________________________________________________
_ The ten days of Tudor's convalescence that followed were peaceful
days on Berande. The work of the plantation went on like clock-
work. With the crushing of the premature outbreak of Gogoomy and
his following, all insubordination seemed to have vanished. Twenty
more of the old-time boys, their term of service up, were carried
away by the Martha, and the fresh stock of labour, treated fairly,
was proving of excellent quality. As Sheldon rode about the
plantation, acknowledging to himself the comfort and convenience of
a horse and wondering why he had not thought of getting one
himself, he pondered the various improvements for which Joan was
responsible--the splendid Poonga-Poonga recruits; the fruits and
vegetables; the Martha herself, snatched from the sea for a song
and earning money hand over fist despite old Kinross's slow and
safe method of running her; and Berande, once more financially
secure, approaching each day nearer the dividend-paying time, and
growing each day as the black toilers cleared the bush, cut the
cane-grass, and planted more cocoanut palms.
In these and a thousand ways Sheldon was made aware of how much he
was indebted for material prosperity to Joan--to the slender,
level-browed girl with romance shining out of her gray eyes and
adventure shouting from the long-barrelled Colt's on her hip, who
had landed on the beach that piping gale, along with her stalwart
Tahitian crew, and who had entered his bungalow to hang with boy's
hands her revolver-belt and Baden-Powell hat on the nail by the
billiard table. He forgot all the early exasperations, remembering
only her charms and sweetnesses and glorying much in the traits he
at first had disliked most--her boyishness and adventurousness, her
delight to swim and risk the sharks, her desire to go recruiting,
her love of the sea and ships, her sharp authoritative words when
she launched the whale-boat and, with firestick in one hand and
dynamite-stick in the other, departed with her picturesque crew to
shoot fish in the Balesuna; her super-innocent disdain for the
commonest conventions, her juvenile joy in argument, her
fluttering, wild-bird love of freedom and mad passion for
independence. All this he now loved, and he no longer desired to
tame and hold her, though the paradox was the winning of her
without the taming and the holding.
There were times when he was dizzy with thought of her and love of
her, when he would stop his horse and with closed eyes picture her
as he had seen her that first day, in the stern-sheets of the
whale-boat, dashing madly in to shore and marching belligerently
along his veranda to remark that it was pretty hospitality this
letting strangers sink or swim in his front yard. And as he opened
his eyes and urged his horse onward, he would ponder for the ten
thousandth time how possibly he was ever to hold her when she was
so wild and bird-like that she was bound to flutter out and away
from under his hand.
It was patent to Sheldon that Tudor had become interested in Joan.
That convalescent visitor practically lived on the veranda, though,
while preposterously weak and shaky in the legs, he had for some
time insisted on coming in to join them at the table at meals. The
first warning Sheldon had of the other's growing interest in the
girl was when Tudor eased down and finally ceased pricking him with
his habitual sharpness of quip and speech. This cessation of
verbal sparring was like the breaking off of diplomatic relations
between countries at the beginning of war, and, once Sheldon's
suspicions were aroused, he was not long in finding other
confirmations. Tudor too obviously joyed in Joan's presence, too
obviously laid himself out to amuse and fascinate her with his own
glorious and adventurous personality. Often, after his morning
ride over the plantation, or coming in from the store or from
inspection of the copra-drying, Sheldon found the pair of them
together on the veranda, Joan listening, intent and excited, and
Tudor deep in some recital of personal adventure at the ends of the
earth.
Sheldon noticed, too, the way Tudor looked at her and followed her
about with his eyes, and in those eyes he noted a certain hungry
look, and on the face a certain wistful expression; and he wondered
if on his own face he carried a similar involuntary advertisement.
