"So this was the end of a comradeship all too brief, as life goes. Friends are scarce enough, heaven knows, without a fellow's losing one in such vague circumstances. But the years went by, and I didn't hear a word from Bert. At first, I missed and worried about him acutely; then, little by little, he faded off into the background, as even the sharpest details of the great picture of life do if we keep moving. Perspectives change, too. I continued, of course, to think of him now and then, wondering what he might have lost or found. But I never felt occasion to doubt the nature of his quest; he had come into that heritage foreordained at the launching of his sensitive and romantic soul. Something had called him down the wind, some note, some fragrance, some face of beauty, some revelation of delight; and he'd gone out to find the answer and consummation—love or death—that hearts like his pursue"
III
Nichols reached for a cigar. "Ten years and more had gone by" he went on slowly "when, one voyage, I reached the Straits of Sunda, bound for Hong Kong and Amoy. The southwest monsoon was on the point of breaking; for several days we'd been treated to baffling winds. It was in the latter part of the afternoon that, favoured by an unexpected slant of offshore wind, I managed to fetch the anchorage here, slipped into Anjer Roads with quite a rush, and dropped my anchor in a berth abreast of the landing. I hadn't been through Sunda for a couple of years.
"The first boat that came off from shore—Reardon's old whaleboat—brought me disappointing news. Reardon himself, it seemed, had been transferred to Batavia the year before, and the consulate had been discontinued; my letters, if any had been sent to Anjer, were being held in Batavia or Singapore. Old Sa-lee, Reardon's boatswain, was still in charge of the boat, but seemed to be merely following a lifelong habit in coming off to every ship that called. He wanted to see his old friends, to gossip, and to bemoan the decline of human institutions. While we talked, leaning across the rail, he told me in the course of conversation that, some time after Reardon had left Anjer, the consulate bungalow had been occupied by a stranger. The fact wasn't of sufficient interest to me just then to elicit an inquiry. I had just reached the realization, with a shock of deep regret, that Anjer the beautiful had taken its place with the rest of the world's lost glories, that another page in the romantic annals of seafaring had closed.
"The air was hot and heavy that evening—one of those nights of threatening showers that never come. After supper, I had settled myself morosely in a deck-chair; it seemed quite unaccountable not to be going ashore in this familiar situation. The moon was high and full above the hills, as it is to-night, but clouded by a faint mist like descending veils of dew. The ship seemed resting after the long passage; on the forecastle-head a couple of men were singing, accompanied by an old accordion. Across the water, as if in answer, floated the voices of natives somewhere in the jungle, lifted in wild and startling melodies. The same breeze fanned down from the land—the breeze that seems always to be blowing here in the early evening, filling the straits with the overpowering sweetness of bloom and decay.
"It must have been quite late—the moon had risen overhead, and the singing had died out forward and ashore—when I first noticed lights in the old consulate bungalow. I at once thought of the stranger whom Sa-lee had mentioned. Who could he be? What misanthrope had chosen that house of solitude for his habitation? How did he manage to pass the time? It went without saying that he was a European; Sa-lee would not have mentioned him otherwise. I kept my eye on the light, which seemed to travel about, vanishing now and then as if behind a closed door. As I watched, my interest became more and more awakened. I began to imagine all sorts of people in that bungalow; a tremendous failure, a fellow who'd fled from the wreck of a tragic past; an exile, for some romantic reason or other, who had seen my ship in the offing, had hurried home, and was making ready for a visit, longing for the sight of a strange face and a word from the outside world; a criminal, who feared my presence in the roadstead, who was even now busy concealing evidence, sweeping tables, locking drawers.
"Suddenly it occurred to me to go ashore and satisfy my curiosity. Why hadn't I thought of it before? I called my mate. 'Mr. Hunter' said I 'send some men aft and throw the dingey overboard. Then haul her up to the side-ladder'
"Handling the tiller-ropes of the dingey, with two men rowing, I directed her bow toward Reardon's old landing. Under the hills the land loomed high. You know that feeling of strangeness, of transmutation, which comes at the end of a voyage at sea, when for the first time you step from the ship's deck into a small boat, when you look across the water from a lower level, see the shore approach, and hear the hum of waves on a beach close at hand. There's a trace almost of apprehension mingled with it, the instinct of the sailor warning him of shallow water and danger in proximity. I felt it, a nameless tingling excitement; besides, I had by this time worked myself to quite a pitch of fancy over Sa-lee's stranger.
"Reardon's landing was already dilapidated; I scrambled up it and picked my way to the shore, telling the men to wait there for me without fail, for I didn't want them straying to the village. Striking the path at the head of the pier, I hurried forward, keeping myself as much as possible in the deep shadow of palm trees that lined the up-hill slope. I wanted to catch this fellow napping, whoever he was, wanted to observe his face in a moment of surprise. Then I should be better able to place him. The air under the trees was thick with the reek of tropic earth; sounds made themselves distinctly heard in the great silence. I advanced up the path noiseless and unseen, and in a few minutes arrived in plain sight of the bungalow.
"The little house, with its broad flanking verandahs, stood surrounded by trees and underbrush. It had a neglected appearance; even in the night I could make out how the jungle had closed around it in the two years since Reardon's departure. The light inside the bungalow was gone; heavy shadows filled the verandahs, so that I couldn't have seen a person sitting there. I began to wonder whether the tenant had turned in for the night; stepped aside from the path, and started to skirt the house, with the instinct that invariably leads a man to the rear when he's eavesdropping; and was about to strike across a patch of bright moonlight toward the side porch, when a strange sound broke the intense stillness and knocked me back into the shadow as if by a physical blow.