The Vagrant

The Lion and the Unicorn

by Richard Harding Davis

His Excellency Sir Charles Greville, K. C M. G., Governor of the
Windless Islands, stood upon the veranda of Government House
surveying the new day with critical and searching eyes. Sir Charles
had been so long absolute monarch of the Windless Isles that he had
assumed unconsciously a mental attitude of suzerainty over even the
glittering waters of the Caribbean Sea, and the coral reefs under the
waters, and the rainbow skies that floated above them. But on this
particular morning not even the critical eye of the Governor could
distinguish a single flaw in the tropical landscape before him.

The lawn at his feet ran down to meet the dazzling waters of the
bay, the blue waters of the bay ran to meet a great stretch of
absinthe green, the green joined a fairy sky of pink and gold and
saffron. Islands of coral floated on the sea of absinthe, and
derelict clouds of mother-of-pearl swung low above them, starting
from nowhere and going nowhere, but drifting beautifully, like giant
soap-bubbles of light and color. Where the lawn touched the waters
of the bay the cocoanut-palms reached their crooked lengths far up
into the sunshine, and as the sea- breeze stirred their fronds they
filled the hot air with whispers and murmurs like the fluttering of
many fans. Nature smiled boldly upon the Governor, confident in her
bountiful beauty, as though she said, "Surely you cannot but be
pleased with me to- day." And, as though in answer, the critical and
searching glance of Sir Charles relaxed.

The crunching of the gravel and the rattle of the sentry's
musket at salute recalled him to his high office and to the duties of
the morning. He waved his hand, and, as though it were a wand, the
sentry moved again, making his way to the kitchen-garden, and so
around Government House and back to the lawn-tennis court,
maintaining in his solitary pilgrimage the dignity of her Majesty's
representative, as well as her Majesty's power over the Windless
Isles.

The Governor smiled slightly, with the ease of mind of one who
finds all things good. Supreme authority, surroundings of endless
beauty, the respectful, even humble, deference of his inferiors, and
never even an occasional visit from a superior, had in four years
lowered him into a bed of ease and self- satisfaction. He was cut
off from the world, and yet of it. Each month there came, via
Jamaica, the three weeks' old copy of The Weekly Times; he subscribed
to Mudie's Colonial Library; and from the States he had imported an
American lawn-mower, the mechanism of which no one as yet understood.
Within his own borders he had created a healthy, orderly seaport out
of what had been a sink of fever and a refuge for all the
ne'er-do-wells and fugitive revolutionists of Central America.

He knew, as he sat each evening on his veranda, looking across
the bay, that in the world beyond the pink and gold sunset men were
still panting, struggling, and starving; crises were rising and
passing; strikes and panics, wars and the rumors of wars, swept from
continent to continent; a plague crept through India; a filibuster
with five hundred men at his back crossed an imaginary line and
stirred the world from Cape Town to London; Emperors were crowned;
the good Queen celebrated the longest reign; and a captain of
artillery imprisoned in a swampy island in the South Atlantic caused
two hemispheres to clamor for his rescue, and lit a race war that
stretched from Algiers to the boulevards.

And yet, at the Windless Isles, all these happenings seemed to
Sir Charles like the morning's memory of a dream. For these things
never crossed the ring of the coral reefs; he saw them only as
pictures in an illustrated paper a month old. And he was pleased to
find that this was so. He was sufficient to himself, with his own
responsibilities and social duties and public works.

He was a man in authority, who said to others, "Come!" and "Go!"
Under him were commissioners, and under the commissioners district
inspectors and boards of education and of highways. For the better
health of the colony he had planted trees that sucked the malaria
from the air; for its better morals he had substituted as a Sunday
amusement cricket-matches for cock- fights; and to keep it at peace
he had created a local constabulary of native negroes, and had
dressed them in the cast- off uniforms of London policemen. His
handiwork was everywhere, and his interest was all sunk in his
handiwork. The days passed gorgeous with sunshine, the nights
breathed with beauty. It was an existence of leisurely occupation,
and one that promised no change, and he was content.

