order my life methodically. You know very well, my dear d'Alcacer, that without strict method I would not have been able to get through my work and would have had no time at all for social duties, which, of course, are of very great importance. I may say that, materially, method has been the foundation of my success in public life. There were never any empty moments in my day. And now this! . . .' He looked all round the Cage. . . . 'Where's my wife?' he asked.
'I was talking to her only a moment ago,' answered d'Alcacer. 'I don't know the time. My watch is on board the yacht; but it isn't late, you know.'
Mr. Travers flung off with unwonted briskness the light cotton sheet which covered him. He buttoned hastily the tunic which he had unfastened before lying down, and just as d'Alcacer was expecting him to swing his feet to the deck impetuously, he lay down again on the pillow and remained perfectly still.
D'Alcacer waited awhile and then began to pace the Cage. After a couple of turns he stopped and said, gently:
'I am afraid, Travers, you are not very well.'
'I don't know what illness is,' answered the voice from the pillow to the great relief of d'Alcacer who really had not expected an answer. 'Good health is a great asset in public life. Illness may make you miss a unique opportunity. I was never ill.'
All this came out deadened in tone, as if the speaker's face had been buried in the pillow. D'Alcacer resumed his pacing.
'I think I asked you where my wife was,' said the muffled voice.
With great presence of mind d'Alcacer kept on pacing the Cage as if he had not heard.—'You know, I think she is mad,' went on the muffled voice. 'Unless I am.'
Again d'Alcacer managed not to interrupt his regular pacing. 'Do you know what I think?' he said, abruptly. 'I think, Travers, that you don't want to talk about her. I think that you don't want to talk about anything. And to tell you the truth I don't want to, either.'
D'Alcacer caught a faint sigh from the pillow and at the same time saw a small, dim flame appear outside the Cage. And still he kept on his pacing. Mrs. Travers and Lingard coming out of the deckhouse stopped just outside the door and Lingard stood the deck-lamp on its roof. They were too far from d'Alcacer to be heard, but he could make them out: Mrs. Travers, as straight as an arrow, and the heavy bulk of the man who faced her with a lowered head. He saw it in profile against the light and as if deferential in its slight droop. They were looking straight at each other. Neither of them made the slightest gesture.
'There is that in me,' Lingard murmured, deeply, 'which would set my heart harder than a stone. I am King Tom, Rajah Laut, and fit to look any man hereabouts in the face. I have my name to take care of. Everything rests on that.'
'Mr. d'Alcacer would express this by saying that everything rested on honour,' commented Mrs. Travers with lips that did not tremble, though from time to time she could feel the accelerated beating of her heart.
'Call it what you like. It's something that a man needs to draw a free breath. And look!—as you see me standing before you here I care for it no longer.'
'But I do care for it,' retorted Mrs. Travers. 'As you see me standing here—I do care. This is something that is your very own. You have a right to it. And I repeat I do care for it.'
'Care for something of my own,' murmured Lingard, very close to her face. 'Why should you care for my rights?'
'Because,' she said, holding her ground though their foreheads were nearly touching, 'because if I ever get back to my life I don't want to make it more absurd by real remorse.'
Her tone was soft and Lingard received the breath of those words like a caress on his face. D'Alcacer, in the Cage, made still another effort to keep up his pacing. He didn't want to give Mr. Travers the slightest excuse for sitting up again and looking round.
'That I should live to hear anybody say they cared anything for what was mine!' whispered Lingard. 'And that it should be you—you, who have taken all hardness out of me.'
'I don't want your heart to be made hard. I want it to be made firm.'
'You couldn't have said anything better than what you have said just now to make it steady,' flowed the murmur of Lingard's voice with something tender in its depth. 'Has anybody ever had a friend like this?' he exclaimed, raising his head as if taking the starry night to witness.
'And I ask myself is it possible that there should be another man on earth that I could trust as I trust you. I say to you: Yes! Go and save what you have a right to and don't forget to be merciful. I will not remind you of our perfect innocence. The earth must be small indeed that we should have blundered like this into your life. It's enough to make one believe in fatality. But I can't find it in me to behave like a fatalist, to sit down with folded hands. Had you been another kind of man I might have been too hopeless or too disdainful. Do you know what Mr. d'Alcacer calls you?'
Inside the Cage d'Alcacer, casting curious glances in their direction, saw Lingard shake his head and thought with slight uneasiness: 'He is refusing her something.'
'Mr. d'Alcacer's name for you is the 'Man of Fate',' said Mrs. Travers, a little breathlessly.
'A mouthful. Never mind, he is a gentleman. It's what you. . . .'
'I call you all but by your Christian name,' said Mrs. Travers, hastily. 'Believe me, Mr. d'Alcacer understands you.'
'He is all right,' interjected Lingard.
'And he is innocent. I remember what you have said—that the innocent must take their chance. Well, then, do what is right.'
'You think it would be right? You believe it? You feel it?'
'At this time, in this place, from a man like you—Yes, it is right.'
