“That’s the worst of women,” he pointed out to MacIntyre, “they can never keep their heads. Fifteen and six would have been ample.”
“It would have been a great deal too much,” amended the Scot dourly.
“Next time you talk to her,” Cotterill added, “you might just explain things. Tell her that people are always being rescued, and that it’s not fair to put the price up. She’ll understand: she doesn’t look stupid.” And with this advice Cotterill went his way and had a game of draughts. There was no real reason why he should not have spoken to Miss Foley himself, but such was his ingrained habit of mind — such his lifelong resolution to keep clear of women — that the notion never occurred to him.
But if Cotterill would not speak to the lady, he was soon forced to speak of her; for Ian MacIntyre, the best conversationalist on the island, seemed suddenly to have formed the inexplicable habit of constantly dragging her in. Whatever the subject under discussion, Miss Foley’s name was sure to crop up; and what made it all the easier was the fact that she had traveled so much. If Cotterill mentioned Mozart, MacIntyre referred to Salzburg, and the month the Foleys had spent there. If Cotterill shifted to vodka or psychology, MacIntyre followed up with Warsaw or Vienna. It got monotonous. And to make matters worse, the Scotsman’s temper, usually so reliable, had begun to get very ragged. When Cotterill, for instance, idly remarked that such journeying must be very agreeable, MacIntyre nearly jumped down his throat.
“Agreeable!” he almost shouted. “Agreeable, you call it! A young woman of that age doesn’t want to spend her life trailing about foreign countries! She wants to settle down, in a home of her own.”
“Then why doesn’t she?” asked Cotterill reasonably. “They seem to have plenty of money.”
“Because that unhealthy young cub won’t let her. Because he’s afraid that if she gets other normal interests she’ll cease to bow down and worship. I could wring the little brute’s neck.”
Cotterill looked up in surprise, for his friend was not usually so vehement; and what he saw surprised him still further.
“You’ve got a touch of malaria,” he diagnosed kindly. “I get it still myself. You ought to go to bed—”
The Scotsman picked up a tube of ultramarine — he had found Cotterill at his easel on the cliff above the bay — and threw it into the sea. There was a splash below as an islander jumped after, and Cotterill grinned.
“That’ll cost you more than a new one,” he said amiably.
“I don’t care,” said MacIntyre.
And now Cotterill was seriously alarmed; there was evidently more wrong than he had thought. But before he could ask any questions — or even decide not to ask them — his unfortunate friend had thrown reticence to the winds.
“The fact of the matter is,” said MacIntyre, loudly and desperately, “that I’ve fallen in love.”
Cotterill stared, swore, and stared again.
“With — with Diana Foley?”
“Yes. And I haven’t a dog’s chance.”
For a moment Cotterill sat silent, running a painter’s eye over the man at his side. Tall, thin, sunburned, broken nose and well-shaped head — a better specimen than most, Cotterill decided; and though women in general seemed to prefer dummies, they were also notoriously ready to make the best of a bad job. The conclusion was thus rather favorable than not, and though with some inward misgivings — for his sincerest advice would have been to take flight on the next boat — Cotterill repeated it aloud.
“You’re too modest,” he said encouragingly. “Women fall in love with almost anyone.”
“That’s not the point. As a matter of fact, I know she’s — quite fond of me, now. But there’s also that damned young brother. He stopped her marrying once, for which I suppose I ought to be grateful; and as soon as he realizes what’s happening, he’ll try and stop her again.”
“Then if she knows her own mind,” said Cotterill, whom the subject was beginning to bore, “she’ll walk out and leave him.”
MacIntyre moved impatiently.
“No woman can leave a man who needs her for a man she’s just in love with. And Maurice needs her all right; he lives on her like a parasite. Who else would bother to keep him alive, even?”
“But damn it all,” said Cotterill, “she’s not his mother!”
“Have you heard their story?” asked MacIntyre grimly. “No? Well, you’d better listen. They were left orphans when he was five and Diana ten. He was always sickly, Diana always strong. When the mother was dying she sent for Diana and told her that whatever happened she must look after Maurice. Those things make an impression. Diana promised, of course, and the mother died that same hour. The two children went to some aunt or other, a woman who had run mad on Theosophy and never remembered to order the dinner. If Maurice was to get enough to eat, Diana had to see to it. She did see to it. In a year or two she was running the house. The aunt didn’t mind — she probably never noticed. Maurice was too delicate for school, so there was also a governess; and to save expense Diana didn’t go to school either. When Maurice was fourteen, he nearly died of pleurisy. Diana nursed him through it and literally saved his life. That made an impression, too.”
Cotterill nodded. He was beginning to understand,
“Five years later,” continued MacIntyre, “the Theosophist aunt died, leaving them a good bit of money. Maurice had drifted into writing, and wanted to travel. They went abroad, and they’ve been traveling ever since. Whenever Diana wants to settle down for a little, he throws a fit and says the climate doesn’t suit him. If she wants to settle for good, he’ll probably go paralyzed.”
MacIntyre ceased; and in the silence that followed Cotterill became aware of one outstanding fact. It was this, that until the affair had been settled, in either one way or the other, there would be no peace on the island. The immediate object, therefore, of all sensible persons, must be to bring matters to a head; so without further loss of time, and employing all the eloquence at his command, he began inciting his friend to rashness. Anything, he urged, was better than uncertainty; until the worst was known, no action could be taken to combat it.
“You mean,” said MacIntyre, “that I should go straight down to her this afternoon?”
Cotterill nodded. It seemed an awful thing to counsel, but what could he do?
The day that MacIntyre’s proposal was made known to him, Maurice Foley had a severe fainting fit. He had it on a secluded reach of shore, where his sister found great difficulty in getting help. Almost beside herself with distress, she had to leave him senseless and run half a mile to the nearest habitation. Two islanders came back with her, and when they saw who needed their services were understood to remark that one would have been enough. The younger of the pair then flung Maurice negligently over his shoulder, while the other lay down on the spot and gratefully went to sleep again.
It was a touch of the sun. Or that, at any rate, was Maurice’s version; and as there was no doctor on the island to contradict him, he had his own way. For the next three days he kept himself recumbent and in darkness, while his sister, by the shaded light of a lamp, read extract after extract from his own works. He clung to her pathetically; he was like a little boy again. Her absence gave him a temperature, so that she could rarely leave his side. When her lover called she sent notes by Carmena, not daring to come down in person. Once MacIntyre proved stubborn, and set himself to wait in the cool whitewashed hall. After about twenty minutes a door opened and there were footsteps on the landing; but a voice called suddenly, the footsteps returned, and the door was shut again.