As it was Thursday, the Council met that morning, and some
questions of moment to the colony were to be brought up for
consideration. The question of the dog-tax was one which perplexed
Sir Charles most particularly. The two Councillors elected by the
people and the three appointed by the crown had disagreed as to this
tax. Of the five hundred British subjects at the seaport, all but
ten were owners of dogs, and it had occurred to Sassoon, the chemist,
that a tax of half-a-crown a year on each of these dogs would meet
the expense of extending the oyster-shell road to the new
cricket-grounds. To this Snellgrove, who held the contract for the
narrow-gauge railroad, agreed; but the three crown Councillors
opposed the tax vigorously, on the ground that as scavengers alone
the dogs were a boon to the colony and should be encouraged. The
fact that each of these gentlemen owned not only one, but several
dogs of high pedigree made their position one of great delicacy.

There was no way by which the Governor could test the popular
will in the matter, except through his secretary, Mr. Clarges, who,
at the cricket-match between the local eleven and the officers and
crew of H. M. S. Partridge, had been informed by the other owners of
several fox-terriers that, in their opinion, the tax was a piece of
"condemned tommy-rot." From this the Governor judged that it would
not prove a popular measure. As he paced the veranda, drawing
deliberately on his cigar, and considering to which party he should
give the weight of his final support, his thoughts were disturbed by
the approach of a stranger, who advanced along the gravel walk,
guarded on either side by one of the local constabulary. The
stranger was young and of poor appearance. His bare feet were bound
in a pair of the rope sandals worn by the natives, his clothing was
of torn and soiled drill, and he fanned his face nonchalantly with a
sombrero of battered and shapeless felt.

Sir Charles halted in his walk, and holding his cigar behind his
back, addressed himself to the sergeant.

"A vagrant?" he asked.

The words seemed to bear some amusing significance to the
stranger, for his face lit instantly with a sweet and charming smile,
and while he turned to hear the sergeant's reply, he regarded him
with a kindly and affectionate interest.

"Yes, your Excellency."

The Governor turned to the prisoner.

"Do you know the law of this colony regarding vagrants?"

"I do not," the young man answered. His tone was politely
curious, and suggested that he would like to be further informed as
to the local peculiarities of a foreign country.

"After two weeks' residence," the Governor recited,
impressively, "all able-bodied persons who will not work are put to
work or deported. Have you made any effort to find work?"

Again the young man smiled charmingly. He shook his head and
laughed. "Oh dear no," he said.

The laugh struck the Governor as impertinent.

"Then you must leave by the next mail-steamer, if you have any
money to pay your passage, or, if you have no money, you must go to
work on the roads. Have you any money?"

"If I had, I wouldn't--be a vagrant," the young man answered.
His voice was low and singularly sweet. It seemed to suit the
indolence of his attitude and the lazy, inconsequent smile. "I
called on our consular agent here," he continued, leisurely, "to
write a letter home for money, but he was disgracefully drunk, so I
used his official note-paper to write to the State Department about
him, instead."

The Governor's deepest interest was aroused. The American
consular agent was one of the severest trials he was forced to
endure.

"You are not a British subject, then? Ah, I see--and--er--your
representative was unable to assist you?"

"He was drunk," the young man repeated, placidly. "He has been
drunk ever since I have been here, particularly in the mornings."

He halted, as though the subject had lost interest for him, and
gazed pleasantly at the sunny bay and up at the moving palms.

"Then," said the Governor, as though he had not been
interrupted, "as you have no means of support, you will help support
the colony until you can earn money to leave it. That will do,
sergeant."

The young man placed his hat upon his head and turned to move
away, but at the first step he swayed suddenly and caught at the
negro's shoulder, clasping his other hand across his eyes. The
sergeant held him by the waist, and looked up at the Governor with
some embarrassment.

"The young gentleman has not been well, Sir Charles," he said,
apologetically.

