Delphi complete works of.., p.149
Delphi Complete Works of Stephen Leacock, page 149
On my own part, too, I am free to confess that my wife’s attitude had aroused in me a sense of pique, not to say injustice. I am not in any way a vain man. Yet her attitude wounded me. I would no sooner begin, “When I was in the Himalayas hunting the humpo or humped buffalo,” than she would interrupt and say, “Oh, Harold, would you mind going down to the billiard-room and seeing if I left my cigarettes under the billiard-table?” When I returned, she was gone.
By agreement we had arranged for a divorce. On my completion of my third voyage we were to meet in New Orleans. Clara was to go there on a separate ship, giving me the choice of oceans.
Had I met Edith Croyden three months later I should have been a man free to woo and win her. As it was I was bound. I must put a clasp of iron on my feelings. I must wear a mask. Cheerful, helpful, and full of narrative, I must yet let fall no word of love to this defenceless girl.
After a great struggle I rose at last from the tar-bucket, feeling, if not a brighter, at least a cleaner man.
Dawn was already breaking. I looked about me. As the sudden beams of the tropic sun illumined the placid sea, I saw immediately before me, only a hundred yards away, an island. A sandy beach sloped back to a rocky eminence, broken with scrub and jungle. I could see a little stream leaping among the rocks. With eager haste I paddled the raft close to the shore till it ground in about ten inches of water.
I leaped into the water.
With the aid of a stout line, I soon made the raft fast to a rock. Then as I turned I saw that Miss Croyden was standing upon the raft, fully dressed, and gazing at me. The morning sunlight played in her hair, and her deep blue eyes were as soft as the Caribbean Sea itself.
“Don’t attempt to wade ashore, Miss Croyden,” I cried in agitation. “Pray do nothing rash. The waters are simply infested with bacilli.”
“But how can I get ashore?” she asked, with a smile which showed all, or nearly all, of her pearl-like teeth.
“Miss Croyden,” I said, “there is only one way. I must carry you.”
In another moment I had walked back to the raft and lifted her as tenderly and reverently as if she had been my sister — indeed more so — in my arms.
Her weight seemed nothing. When I get a girl like that in my arms I simply don’t feel it. Just for one moment as I clasped her thus in my arms, a fierce thrill ran through me. But I let it run.
When I had carried her well up the sand close to the little stream, I set her down. To my surprise, she sank down in a limp heap.
The girl had fainted.
I knew that it was no time for hesitation.
Running to the stream, I filled my hat with water and dashed it in her face. Then I took up a handful of mud and threw it at her with all my force. After that I beat her with my hat.
At length she opened her eyes and sat up.
“I must have fainted,” she said, with a little shiver. “I am cold. Oh, if we could only have a fire.”
“I will do my best to make one, Miss Croyden,” I replied, speaking as gymnastically as I could. “I will see what I can do with two dry sticks.”
“With dry sticks?” queried the girl. “Can you light a fire with that? How wonderful you are!”
“I have often seen it done,” I replied thoughtfully; “when I was hunting the humpo, or humped buffalo, in the Himalayas, it was our usual method.”
“Have you really hunted the humpo?” she asked, her eyes large with interest.
“I have indeed,” I said, “but you must rest; later on I will tell you about it.”
“I wish you could tell me now,” she said with a little moan.
Meantime I had managed to select from the driftwood on the beach two sticks that seemed absolutely dry. Placing them carefully together, in Indian fashion, I then struck a match and found no difficulty in setting them on fire.
In a few moments the girl was warming herself beside a generous fire.
Together we breakfasted upon the beach beside the fire, discussing our plans like comrades.
Our meal over, I rose.
“I will leave you here a little,” I said, “while I explore.”
With no great difficulty I made my way through the scrub and climbed the eminence of tumbled rocks that shut in the view.
On my return Miss Croyden was still seated by the fire, her head in her hands.
“Miss Croyden,” I said, “we are on an island.”
