Part 16

Well, at any rate he had done something for somebody. This island depressed him--why, oh! why had he deserted the Riviera which he knew so well, and where he was so well known? Nobody here took any interest in him. Nobody seemed to realize that here was _the_ Mr. Satterthwaite--the friend of duchesses and countesses and singers and writers. No one in the island was of any social importance or of any artistic importance either. Most people had been there seven, fourteen, or twenty-one years running, and valued themselves and were valued accordingly.

With a deep sigh Mr. Satterthwaite proceeded down from the hotel to the small, straggling harbor below. His way lay along an avenue of bougainvillea--a vivid mass of flaunting scarlet, that made him feel older and grayer than ever.

"I'm getting old," he murmured. "I'm getting old and tired."

He was glad when he had passed the bougainvillea and was walking down the white street with the blue sea at the end of it. A disreputable dog was standing in the middle of the road, yawning and stretching himself in the sun. Having prolonged his stretch to the utmost limits of ecstasy, he sat down and treated himself to a really good scratch. He then rose, shook himself, and looked round for any other good things that life might have to offer.

There was a dump of rubbish by the side of the road and to this he went sniffing in pleasurable anticipation. True enough, his nose had not deceived him! A smell of such rich putrescence that it surpassed even his anticipations! He sniffed with growing appreciation, then, suddenly abandoning himself, he lay on his back and rolled frenziedly on the delicious dump. Clearly the world this morning was a dog paradise!

Tiring at last, he regained his feet and strolled out once more into the middle of the road. And then, without the least warning, a ramshackle car careened wildly round the corner, caught him full and square, and passed on unheeding.

The dog rose to his feet, stood a minute regarding Mr. Satterthwaite, a vague dumb reproach in its eyes, then fell over. Mr. Satterthwaite went up to him and bent down. The dog was dead. He went on his way, wondering at the sadness and cruelty of life. What a queer dumb look of reproach had been in the dog's eyes. "Oh! world," it seemed to say. "Oh! Wonderful world in which I have trusted. Why have you done this to me?"

Mr. Satterthwaite went on, past the palm trees and the straggling white houses, past the black lava beach where the surf thundered and where once, long ago, a well-known English swimmer had been carried out to sea and drowned, past the rock pools where children and elderly ladies bobbed up and down and called it bathing, along the steep road that winds upward to the top of the cliff. For there on the edge of the cliff was a house, appropriately named La Paz. A white house with faded green shutters tightly closed, a tangled beautiful garden, and a walk between cypress trees that led to a plateau on the edge of the cliff where you looked down--down--down--to the deep blue sea below.

It was to this spot that Mr. Satterthwaite was bound. He had developed a great love for the garden of La Paz. He had never entered the villa. It seemed always to be empty. Manuel, the Spanish gardener, wished one good morning with a flourish, and gallantly presented ladies with a bouquet and gentlemen with a single flower as a buttonhole, his dark face wreathed in smiles.

Sometimes Mr. Satterthwaite made up stories in his own mind about the owner of the villa. His favorite was a Spanish dancer, once world-famed for her beauty, who hid herself here so that the world should never know that she was no longer beautiful.

He pictured her coming out of the house at dusk and walking through the garden. Sometimes he was tempted to ask Manuel for the truth, but he resisted the temptation. He preferred his fancies.

After exchanging a few words with Manuel and graciously accepting an orange rosebud, Mr. Satterthwaite passed on down the cypress walk to the sea. It was rather wonderful sitting there--on the edge of nothing--with that sheer drop below one. It made him think of _Tristan and Isolde_, of the beginning of the third act with Tristan and Kurwenal--that lonely waiting, and of Isolde rushing up from the sea and Tristan dying in her arms. (No, little Olga would never make an Isolde. Isolde of Cornwall, that royal hater and royal lover--) He shivered. He felt old, chilly, alone. What had he had out of life? Nothing--nothing. Not as much as that dog in the street.

It was an unexpected sound that roused him from his reverie. Footsteps coming along the cypress walk were inaudible; the first he knew of somebody's presence was the English monosyllable "Damn."

