, I'm afraid hersimple honesty will spoil any invented yarn. When anybody isnatural, these days, we dub them queer. The contact is disturbing;and we prefer going around the fact to facing it. Aren't we funny?And just as I was beginning to lose faith in human beings, to havesomeone like this come along! It is almost as if she were acting arole, and she isn't. I'll talk to her in the morning, but she won'tunderstand what I'm driving at. Born on a South Sea island, shesaid."

  "Ah! Now I can get a perspective. This is her first adventure. Sheisn't used to cities."

  "But how in the Lord's name was she brought up? There's a queerstory back of this somewhere."

  The manager extended his hands at large, as if to deny anyresponsibility in the affair. "Never heard of a sing-song girl;never heard of a geisha! Flower of the Lotus: the sing-song girlcalled her that."

  "The White Hollyhock would fit her better. There is somethingsensual in the thought of lotus flowers. Hollyhocks make one thinkof a bright June Sunday and the way to church!"

  "Do you suppose that young fool has done anything?"

  The doctor shrugged. "I don't know. I shouldn't care to express anopinion. I ought to stay the night through; but I'm late now for anoperation at the hospital. Good night."

  He departed, musing. How plainly he could see the patch of gardenin the summer sunshine and the white hollyhocks nodding above thepicket fence!

  * * * * *

  Ruth sat waiting for the half hour, subconsciously. Her thoughtswere busy with the possibilities of this break in her journey.Somebody to depend upon her; somebody to have need of her, if onlyfor a little while. In all her life no living thing had had todepend upon her, not even a dog or a cat. All other things werewithout weight or consequence before the fact that this poor youngman would have to depend upon her for his life. The amazing tonicof the thought!

  From time to time she laid her hand upon Spurlock's forehead: itwas still cold. But the rise of the chest was quite perceptiblenow.

  From where had he come, and why? An author! To her he would be noless interesting because he was unsuccessful. Stories ... lovestories: and to-morrow she would know the joy of reading them! Itwas almost unbelievable; it was too good to be true. It filled herwith indefinable fear. Until now none of her prayers had ever beenanswered. Why should God give particular attention to such aprayer, when He had ignored all others? Certainly there was a trapsomewhere.

  So, while she watched, distressed and bewildered by her tumblingthoughts, the packet, Canton bound, ruffled the placid waters ofthe Pearl River. In one of the cabins a man sat on the edge of hisnarrow bunk. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed atthe corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait ofa youth of eighteen.

  The man was thick set, with a bright roving eye. The blue jawssuggested courage and tenacity. It was not a hard face, but it wasresolute. As he balanced the photograph, a humorous twinkle cameinto his eyes.

  Pure luck! If the boy had grown a moustache or a beard, a needle inthe haystack would have been soft work. To stumble upon the trailthrough the agency of a bottle of whisky! Drank queer; so hisbottle had rendered him conspicuous. And now, only twenty-fourhours behind him ... that is, if he wasn't paddling by on thereturn route to Hong-Kong or had dropped down to Macao. But thatpossibility had been anticipated. He would have to return toHong-Kong; and his trail would be picked up the moment he set footon the Praya.

  Pure luck! But for that bottle of whisky, nobody in the Hong-KongHotel would have been able to identify the photograph; and at thishour James Boyle O'Higgins would have been on the way to Yokohama,and the trail lost for ever.

  Ho-hum!