“She is ailing.”
Of the two, Hastings was the less mature, although perhaps physically the stronger. Certainly his face, frank, impetuous, fearless, was the more wholesome. But lacking the easy grace and the calm assurance that characterized the other, he realized a certain want in his own hard schooling that left him almost powerless in the duel of wits, baffled by a bewildering subtlety, like a young fencer drilled in the rudiments, blade to blade, meeting for the first time an opponent who refuses contact. There was the same sense of helplessness, the same mental groping for possible parries and thrusts, without the comforting rasp of steel on steel, that to the trained hand and wrist reveals more than sight itself of an antagonist’s intent. Once an enemy always an enemy, unless there were reason otherwise, he had supposed. He breathed deeply.
“I am sorry,” he replied.
Self-possessed, yet watching his uninvited guest between almost imperceptibly narrowed eyelids, Widmer continued casually, “Yes, she is ailing. But of yourself? How came you here?”
“Our masts were carried away in a typhoon. The natives came out, apparently to plunder the waterlogged hull, but, by the grace of God, human compassion was stirred in their yellow bellies. The Helen of Troy was an able ship—” Hastings eyed Widmer with a touch of patronage that passed apparently unnoticed “—and a rich cargo was under her hatches, but there was no way to save her.”
“I see.”
Hastings fingered the stem of his glass. Silence filled the cabin. Then the boy appeared with a great tray.
“For some reason,” Widmer began after a time, “I am reminded of a garden, a garden with honeysuckle in bloom. There’s a white house by the garden, three stories high and square as a cube. Do you remember the house? A door with oval-paned side lights? And the little pillars?”
Hastings’ face whitened, except for a red spot on each cheek. Shoving back his chair, he half rose. “If you—” he cried.
“Ha! ha! I see you remember the garden. Surely you would not resent a mere pleasantry. That garden! How many times we have avoided meeting there, you and I. Well, it’s all over now. Don’t hold ill will toward me, even though I carried off the queen of the garden. Men have loved and lost and laid resentment aside before now. It is a bond between us that we have loved Christine Duncan. If only she were stronger, how gladly she would join me in welcoming you. It is long since she has been able to receive guests.” Widmer’s voice fell, perhaps a trifle more than was natural. Certainly his eyes never left the flush on Hastings’ face. But his voice rose again, lightly, as he resumed. “Allow me!” And he proffered the decanter.