“Is it inhabited?” she asked.
“Once, perhaps, but not now. It is one of the many keys of the West Indies. Here, in old buccaneering days, the pirates landed and careened their ships.”
“How did they do that?” she asked, fascinated.
“I am not sure,” I answered. “I think with white-wash. At any rate, they gave them a good careening. But since then these solitudes are only the home of the sea-gull, the sea-mew, and the albatross.”
The girl shuddered.
“How lonely!” she said.
“Lonely or not,” I said with a laugh (luckily I can speak with a laugh when I want to), “I must get to work.”
I set myself to work to haul up and arrange our effects. With a few stones I made a rude table and seats. I took care to laugh and sing as much as possible while at my work. The close of the day found me still busy with my labours.
“Miss Croyden,” I said, “I must now arrange a place for you to sleep.”
With the aid of four stakes driven deeply into the ground and with blankets strung upon them, I managed to fashion a sort of rude tent, roofless, but otherwise quite sheltered.
“Miss Croyden,” I said when all was done, “go in there.”
Then, with little straps which I had fastened to the blankets, I buckled her in reverently.
“Good night, Miss Croyden,” I said.
“But you,” she exclaimed, “where will you sleep?”
“Oh, I?” I answered, speaking as exuberantly as I could, “I shall do very well on the ground. But be sure to call me at the slightest sound.”
Then I went out and lay down in a patch of cactus plants.
* * * * *
I need not dwell in detail upon the busy and arduous days that followed our landing upon the island. I had much to do. Each morning I took our latitude and longitude. By this I then set my watch, cooked porridge, and picked flowers till Miss Croyden appeared.
With every day the girl came forth from her habitation as a new surprise in her radiant beauty. One morning she had bound a cluster of wild arbutus about her brow. Another day she had twisted a band of convolvulus around her waist. On a third she had wound herself up in a mat of bulrushes.
With her bare feet and wild bulrushes all around her, she looked as a cave woman might have looked, her eyes radiant with the Caribbean dawn. My whole frame thrilled at the sight of her. At times it was all I could do not to tear the bulrushes off her and beat her with the heads of them. But I schooled myself to restraint, and handed her a rock to sit upon, and passed her her porridge on the end of a shovel with the calm politeness of a friend.
Our breakfast over, my more serious labours of the day began. I busied myself with hauling rocks or boulders along the sand to build us a house against the rainy season. With some tackle from the raft I had made myself a set of harness, by means of which I hitched myself to a boulder. By getting Miss Croyden to beat me over the back with a stick, I found that I made fair progress.
But even as I worked thus for our common comfort, my mind was fiercely filled with the thought of Edith Croyden. I knew that if once the barriers broke everything would be swept away. Heaven alone knows the effort that it cost me. At times nothing but the sternest resolution could hold my fierce impulses in check. Once I came upon the girl writing in the sand with a stick. I looked to see what she had written. I read my own name “Harold.” With a wild cry I leapt into the sea and dived to the bottom of it. When I came up I was calmer. Edith came towards me; all dripping as I was, she placed her hands upon my shoulders. “How grand you are!” she said. “I am,” I answered; then I added, “Miss Croyden, for Heaven’s sake don’t touch me on the ear. I can’t stand it.” I turned from her and looked out over the sea. Presently I heard something like a groan behind me. The girl had thrown herself on the sand and was coiled up in a hoop. “Miss Croyden,” I said, “for God’s sake don’t coil up in a hoop.”
I rushed to the beach and rubbed gravel on my face.
With such activities, alternated with wild bursts of restraint, our life on the island passed as rapidly as in a dream. Had I not taken care to notch the days upon a stick and then cover the stick with tar, I could not have known the passage of the time. The wearing out of our clothing had threatened a serious difficulty. But by good fortune I had seen a large black and white goat wandering among the rocks and had chased it to a standstill. From its skin, leaving the fur still on, Edith had fashioned us clothes. Our boots we had replaced with alligator hide. I had, by a lucky chance, found an alligator upon the beach, and attaching a string to the fellow’s neck I had led him to our camp. I had then poisoned the fellow with tinned salmon and removed his hide.
