“It’s the nose, Colet. Only the nose. It’s my gross selfishness. I’m so uncomfortable when in ignorance that even an unseen novelty anywhere near will make my nose twitch till I find it. That’s what unwholesome curiosity does for a man. That’s the result of being a dirt washer … but there’s a lot in dirt. It tells you what the bedrock may be. Haven’t you ever watched our Chinaman? Doesn’t he ever make your soul curl up at the corners?”
“Johnny? He’s only a shadow. There’s nothing the matter with him. He never even speaks—only makes a gurgle or two.”
“That’s all he can do. If he wasn’t so careful with the stuff I’d be afraid he’d drop some of his opium into the grub. But he loves that more than he hates us. I should like to see a section of the bedrock of that Chink under the microscope. Have you seen him putting little saucers of rice under one of the trees? A devil there he knows about, and we don’t. He keep crackers, to frighten the goblins. A section of his faith would prove unusual, under polarised light. Or of yours, Colet, or of yours. A bit of the bottom of your mind, ground thin, would fascinate me all the evening, with a lens of high power.”
“But not me. Nothing there to give me an appetite. That predilection of yours for Beethoven—did you find it in the dirt?”
“Quite right. All my fault. I asked for it. Now we’ll conclude our little inquiry into origins. When a fellow like you grows metaphysical I get lost. But you wouldn’t. Mystics can see anything in a fog, just anything, if only it’s thick enough. The thicker the better. But I loathe fogs. I can’t see so well in a fog.”
“Well, perhaps it wouldn’t be unfair to ask now whether we may look for gold here. Is there any?”
“That’s better. And there is. But Colet, where does it come from? That’s what beats me. I wish I was a mystic, or had second sight, or inspiration, or the devil’s own luck. Anything to take me where science can’t. The truth is, there’s bright little signs of happiness everywhere in this country. They lure us on like the portrait of a charmer whose favours were all distributed long ago, though we don’t know it. Oh, Colet, to think of it.”
They stooped to the stream, whirled the gravel in pans, and when neither perspiration nor another storm could saturate them more would examine the pinch of yellow dust that was all their reward. The metal had a strange loveliness, under the lens. To Colet it did not seem inadequate. For Norrie was near, with his droll comments. There was the apparition of the forest about them, silent and still; you had to touch a leathery leaf of it, to make sure of it, when stretching the back after intent diligence with the stream. Colet would pause in the washing now and then, checked by the only movement, a visiting butterfly, designed and coloured like joy, a flicker of silent mirth in the face of the wild. The butterflies did not object to a close inspection when they settled on a damp hummock of white sand under his nose; if he touched them they merely circused a little, and then came to the same spot, made themselves comfortable, and laid out their wings for inspection again.
Norrie declined to eat, when they sat by a tree, at midday. If he spoke, it was captiously. Once or twice his companion looked at him, surprised by a word that was venomous. Here was a corner beyond the hubbub, in a light like glory, and Norrie addressing Heaven, for his want of luck, as though it were the face of a dirty urchin who had soiled his property. Anything the matter with him? His hands were hanging listless over his knees, and he was brooding. His hands seemed queer. The fingers were lemon-colour, and the nails blue. Then Norrie peered over at him, and his jaw was chattering.
Colet became solicitous.
“Anything wrong, old chap?”
“I wondered what was coming. We’ll get back. I’ve got a touch of fever. Cold. It’s damned cold.”
XXIX
Norrie sank into his hammock, and remained, still and yellow, with his eyes shut, as though dead. The camp that evening suggested a depth in solitude which was more remote than Colet had ever known. The four Malays were apart, conferring together, unheard, almost merged in the wilderness. The Chinaman was nothing; his face always was expressionless and averted. And Norrie, in a sense, had left them. He was with Norrie, but Norrie was not with him. It was lucky he had got that dose of quinine into the poor old fellow before he became lightheaded.
What was he muttering about? Nothing more to be done for him. The natives didn’t seem to care; they only glanced casually at the lumpy hammock, and then forgot it. The day, the last of it, was in the treetops across the stream, and under that lane of upper gold was the unknown, and night already filling its hollows. The cicadas abruptly began their sunset ovation. They knew the signal; the signal was the light on the tree with a dead top. The gaunt antlers became flames, and the jungle instantly was a din, though it