He was sure of several things: first, that Tudor was not the right
man for Joan and could not possibly make her permanently happy;
next, that Joan was too sensible a girl really to fall in love with
a man of such superficial stamp; and, finally, that Tudor would
blunder his love-making somehow. And at the same time, with true
lover's anxiety, Sheldon feared that the other might somehow fail
to blunder, and win the girl with purely fortuitous and successful
meretricious show. But of the one thing Sheldon was sure: Tudor
had no intimate knowledge of her and was unaware of how vital in
her was her wildness and love of independence. That was where he
would blunder--in the catching and the holding of her. And then,
in spite of all his certitude, Sheldon could not forbear wondering
if his theories of Joan might not be wrong, and if Tudor was not
going the right way about after all.
The situation was very unsatisfactory and perplexing. Sheldon
played the difficult part of waiting and looking on, while his
rival devoted himself energetically to reaching out and grasping at
the fluttering prize. Then, again, Tudor had such an irritating
way about him. It had become quite elusive and intangible, now
that he had tacitly severed diplomatic relations; but Sheldon
sensed what he deemed a growing antagonism and promptly magnified
it through the jealous lenses of his own lover's eyes. The other
was an interloper. He did not belong to Berande, and now that he
was well and strong again it was time for him to go. Instead of
which, and despite the calling in of the mail steamer bound for
Sydney, Tudor had settled himself down comfortably, resumed
swimming, went dynamiting fish with Joan, spent hours with her
hunting pigeons, trapping crocodiles, and at target practice with
rifle and revolver.
But there were certain traditions of hospitality that prevented
Sheldon from breathing a hint that it was time for his guest to
take himself off. And in similar fashion, feeling that it was not
playing the game, he fought down the temptation to warn Joan. Had
he known anything, not too serious, to Tudor's detriment, he would
have been unable to utter it; but the worst of it was that he knew
nothing at all against the man. That was the confounded part of
it, and sometimes he was so baffled and overwrought by his feelings
that he assumed a super-judicial calm and assured himself that his
dislike of Tudor was a matter of unsubstantial prejudice and
jealousy.
Outwardly, he maintained a calm and smiling aspect. The work of
the plantation went on. The Martha and the Flibberty-Gibbet came
and went, as did all the miscellany of coasting craft that dropped
in to wait for a breeze and have a gossip, a drink or two, and a
game of billiards. Satan kept the compound free of niggers.
Boucher came down regularly in his whale-boat to pass Sunday.
Twice a day, at breakfast and dinner, Joan and Sheldon and Tudor
met amicably at table, and the evenings were as amicably spent on
the veranda.
And then it happened. Tudor made his blunder. Never divining
Joan's fluttering wildness, her blind hatred of restraint and
compulsion, her abhorrence of mastery by another, and mistaking the
warmth and enthusiasm in her eyes (aroused by his latest tale) for
something tender and acquiescent, he drew her to him, laid a
forcible detaining arm about her waist, and misapprehended her
frantic revolt for an exhibition of maidenly reluctance. It
occurred on the veranda, after breakfast, and Sheldon, within,
pondering a Sydney wholesaler's catalogue and making up his orders
for next steamer-day, heard the sharp exclamation of Joan, followed
by the equally sharp impact of an open hand against a cheek.
Jerking free from the arm that was all distasteful compulsion, Joan
had slapped Tudor's face resoundingly and with far more vim and
weight than when she had cuffed Gogoomy.
Sheldon had half-started up, then controlled himself and sunk back
in his chair, so that by the time Joan entered the door his
composure was recovered. Her right fore-arm was clutched tightly
in her left hand, while the white cheeks, centred with the spots of
flaming red, reminded him of the time he had first seen her angry.
"He hurt my arm," she blurted out, in reply to his look of inquiry.
He smiled involuntarily. It was so like her, so like the boy she
was, to come running to complain of the physical hurt which had
been done her. She was certainly not a woman versed in the ways of
man and in the ways of handling man. The resounding slap she had
given Tudor seemed still echoing in Sheldon's ears, and as he
looked at the girl before him crying out that her arm was hurt, his
smile grew broader.