He looked round to find a young man staring at him in obvious surprise and disappointment. Mr. Satterthwaite recognized him at once as an arrival of the day before who had more or less intrigued him. Mr. Satterthwaite called him a young man--because in comparison to most of the die-hards in the hotel he _was_ a young man, but he would certainly never see forty again and was probably drawing appreciably near to his half century. Yet, in spite of that, the term young man fitted him--Mr. Satterthwaite was usually right about such things--there was an impression of immaturity about him. As there is a touch of puppyhood about many a full-grown dog, so it was with the stranger.

Mr. Satterthwaite thought, _This chap has really never grown up--not properly, that is_.

And yet there was nothing Peter Pannish about him. He was sleek--almost plump, he had the air of one who has always done himself exceedingly well in the material sense and denied himself no pleasure or satisfaction. He had brown eyes--rather round--fair hair turning gray--a little mustache and rather a florid face.

The thing that had puzzled Mr. Satterthwaite was what had brought him to the island. He could imagine him shooting things, hunting things, playing polo or golf or tennis, making love to pretty women. But in the island there was nothing to hunt or shoot, no games except golf croquet, and the nearest approach to a pretty woman was represented by elderly Miss Baba Kindersley. There were, of course, artists, to whom the beauty of the scenery made appeal, but Mr. Satterthwaite was quite certain that the young man was not an artist. He was clearly marked with the stamp of the Philistine.

While he was revolving these things in his mind, the other spoke, realizing somewhat belatedly that his single ejaculation so far might be open to criticism.

"I beg your pardon," he said with some embarrassment. "As a matter of fact, I was--well, startled. I didn't expect anyone to be here."

He smiled disarmingly. He had a charming smile--friendly--appealing.

"It is rather a lonely spot," agreed Mr. Satterthwaite, and he moved politely a little farther up the bench. The other accepted the mute invitation and sat down.

"I don't know about lonely," he said. "There always seems to be _someone_ here."

There was a tinge of latent resentment in his voice. Mr. Satterthwaite wondered why. He read the other as a friendly soul. Why this insistence on solitude? A rendezvous, perhaps? No--not that. He looked again with carefully veiled scrutiny at his companion. Where had he seen that particular expression before quite lately? That look of dumb, bewildered resentment.

"You've been up here before then?" said Mr. Satterthwaite, more for the sake of saying something than for anything else.

"I was up here last night--after dinner."

"Really? I thought the gates were always locked."

There was a moment's pause and then, almost sullenly, the young man said, "I climbed over the wall."

Mr. Satterthwaite looked at him with real attention now. He had a sleuthlike habit of mind and he was aware that his companion had only arrived on the preceding afternoon. He had had little time to discover the beauties of the villa by daylight and he had so far spoken to nobody. Yet after dark he had made straight for La Paz. Why? Almost involuntarily Mr. Satterthwaite turned his head to look at the green-shuttered villa, but it was as ever serenely lifeless, close-shuttered. No, the solution of the mystery was not there.

"And you actually found someone here then?"

The other nodded. "Yes. Must have been from the other hotel. He had on fancy dress."

"Fancy dress?"

"Yes. A kind of Harlequin rig."

"What?"

The query fairly burst from Mr. Satterthwaite's lips. His companion turned to stare at him in surprise.

"They often do have fancy dress shows at the hotels, I suppose?"

"Oh! quite," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "Quite, quite, quite."

He paused breathlessly, then added, "You must excuse my excitement. Do you happen to know anything about catalysis?"

The young man stared at him. "Never heard of it. What is it?"

Mr. Satterthwaite quoted gravely: "_A chemical reaction depending for its success on the presence of a certain substance which itself remains unchanged_."

"Oh!" said the young man uncertainly.

"I have a certain friend--his name is Mr. Quin, and he can best be described in the terms of catalysis. His presence is a sign that things are going to happen; because he is there strange revelations come to light, discoveries are made. And yet--he himself takes no part in the proceedings. I have a feeling that it was my friend you met here last night."

"He's a very sudden sort of chap then. He gave me quite a shock. One minute he wasn't there and the next minute he was! Almost as though he came up out of the sea."

