But being so alone, she grappled with her life as best she could, though nothing seemed very clear.
As her anger cooled, Stella felt she had let herself go too far—regretted, in due time, having stood out at all. What made her attitude hardest now to defend was the fact that Ferdinand’s whole idea seemed to be to make things easier for her. Perhaps there might even be something in what he said about the need of keeping the Ainu impressed. It was dim and not a little terrifying. And certainly he was right in suggesting the world’s amazement at such opposition as she had brought to bear. Analysis in good time brought a faint smile even, for, though it might not be salient, she really did possess a sense of humour.
II
An hour later the shadows had grown long and deep. The sun loitered low in a sky silent and unfretted by cloud. A tiny wisp of breeze was stealing about, stirring the mats at the windows and making the doors creak whisperingly on their jungle-vine hinges.
Stella was laying the table for their evening meal. Penitent, she was determined, as women sometimes are, that the dinner should be proportionately nice. Tears were not beautifying, did not belong in her dream; nor did anger and flashing eyes. Her best dress was protected, as she went busily about her work, by one of the big, practical aprons Maud had provided. She had opened some tins, and a cook book was spread before her. It was to be rather special.
Stella sang a little, softly, as she worked, and was trying, half consciously and not with entire conviction, to fancy that instead of being here on this island, lost in a lonely sea, they were living in Paris, she and Ferdinand, and that she was preparing a little after-the-opera supper. What had the opera been? Well, what were some of the operas? What was Paris like?
The house was very still. Presently the little meal was ready, and she went to call her husband. She was going through the “parlour” toward the outer door, when, to her surprise, she perceived that he wasn’t outside, as she had supposed, but stretched instead on the cot. He lay perfectly still, and she thought he must have fallen into a doze; but as she approached him she became aware that it was a doze of a rather peculiar sort, for his eyes were wide open, and, though she called to him, he did not move—did not seem even aware of her presence. He looked strangely detached and delighted.
Stella crossed the room, chilling with a sense of indefinable terror. There was a pungent smell.
King’s lips were a little parted, and the expression on his face was quite radiant. On a tabouret beside the cot stood a tiny spirit lamp within a dome of glass open at the top. The wick was lighted, and in the still, hot air the little flame scarcely wavered. Beside it on the stand was something dark and mysterious.
One of his hands lay, idly and with characteristic grace, upon his breast, gently rising and falling with the rhythm of the breath. The other hand had dropped down on to the floor; the fingers curled, relaxed; and just beneath them on the mat lay a curious little pipe.