It was the smile that did it, convicting Joan in her own eyes of
the silliness of her cry and sending over her face the most amazing
blush he had ever seen. Throat, cheeks, and forehead flamed with
the rush of the shamed blood.
"He--he--" she attempted to vindicate her deeper indignation, then
whirled abruptly away and passed out the rear door and down the
steps.
Sheldon sat and mused. He was a trifle angry, and the more he
dwelt upon the happening the angrier he grew. If it had been any
woman except Joan it would have been amusing. But Joan was the
last woman in the world to attempt to kiss forcibly. The thing
smacked of the back stairs anyway--a sordid little comedy perhaps,
but to have tried it on Joan was nothing less than sacrilege. The
man should have had better sense. Then, too, Sheldon was
personally aggrieved. He had been filched of something that he
felt was almost his, and his lover's jealousy was rampant at
thought of this forced familiarity.
It was while in this mood that the screen door banged loudly behind
the heels of Tudor, who strode into the room and paused before him.
Sheldon was unprepared, though it was very apparent that the other
was furious.
"Well?" Tudor demanded defiantly.
And on the instant speech rushed to Sheldon's lips.
"I hope you won't attempt anything like it again, that's all--
except that I shall be only too happy any time to extend to you the
courtesy of my whale-boat. It will land you in Tulagi in a few
hours."
"As if that would settle it," was the retort.
"I don't understand," Sheldon said simply.
"Then it is because you don't wish to understand."
"Still I don't understand," Sheldon said in steady, level tones.
"All that is clear to me is that you are exaggerating your own
blunder into something serious."
Tudor grinned maliciously and replied, -
"It would seem that you are doing the exaggerating, inviting me to
leave in your whale-boat. It is telling me that Berande is not big
enough for the pair of us. Now let me tell you that the Solomon
Islands is not big enough for the pair of us. This thing's got to
be settled between us, and it may as well be settled right here and
now."
"I can understand your fire-eating manners as being natural to
you," Sheldon went on wearily, "but why you should try them on me
is what I can't comprehend. You surely don't want to quarrel with
me."
"I certainly do."
"But what in heaven's name for?"
Tudor surveyed him with withering disgust.
"You haven't the soul of a louse. I suppose any man could make
love to your wife--"
"But I have no wife," Sheldon interrupted.
"Then you ought to have. The situation is outrageous. You might
at least marry her, as I am honourably willing to do."
For the first time Sheldon's rising anger boiled over.
"You--" he began violently, then abruptly caught control of himself
and went on soothingly, "you'd better take a drink and think it
over. That's my advice to you. Of course, when you do get cool,
after talking to me in this fashion you won't want to stay on any
longer, so while you're getting that drink I'll call the boat's-
crew and launch a boat. You'll be in Tulagi by eight this
evening."
He turned toward the door, as if to put his words into execution,
but the other caught him by the shoulder and twirled him around.
"Look here, Sheldon, I told you the Solomons were too small for the
pair of us, and I meant it."
"Is that an offer to buy Berande, lock, stock, and barrel?" Sheldon
queried.
"No, it isn't. It's an invitation to fight."
"But what the devil do you want to fight with me for?" Sheldon's
irritation was growing at the other's persistence. "I've no
quarrel with you. And what quarrel can you have with me? I have
never interfered with you. You were my guest. Miss Lackland is my
partner. If you saw fit to make love to her, and somehow failed to
succeed, why should you want to fight with me? This is the
twentieth century, my dear fellow, and duelling went out of fashion
before you and I were born."
"You began the row," Tudor doggedly asserted. "You gave me to
understand that it was time for me to go. You fired me out of your
house, in short. And then you have the cheek to want to know why I
am starting the row. It won't do, I tell you. You started it, and
I am going to see it through."
Sheldon smiled tolerantly and proceeded to light a cigarette. But
Tudor was not to be turned aside.
"You started this row," he urged.
"There isn't any row. It takes two to make a row, and I, for one,
refuse to have anything to do with such tomfoolery."
"You started it, I say, and I'll tell you why you started it."