Mr. Satterthwaite looked along the little plateau and down the sheer drop below.

"That's nonsense, of course," said the other. "But it's the feeling he gave me. Of course, really, there isn't the foothold for a fly." He looked over the edge. "A straight, clear drop. If you went over--well, that would be the end right enough."

"An ideal spot for a murder, in fact," said Mr. Satterthwaite pleasantly.

The other stared at him, almost as though for the moment he did not follow. Then he said vaguely, "Oh! yes--of course."

He sat there, making little dabs at the ground with his stick and frowning. Suddenly Mr. Satterthwaite got the resemblance he had been seeking. That dumb, bewildered questioning. _So had the dog looked who was run over._ His eyes and this young man's eyes asked the same pathetic question with the same reproach. "_Oh! world that I have trusted--what have you done to me?_"

He saw other points of resemblance between the two, the same pleasure-loving, easy-going existence, the same joyous abandon to the delights of life, the same absence of intellectual questioning. Enough for both to live in the moment--the world was a good place, a place of carnal delights--sun, sea, sky--a discreet garbage heap. And then--what? A car had hit the dog. What had hit the man?

The subject of these cogitations broke in at this point, speaking, however, more to himself than to Mr. Satterthwaite. "One wonders," he said, "what it's all for."

Familiar words--words that usually brought a smile to Mr. Satterthwaite's lips, with their unconscious betrayal of the innate egoism of humanity, which insists on regarding every manifestation of life as directly designed for its delight or its torment. He did not answer, and presently the stranger said with a slight, rather apologetic laugh:

"I've heard it said that every man should build a house, plant a tree, and have a son." He paused and then added, "I believe I planted an acorn once--"

Mr. Satterthwaite stirred slightly. His curiosity was aroused--that ever-present interest in the affairs of other people of which the duchess had accused him was roused. It was not difficult. Mr. Satterthwaite had a very feminine side to his nature; he was as good a listener as any woman, and he knew the right moment to put in a prompting word. Presently he was hearing the whole story.

Anthony Cosdon, that was the stranger's name, and his life had been much as Mr. Satterthwaite had imagined it. He was a bad hand at telling a story but his listener supplied the gaps easily enough. A very ordinary life--an average income, a little soldiering, a good deal of sport whenever sport offered, plenty of friends, plenty of pleasant things to do, a sufficiency of women. The kind of life that practically inhibits thought of any description and substitutes sensation. To speak frankly, an animal's life. _But there are worse things than that_, thought Mr. Satterthwaite from the depths of his experience. _Oh! many worse things than that._ This world had seemed a very good place to Anthony Cosdon. He had grumbled because everyone always grumbled, but it had never been a serious grumble. And then--_this_.

He came to it at last--rather vaguely and incoherently. Hadn't felt quite the thing--nothing much. Saw his doctor, and the doctor had persuaded him to go to a Harley Street man. And then--the incredible truth. They'd tried to hedge about it--spoke of great care--a quiet life, but they hadn't been able to disguise that that was all eyewash--letting him down lightly. It boiled down to this--six months. That's what they gave him. Six months.

He turned those bewildered brown eyes on Mr. Satterthwaite. It was, of course, rather a shock to a fellow. One didn't--one didn't somehow, know what to _do_.

Mr. Satterthwaite nodded gravely and understandingly.

It was a bit difficult to take in all at once, Anthony Cosdon went on. How to put in the time. Rather a rotten business waiting about to get pipped. He didn't feel really ill--not yet. Though that might come later, so the specialist had said--in fact it was bound to. It seemed such nonsense to be going to die when one didn't in the least want to. The best thing, he had thought, would be to carry on as usual. But somehow that hadn't worked.

Here Mr. Satterthwaite interrupted him. Wasn't there, he hinted delicately, any woman?

But apparently there wasn't. There were women, of course, but not that kind. His crowd was a very cheery crowd. They didn't, so he implied, like corpses. He didn't wish to make a kind of walking funeral of himself. It would have been embarrassing for everybody. So he had come abroad.

"You came to these islands? But why?" Mr. Satterthwaite was hunting for something, something intangible but delicate that eluded him and yet which he was sure was there. "You've been here before, perhaps?"