The stranger straightened himself up and smiled vaguely. "I'm
all right," he murmured. "Sun's too hot."

"Sit down," said the Governor.

He observed the stranger more closely. He noticed now that
beneath the tan his face was delicate and finely cut, and that his
yellow hair clung closely to a well-formed head.

"He seems faint. Has he had anything to eat?" asked the
Governor.

The sergeant grinned guiltily. "Yes, Sir Charles; we've been
feeding him at the barracks. It's fever, sir."

Sir Charles was not unacquainted with fallen gentlemen, "beach-
combers," "remittance men," and vagrants who had known better days,
and there had been something winning in this vagrant's smile, and,
moreover, he had reported that thorn in his flesh, the consular
agent, to the proper authorities.

He conceived an interest in a young man who, though with naked
feet, did not hesitate to correspond with his Minister of Foreign
Affairs.

"How long have you been ill?" he asked.

The young man looked up from where he had sunk on the steps, and
roused himself with a shrug. "It doesn't matter," he said. "I've
had a touch of Chagres ever since I was on the Isthmus. I was at
work there on the railroad."

"Did you come here from Colon?"

"No; I worked up the Pacific side. I was clerking with Rossner
Brothers at Amapala for a while, because I speak a little German, and
then I footed it over to Puerto Cortez and got a job with the lottery
people. They gave me twenty dollars a month gold for rolling the
tickets, and I put it all in the drawing, and won as much as ten."
He laughed, and sitting erect, drew from his pocket a roll of thin
green papers. "These are for the next drawing," he said. "Have
some?" he added. He held them towards the negro sergeant, who, under
the eye of the Governor, resisted, and then spread the tickets on his
knee like a hand at cards. "I stand to win a lot with these," he
said, with a cheerful sigh. "You see, until the list's published I'm
prospectively worth twenty thousand dollars. And," he added, "I
break stones in the sun." He rose unsteadily, and saluted the
Governor with a nod. "Good-morning, sir," he said, "and thank
you."

"Wait," Sir Charles commanded. A new form of punishment had
suggested itself, in which justice was tempered with mercy. "Can you
work one of your American lawn-mowers?" he asked.

The young man laughed delightedly. "I never tried," he said,
"but I've seen it done."

"If you've been ill, it would be murder to put you on the shell
road." The Governor's dignity relaxed into a smile. "I don't desire
international complications," he said. "Sergeant, take this--him--to
the kitchen, and tell Corporal Mallon to give him that American
lawn-mowing machine. Possibly he may understand its mechanism.
Mallon only cuts holes in the turf with it." And he waved his hand
in dismissal, and as the three men moved away he buried himself again
in the perplexities of the dog-tax.

Ten minutes later the deliberations of the Council were
disturbed by a loud and persistent rattle, like the whir of a Maxim
gun, which proved, on investigation, to arise from the American lawn-
mower. The vagrant was propelling it triumphantly across the lawn,
and gazing down at it with the same fond pride with which a nursemaid
leans over the perambulator to observe her lusty and gurgling
charge.

The Councillors had departed, Sir Charles was thinking of
breakfast, the Maxim-like lawn-mower still irritated the silent hush
of midday, when from the waters of the inner harbor there came
suddenly the sharp report of a saluting gun and the rush of falling
anchor-chains. There was still a week to pass before the
mail-steamer should arrive, and H. M. S. Partridge had departed for
Nassau. Besides these ships, no other vessel had skirted the buoys
of the bay in eight long smiling months. Mr. Clarges, the secretary,
with an effort to appear calm, and the orderly, suffocated with the
news, entered through separate doors at the same instant.

The secretary filed his report first. "A yacht's just anchored
in the bay, Sir Charles," he said.

The orderly's face fell. He looked aggrieved. "An American
yacht," he corrected.

"And much larger than the Partridge," continued the
secretary.

The orderly took a hasty glance back over his shoulder. "She
has her launch lowered already, sir," he said.