"I fancy you've been drinking," Sheldon interposed. "It's the only
explanation I can find for your unreasonableness."
"And I'll tell you why you started it. It wasn't silliness on your
part to exaggerate this little trifle of love-making into something
serious. I was poaching on your preserves, and you wanted to get
rid of me. It was all very nice and snug here, you and the girl,
until I came along. And now you're jealous--that's it, jealousy--
and want me out of it. But I won't go."
"Then stay on by all means. I won't quarrel with you about it.
Make yourself comfortable. Stay for a year, if you wish."
"She's not your wife," Tudor continued, as though the other had not
spoken. "A fellow has the right to make love to her unless she's
your--well, perhaps it was an error after all, due to ignorance,
perfectly excusable, on my part. I might have seen it with half an
eye if I'd listened to the gossip on the beach. All Guvutu and
Tulagi were laughing about it. I was a fool, and I certainly made
the mistake of taking the situation on its assumed innocent face-
value."
So angry was Sheldon becoming that the face and form of the other
seemed to vibrate and oscillate before his eyes. Yet outwardly
Sheldon was calm and apparently weary of the discussion.
"Please keep her out of the conversation," he said.
"But why should I?" was the demand. "The pair of you trapped me
into making a fool of myself. How was I to know that everything
was not all right? You and she acted as if everything were on the
square. But my eyes are open now. Why, she played the outraged
wife to perfection, slapped the transgressor and fled to you.
Pretty good proof of what all the beach has been saying. Partners,
eh?--a business partnership? Gammon my eye, that's what it is."
Then it was that Sheldon struck out, coolly and deliberately, with
all the strength of his arm, and Tudor, caught on the jaw, fell
sideways, crumpling as he did so and crushing a chair to kindling
wood beneath the weight of his falling body. He pulled himself
slowly to his feet, but did not offer to rush.
"Now will you fight?" Tudor said grimly.
Sheldon laughed, and for the first time with true spontaneity. The
intrinsic ridiculousness of the situation was too much for his
sense of humour. He made as if to repeat the blow, but Tudor,
white of face, with arms hanging resistlessly at his sides, offered
no defence.
"I don't mean a fight with fists," he said slowly. "I mean to a
finish, to the death. You're a good shot with revolver and rifle.
So am I. That's the way we'll settle it."
"You have gone clean mad. You are a lunatic."
"No, I'm not," Tudor retorted. "I'm a man in love. And once again
I ask you to go outside and settle it, with any weapons you
choose."
Sheldon regarded him for the first time with genuine seriousness,
wondering what strange maggots could be gnawing in his brain to
drive him to such unusual conduct.
"But men don't act this way in real life," Sheldon remarked.
"You'll find I'm pretty real before you're done with me. I'm going
to kill you to-day."
"Bosh and nonsense, man." This time Sheldon had lost his temper
over the superficial aspects of the situation. "Bosh and nonsense,
that's all it is. Men don't fight duels in the twentieth century.
It's--it's antediluvian, I tell you."
"Speaking of Joan--"
"Please keep her name out of it," Sheldon warned him.
"I will, if you'll fight."
Sheldon threw up his arms despairingly.
"Speaking of Joan--"
"Look out," Sheldon warned again.
"Oh, go ahead, knock me down. But that won't close my mouth. You
can knock me down all day, but as fast as I get to my feet I'll
speak of Joan again. Now will you fight?"
"Listen to me, Tudor," Sheldon began, with an effort at
decisiveness. "I am not used to taking from men a tithe of what
I've already taken from you."
"You'll take a lot more before the day's out," was the answer. "I
tell you, you simply must fight. I'll give you a fair chance to
kill me, but I'll kill you before the day's out. This isn't
civilization. It's the Solomon Islands, and a pretty primitive
proposition for all that. King Edward and law and order are
represented by the Commissioner at Tulagi and an occasional
visiting gunboat. And two men and one woman is an equally
primitive proposition. We'll settle it in the good old primitive
way."