"Yes." He admitted it almost unwillingly. "Years ago when I was a youngster."

And suddenly, almost unconsciously so it seemed, he shot a quick glance backward over his shoulder in the direction of the villa.

"I remembered this place," he said, nodding at the sea. "_One step to eternity!_"

"And that is why you came up here last night," finished Mr. Satterthwaite calmly.

Anthony Cosdon shot him a dismayed glance. "Oh! I say--really--" he protested.

"Last night you found someone here. This afternoon you have found me. Your life has been saved--twice."

"You may put it that way if you like--but damn it all, it's _my_ life. I've a right to do what I like with it."

"That is a cliché," said Mr. Satterthwaite wearily.

"Of course I see your point," said Anthony Cosdon generously. "Naturally you've got to say what you can. I'd try to dissuade a fellow myself, even though I knew deep down that he was right. And you know that I'm right. A clean, quick end is better than a lingering one--causing trouble and expense and bother to all. In any case it's not as though I had anyone in the world belonging to me--"

"If you had?" asked Mr. Satterthwaite sharply.

Cosdon drew a deep breath. "I don't know. Even then, I think, this way would be best. But anyway--I haven't--"

He stopped abruptly. Mr. Satterthwaite eyed him curiously. Incurably romantic, he suggested again that there was, somewhere, some woman. But Cosdon negatived it. He oughtn't, he said, to complain. He had had, on the whole, a very good life. It was a pity it was going to be over so soon, that was all. But at any rate he had had, he supposed, everything worth having. Except a son. He would have liked a son. He would like to know now that he had a son living after him. Still, he reiterated the fact, he had had a very good life.

It was at this point that Mr. Satterthwaite lost patience. Nobody, he pointed out, who was still in the larval stage, could claim to know anything of life at all. Since the words "larval stage" clearly meant nothing at all to Cosdon, he proceeded to make his meaning clearer.

"You have not begun to live yet. You are still at the beginning of life."

Cosdon laughed. "Why, my hair's gray. I'm forty--"

Mr. Satterthwaite interrupted him. "That has nothing to do with it. Life is a compound of physical and mental experience. I, for instance, am sixty-nine, and I am really sixty-nine. I have known, either at first or second hand, nearly all the experiences life has to offer. You are like a man who talks of a full year and has seen nothing but snow and ice! The flowers of spring, the languorous days of summer, the falling leaves of autumn--he knows nothing of them--not even that there are such things. And you are going to turn your back on even the opportunity of knowing them."

"You seem to forget," said Anthony Cosdon dryly, "that in any case, I have only six months."

"Time, like everything else, is relative," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "That six months might be the longest and most varied experience of your whole life."

Cosdon looked unconvinced. "In my place," he said, "you would do the same."

Mr. Satterthwaite shook his head. "No," he said simply. "In the first place, I doubt if I should have the courage. It needs courage, and I am not at all a brave individual. And in the second place--"

"Well?"

"I always want to know what is going to happen tomorrow."

Cosdon rose suddenly with a laugh. "Well, sir, you've been very good in letting me talk to you. I hardly know why--Anyway, there it is. I've said a lot too much. Forget it."

"And tomorrow, when an accident is reported, I am to leave it at that? To make no suggestions of suicide?"

"That's as you like. I'm glad you realize one thing--that you can't prevent me."

"My dear young man," said Mr. Satterthwaite placidly, "I can hardly attach myself to you like the proverbial limpet. Sooner or later you would give me the slip and accomplish your purpose. But you are frustrated at any rate for this afternoon. You would hardly like to go to your death leaving me under the possible imputation of having pushed you over."

"That is true," said Cosdon. "If you insist on remaining here--"

"I do," said Mr. Satterthwaite firmly.

Cosdon laughed good-humoredly. "Then the plan must be deferred for the moment. In which case I will go back to the hotel. See you later perhaps."

Mr. Satterthwaite was left looking at the sea.

