Bush himself had acted deliberately in the matter. He intended to ruin Basil Hayle’s career if possible, and the report had been the result of the joint efforts of the Supervisor, the school teacher, and himself. Its compilation had entailed the consumption of a good deal of spirits, but when it had been finished, and sent down to the skipper of the waiting launch, they all felt pleased with themselves, for the Supervisor and the school teacher hated the man who had saved their lives from Juan Vagas and his band almost as bitterly as did the Scout officer, remembering what he had once said concerning white men and mestizos. And then the school teacher said, jerking his head in the direction of the lower end of the town: “Shall we go and tell them? They’ll be mighty pleased to hear it.”
But Bush got up, a little unsteadily, perhaps. “No; that’ll do by and by. I’m going to tell my wife first;” which seemed to the others such a good idea that they laughed immoderately, and insisted that he should have another drink first.
“You’ll need it, old man,” the Supervisor said; and the Treasurer, who came in at that moment, and had the matter explained to him, agreed.
Mrs Bush listened to her husband in absolute silence, in fact so still did she sit that he finished lamely, almost apologetically: “It was my duty to report it,” he said.
Then her anger blazed out, and he cowered before it. “Oh, you coward! Your duty! Did he feel it his duty to report you when he saved the town you were supposed to be defending, when he saved your wife’s honour at the hands of those brown fiends? Did he go into Manila and tell where you had been that night, and why you were the last man on the scene? To think I should have married you, when there are so many real men in the world! Oh, go away, and never dare to speak to me again. Go to the friends who are worthy of you—and to the woman you have put in my place, the coloured woman.”
Possibly, for the first time, Bush realised something of the deadly insult he had put on his wife, for he tried to defend himself in a guilty man’s way, with a counter-charge.
“You are in love with Hayle. That’s what makes you so mad,” he growled.
She turned on him in superb scorn. “And if I am, have you any right to complain? Have you any right to speak to a white woman—you cur!” And then, in his rage, he struck her twice on the mouth. She staggered back and sank into a chair, whilst he went out, with an attempt at a swagger, forgetting that the natives in the plaza—there were three sitting in the shade of the belfry—could have seen all that had occurred on the balcony.
When he rejoined his friends in the spirit shop, they noticed that he was flushed and his hand was a little shaky. “I told her, and she didn’t like it,” he said briefly. The school teacher sniggered, whereupon Bush turned on him savagely. “Confound you, what are you laughing at?”
The others exchanged glances, and hastened to start some entirely fresh topic of conversation. Obviously, Bush had one of his bad fits coming on, and they knew by experience how nasty he could be. More than once, they had feared that he was going to quarrel with them finally, which might have resulted in his making peace with his wife, in which case many privileges they now enjoyed would have been curtailed, if not actually withdrawn. So they endeavoured to smooth him down, and after a while succeeded in their aim.