As Sheldon looked at him the thought came to his mind that after
all there might be something in the other's wild adventures over
the earth. It required a man of that calibre, a man capable of
obtruding a duel into orderly twentieth century life, to find such
wild adventures.
"There's only one way to stop me," Tudor went on. "I can't insult
you directly, I know. You are too easy-going, or cowardly, or
both, for that. But I can narrate for you the talk of the beach--
ah, that grinds you, doesn't it? I can tell you what the beach has
to say about you and this young girl running a plantation under a
business partnership."
"Stop!" Sheldon cried, for the other was beginning to vibrate and
oscillate before his eyes. "You want a duel. I'll give it to
you." Then his common-sense and dislike for the ridiculous
asserted themselves, and he added, "But it's absurd, impossible."
"Joan and David--partners, eh? Joan and David--partners," Tudor
began to iterate and reiterate in a malicious and scornful chant.
"For heaven's sake keep quiet, and I'll let you have your way,"
Sheldon cried. "I never saw a fool so bent on his folly. What
kind of a duel shall it be? There are no seconds. What weapons
shall we use?"
Immediately Tudor's monkey-like impishness left him, and he was
once more the cool, self-possessed man of the world.
"I've often thought that the ideal duel should be somewhat
different from the conventional one," he said. "I've fought
several of that sort, you know--"
"French ones," Sheldon interrupted.
"Call them that. But speaking of this ideal duel, here it is. No
seconds, of course, and no onlookers. The two principals alone are
necessary. They may use any weapons they please, from revolvers
and rifles to machine guns and pompoms. They start a mile apart,
and advance on each other, taking advantage of cover, retreating,
circling, feinting--anything and everything permissible. In short,
the principals shall hunt each other--"
"Like a couple of wild Indians?"
"Precisely," cried Tudor, delighted. "You've got the idea. And
Berande is just the place, and this is just the right time. Miss
Lackland will be taking her siesta, and she'll think we are. We've
got two hours for it before she wakes. So hurry up and come on.
You start out from the Balesuna and I start from the Berande.
Those two rivers are the boundaries of the plantation, aren't they?
Very well. The field of the duel will be the plantation. Neither
principal must go outside its boundaries. Are you satisfied?"
"Quite. But have you any objections if I leave some orders?"
"Not at all," Tudor acquiesced, the pink of courtesy now that his
wish had been granted.
Sheldon clapped his hands, and the running house-boy hurried away
to bring back Adamu Adam and Noa Noah.
"Listen," Sheldon said to them. "This man and me, we have one big
fight to-day. Maybe he die. Maybe I die. If he die, all right.
If I die, you two look after Missie Lackalanna. You take rifles,
and you look after her daytime and night-time. If she want to talk
with Mr. Tudor, all right. If she not want to talk, you make him
keep away. Savvee?"
They grunted and nodded. They had had much to do with white men,
and had learned never to question the strange ways of the strange
breed. If these two saw fit to go out and kill each other, that
was their business and not the business of the islanders, who took
orders from them. They stepped to the gun-rack, and each picked a
rifle.
"Better all Tahitian men have rifles," suggested Adamu Adam.
"Maybe big trouble come."
"All right, you take them," Sheldon answered, busy with issuing the
ammunition.
They went to the door and down the steps, carrying the eight rifles
to their quarters. Tudor, with cartridge-belts for rifle and
pistol strapped around him, rifle in hand, stood impatiently
waiting.
"Come on, hurry up; we're burning daylight," he urged, as Sheldon
searched after extra clips for his automatic pistol.
Together they passed down the steps and out of the compound to the
beach, where they turned their backs to each other, and each
proceeded toward his destination, their rifles in the hollows of
their arms, Tudor walking toward the Berande and Sheldon toward the
Balesuna. _
Read next: CHAPTER XXVII - MODERN DUELLING
Read previous: CHAPTER XXV - THE HEAD-HUNTERS
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