Our costume was now brought into harmony with our surroundings. For myself, garbed in goatskin with the hair outside, with alligator sandals on my feet and with whiskers at least six inches long, I have no doubt that I resembled the beau ideal of a cave man. With the open-air life a new agility seemed to have come into my limbs. With a single leap in my alligator sandals I was enabled to spring into a coco-nut tree.
As for Edith Croyden, I can only say that as she stood beside me on the beach in her suit of black goatskin (she had chosen the black spots) there were times when I felt like seizing her in the frenzy of my passion and hurling her into the sea. Fur always acts on me just like that.
It was at the opening of the fifth week of our life upon the island that a new and more surprising turn was given to our adventure. It arose out of a certain curiosity, harmless enough, on Edith Croyden’s part. “Mr. Borus,” she said one morning, “I should like so much to see the rest of our island. Can we?”
“Alas, Miss Croyden,” I said, “I fear that there is but little to see. Our island, so far as I can judge, is merely one of the uninhabited keys of the West Indies. It is nothing but rock and sand and scrub. There is no life upon it. I fear,” I added, speaking as jauntily as I could, “that unless we are taken off it we are destined to stay on it.”
“Still I should like to see it,” she persisted.
“Come on, then,” I answered, “if you are good for a climb we can take a look over the ridge of rocks where I went up on the first day.”
We made our way across the sand of the beach, among the rocks and through the close matted scrub, beyond which an eminence of rugged boulders shut out the further view.
Making our way to the top of this we obtained a wide look over the sea. The island stretched away to a considerable distance to the eastward, widening as it went, the complete view of it being shut off by similar and higher ridges of rock.
But it was the nearer view, the foreground, that at once arrested our attention. Edith seized my arm. “Look, oh, look!” she said.
Down just below us on the right hand was a similar beach to the one that we had left. A rude hut had been erected on it and various articles lay strewn about.
Seated on a rock with their backs towards us were a man and a woman. The man was dressed in goatskins, and his whiskers, so I inferred from what I could see of them from the side, were at least as exuberant as mine. The woman was in white fur with a fillet of seaweed round her head. They were sitting close together as if in earnest colloquy.
“Cave people,” whispered Edith, “aborigines of the island.”
But I answered nothing. Something in the tall outline of the seated woman held my eye. A cruel presentiment stabbed me to the heart.
In my agitation my foot overset a stone, which rolled noisily down the rocks. The noise attracted the attention of the two seated below us. They turned and looked searchingly towards the place where we were concealed. Their faces were in plain sight. As I looked at that of the woman I felt my heart cease beating and the colour leave my face.
I looked into Edith’s face. It was as pale as mine.
“What does it mean?” she whispered.
“Miss Croyden,” I answered, “Edith — it means this. I have never found the courage to tell you. I am a married man. The woman seated there is my wife. And I love you.”
Edith put out her arms with a low cry and clasped me about the neck. “Harold,” she murmured, “my Harold.”
“Have I done wrong?” I whispered.
“Only what I have done too,” she answered. “I, too, am married, Harold, and the man sitting there below, John Croyden, is my husband.”
With a wild cry such as a cave man might have uttered, I had leapt to my feet.
“Your husband!” I shouted. “Then, by the living God, he or I shall never leave this place alive.”
He saw me coming as I bounded down the rocks. In an instant he had sprung to his feet. He gave no cry. He asked no question. He stood erect as a cave man would, waiting for his enemy.
And there upon the sands beside the sea we fought, barehanded and weaponless. We fought as cave men fight.