Outside the whir of the lawn-mower continued undisturbed. Sir
Charles reached for his marine-glass, and the three men hurried to
the veranda.

"It looks like a man-of-war," said Sir Charles. "No," he added,
adjusting the binocular; "she's a yacht. She flies the New York
Yacht Club pennant--now she's showing the owner's absent pennant.

He must have left in the launch. He's coming ashore now."

"He seems in a bit of a hurry," growled Mr. Clarges.

"Those Americans always--" murmured Sir Charles from behind the
binocular. He did not quite know that he enjoyed this sudden
onslaught upon the privacy of his harbor and port.

It was in itself annoying, and he was further annoyed to find
that it could in the least degree disturb his poise.

The launch was growing instantly larger, like an express train
approaching a station at full speed; her flags flew out as flat as
pieces of painted tin; her bits of brass-work flashed like fire.
Already the ends of the wharves were white with groups of natives.

"You might think he was going to ram the town," suggested the
secretary.

"Oh, I say," he exclaimed, in remonstrance, "he's making in for
your private wharf."

The Governor was rearranging the focus of the glass with nervous
fingers. "I believe," he said, "no--yes--upon my word, there
are--there are ladies in that launch!"

"Ladies, sir!" The secretary threw a hasty glance at the
binocular, but it was in immediate use.

The clatter of the lawn-mower ceased suddenly, and the relief of
its silence caused the Governor to lower his eyes. He saw the
lawn-mower lying prostrate on the grass. The vagrant had
vanished.

There was a sharp tinkle of bells, and the launch slipped up to
the wharf and halted as softly as a bicycle. A man in a
yachting-suit jumped from her, and making some laughing speech to the
two women in the stern, walked briskly across the lawn, taking a
letter from his pocket as he came. Sir Charles awaited him gravely;
the occupants of the launch had seen him, and it was too late to
retreat.

"Sir Charles Greville, I believe," said the yachtsman. He
bowed, and ran lightly up the steps. "I am Mr. Robert Collier, from
New York," he said. "I have a letter to you from your ambassador at
Washington. If you'll pardon me, I'll present it in person. I had
meant to leave it, but seeing you--" He paused, and gave the letter
in his hand to Sir Charles, who waved him towards his library.

Sir Charles scowled at the letter through his monocle, and then
shook hands with his visitor. "I am very glad to see you, Mr.
Collier," he said. "He says here you are preparing a book on our
colonies in the West Indies." He tapped the letter with his monocle.
"I am sure I shall be most happy to assist you with any information
in my power."

"Well, I am writing a book--yes," Mr. Collier observed,
doubtfully, "but it's a logbook. This trip I am on pleasure bent,
and I also wish to consult with you on a personal matter. However,
that can wait." He glanced out of the windows to where the launch
lay in the sun. "My wife came ashore with me, Sir Charles," he said,
"so that in case there was a Lady Greville, Mrs. Collier could call
on her, and we could ask if you would waive etiquette and do us the
honor to dine with us to-night on the yacht--that is, if you are not
engaged."

Sir Charles smiled. "There is no Lady Greville," he said, "and
I personally do not think I am engaged elsewhere." He paused in
thought, as though to make quite sure he was not. "No," he added, "I
have no other engagement. I will come with pleasure."

Sir Charles rose and clapped his hands for the orderly.
"Possibly the ladies will come up to the veranda?" he asked. "I
cannot allow them to remain at the end of my wharf." He turned, and
gave directions to the orderly to bring limes and bottles of soda and
ice, and led the way across the lawn.

Mrs. Collier and her friend had not explored the grounds of
Government House for over ten minutes before Sir Charles felt that
many years ago he had personally arranged their visit, that he had
known them for even a longer time, and that, now that they had
finally arrived, they must never depart.