"And now," he said to himself softly, "what next? There must be a next. I wonder--"

He got up. For a while he stood at the edge of the plateau looking down at the dancing water beneath. But he found no inspiration there, and turning slowly he walked back along the path between the cypresses and into the quiet garden. He looked at the shuttered, peaceful house and he wondered as he had often wondered before who had lived there and what had taken place within those placid walls. On a sudden impulse he walked up some crumbling stone steps and laid a hand on one of the faded green shutters.

To his surprise it swung back at his touch. He hesitated a moment, then pushed it boldly open. The next minute he stepped back with a little exclamation of dismay. A woman stood in the window facing him. She wore black and had a black lace mantilla draped over her head.

Mr. Satterthwaite floundered wildly in Italian interspersed with German--the nearest he could get in the hurry of the moment to Spanish. He was desolated and ashamed, he explained haltingly. The Signora must forgive. He thereupon retreated hastily, the woman not having spoken one word.

He was halfway across the courtyard when she spoke--two sharp words like a pistol crack. "Come back!"

It was a barked-out command such as might have been addressed to a dog, yet so absolute was the authority it conveyed that Mr. Satterthwaite had swung round hurriedly and trotted back to the window almost automatically before it occurred to him to feel any resentment. He obeyed like a dog. The woman was still standing motionless at the window. She looked him up and down appraising him with perfect calmness.

"You are English," she said. "I thought so."

Mr. Satterthwaite started off on a second apology. "If I had known you were English," he said, "I could have expressed myself better just now. I offer my most sincere apologies for my rudeness in trying the shutter. I am afraid I can plead no excuse save curiosity. I had a great wish to see what the inside of this charming house was like."

She laughed suddenly, a deep rich laugh. "If you really want to see it," she said, "you had better come in."

She stood aside, and Mr. Satterthwaite, feeling pleasurably excited, stepped into the room. It was dark, since the shutters of the other windows were closed, but he could see that it was scantily and rather shabbily furnished and that the dust lay thick everywhere.

"Not here," she said. "I do not use this room."

She led the way and he followed her, out of the room across a passage and into a room the other side. Here the windows gave on the sea and the sun streamed in. The furniture like that of the other room was poor in quality, but there were some worn rugs that had been good in their time, a large screen of Spanish leather and bowls of fresh flowers.

"You will have tea with me," said Mr. Satterthwaite's hostess. She added, reassuringly, "It is perfectly good tea and will be made with boiling water."

She went out of the door and called out something in Spanish, then she returned and sat down on a sofa opposite her guest. For the first time, Mr. Satterthwaite was able to study her appearance.

The first effect she had upon him was to make him feel even more gray and shriveled and elderly than usual by contrast with her own forceful personality. She was a tall woman, very sunburned, dark and handsome, though no longer young. When she was in the room the sun seemed to be shining twice as brightly as when she was out of it, and presently a curious feeling of warmth and aliveness began to steal over Mr. Satterthwaite. It was as though he stretched out thin, shriveled hands to a reassuring flame. He thought, _She's so much vitality herself that she's got a lot left over for other people._

He recalled the command in her voice when she had stopped him and wished that his protégée Olga could be imbued with a little of that force. He thought, _What an Isolde she'd make! And yet she probably hasn't got the ghost of a singing voice. Life is badly arranged._ He was, all the same, a little afraid of her. He did not like domineering women.

She had clearly been considering him as she sat with her chin in her hands, making no pretense about it. At last she nodded as though she had made up her mind.

"I am glad you came," she said at last. "I needed someone very badly to talk to this afternoon. And you are used to that, aren't you?"

"I don't quite understand."

"I meant people tell you things. You knew what I meant! Why pretend?"

"Well--perhaps--"

She swept on, regardless of anything he had been going to say. "One could say anything to you. That is because you are half a woman. You know what we feel--what we think--the queer, queer things we do."

Her voice died away. Tea was brought by a large, smiling Spanish girl. It was good tea--China--Mr. Satterthwaite sipped it appreciatively.

"You live here?" he inquired conversationally.

"Yes."

"But not altogether. The house is usually shut up, is it not? At least so I have been told."

"I am here a good deal, more than anyone knows. I only use these rooms."

"You have had the house long?"