For a while we circled round one another, growling. We circled four times, each watching for an opportunity. Then I picked up a great handful of sand and threw it flap into his face. He grabbed a coco-nut and hit me with it in the stomach. Then I seized a twisted strand of wet seaweed and landed him with it behind the ear. For a moment he staggered. Before he could recover I jumped forward, seized him by the hair, slapped his face twice and then leaped behind a rock. Looking from the side I could see that Croyden, though half dazed, was feeling round for something to throw. To my horror I saw a great stone lying ready to his hand. Beside me was nothing. I gave myself up for lost, when at that very moment I heard Edith’s voice behind me saying, “The shovel, quick, the shovel!” The noble girl had rushed back to our encampment and had fetched me the shovel. “Swat him with that,” she cried. I seized the shovel, and with the roar of a wounded bull — or as near as I could make it — I rushed out from the rock, the shovel swung over my head.
But the fight was all out of Croyden.
“Don’t strike,” he said, “I’m all in. I couldn’t stand a crack with that kind of thing.”
He sat down upon the sand, limp. Seen thus, he somehow seemed to be quite a small man, not a cave man at all. His goatskin suit shrunk in on him. I could hear his pants as he sat.
“I surrender,” he said. “Take both the women. They are yours.”
I stood over him leaning upon the shovel. The two women had closed in near to us.
“I suppose you are her husband, are you?” Croyden went on.
I nodded.
“I thought you were. Take her.”
Meantime Clara had drawn nearer to me. She looked somehow very beautiful with her golden hair in the sunlight, and the white furs draped about her.
“Harold!” she exclaimed. “Harold, is it you? How strange and masterful you look. I didn’t know you were so strong.”
I turned sternly towards her.
“When I was alone,” I said, “on the Himalayas hunting the humpo or humped buffalo — —”
Clara clasped her hands, looking into my face.
“Yes,” she said, “tell me about it.”
Meantime I could see that Edith had gone over to John Croyden.
“John,” she said, “you shouldn’t sit on the wet sand like that. You will get a chill. Let me help you to get up.”
I looked at Clara and at Croyden.
“How has this happened?” I asked. “Tell me.”
“We were on the same ship,” Croyden said. “There came a great storm. Even the Captain had never seen — —”
“I know,” I interrupted, “so had ours.”
“The ship struck a rock, and blew out her four funnels — —”
“Ours did too,” I nodded.
“The bowsprit was broken, and the steward’s pantry was carried away. The Captain gave orders to leave the ship — —”
“It is enough, Croyden,” I said, “I see it all now. You were left behind when the boats cleared, by what accident you don’t know — —”
“I don’t,” said Croyden.
“As best you could, you constructed a raft, and with such haste as you might you placed on it such few things — —”
“Exactly,” he said, “a chronometer, a sextant — —”
“I know,” I continued, “two quadrants, a bucket of water, and a lightning rod. I presume you picked up Clara floating in the sea.”
“I did,” Croyden said; “she was unconscious when I got her, but by rubbing — —”
“Croyden,” I said, raising the shovel again, “cut that out.”
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“It’s all right. But you needn’t go on. I see all the rest of your adventures plainly enough.”
“Well, I’m done with it all anyway,” said Croyden gloomily. “You can do what you like. As for me, I’ve got a decent suit back there at our camp, and I’ve got it dried and pressed and I’m going to put it on.”
He rose wearily, Edith standing beside him.
“What’s more, Borus,” he said, “I’ll tell you something. This island is not uninhabited at all.”
“Not uninhabited!” exclaimed Clara and Edith together. I saw each of them give a rapid look at her goatskin suit.
“Nonsense, Croyden,” I said, “this island is one of the West Indian keys. On such a key as this the pirates used to land. Here they careened their ships — —”
“Did what to them?” asked Croyden.
“Careened them all over from one end to the other,” I said. “Here they got water and buried treasure; but beyond that the island was, and remained, only the home of the wild gull and the sea-mews — —”
“All right,” said Croyden, “only it doesn’t happen to be that kind of key. It’s a West Indian island all right, but there’s a summer hotel on the other end of it not two miles away.”