To them there was apparently nothing on his domain which did not
thrill with delightful interest. They were as eager as two children
at a pantomime, and as unconscious. As a rule, Sir Charles had found
it rather difficult to meet the women of his colony on a path which
they were capable of treading intelligently. In fairness to them, he
had always sought out some topic in which they could take an equal
part--something connected with the conduct of children, or the better
ventilation of the new school-house and chapel. But these new-comers
did not require him to select topics of conversation; they did not
even wait for him to finish those which he himself introduced. They
flitted from one end of the garden to the other with the eagerness of
two midshipmen on shore leave, and they found something to enjoy in
what seemed to the Governor the most commonplace of things. The
Zouave uniform of the sentry, the old Spanish cannon converted into
peaceful gate-posts, the aviary with its screaming paroquets, the
botanical station, and even the ice-machine were all objects of
delight.

On the other hand, the interior of the famous palace, which had
been sent out complete from London, and which was wont to fill the
wives of the colonials with awe or to reduce them to whispers, for
some reason failed of its effect. But they said they "loved" the
large gold V. R.'s on the back of the Councillors' chairs, and they
exclaimed aloud over the red leather despatch-boxes and the great
seal of the colony, and the mysterious envelopes marked "On her
Majesty's service."

"Isn't it too exciting, Florence?" demanded Mrs. Collier. "This
is the table where Sir Charles sits and writes letters' on her
Majesty's service,' and presses these buttons, and war-ships spring
up in perfect shoals. Oh, Robert," she sighed, "I do wish you had
been a Governor!"

The young lady called Florence stood looking down into the great
arm-chair in front of the Governor's table.

"May I?" she asked. She slid fearlessly in between the oak arms
of the chair and smiled about her. Afterwards Sir Charles remembered
her as she appeared at that moment with the red leather of the chair
behind her, with her gloved hands resting on the carved oak, and her
head on one side, smiling up at him. She gazed with large eyes at
the blue linen envelopes, the stiff documents in red tape, the tray
of black sand, and the goose- quill pens.

"I am now the Countess Zika," she announced; "no, I am Diana of
the Crossways, and I mean to discover a state secret and sell it to
the Daily Telegraph. Sir Charles," she demanded, "if I press this
electric button is war declared anywhere, or what happens?"

"That second button," said Sir Charles, after deliberate
scrutiny, "is the one which communicates with the pantry."

The Governor would not consider their returning to the yacht for
luncheon.

"You might decide to steam away as suddenly as you came," he
said, gallantly, "and I cannot take that chance. This is Bachelor's
Hall, so you must pardon my people if things do not go very
smoothly." He himself led them to the great guest-chamber, where
there had not been a guest for many years, and he noticed, as though
for the first time, that the halls through which they passed were
bare, and that the floor was littered with unpacked boxes and
gun-cases. He also observed for the first time that maps of the
colony, with the coffee-plantations and mahogany belt marked in
different inks, were not perhaps so decorative as pictures and
mirrors and family portraits. And he could have wished that the
native servants had not stared so admiringly at the guests, nor
directed each other in such aggressive whispers. On those other
occasions, when the wives of the Councillors came to the semi-annual
dinners, the native servants had seemed adequate to all that was
required of them. He recollected with a flush that in the town these
semi-annual dinners were described as banquets. He wondered if to
these visitors from the outside world it was all equally
provincial.

But their enjoyment was apparently unfeigned and generous. It
was evident that they had known each other for many years, yet they
received every remark that any of them made as though it had been
pronounced by a new and interesting acquaintance. Sir Charles found
it rather difficult to keep up with the talk across the table, they
changed the subject so rapidly, and they half spoke of so many things
without waiting to explain. He could not at once grasp the fact that
people who had no other position in the world save that of observers
were speaking so authoritatively of public men and public measures.
He found, to his delight, that for the first time in several years he
was not presiding at his own table, and that his guests seemed to
feel no awe of him.

"What's the use of a yacht nowadays?" Collier was saying--"
what's the use of a yacht, when you can go to sleep in a wagon- lit
at the Gare du Nord, and wake up at Vladivostok? And look at the
time it saves; eleven days to Gib, six to Port Said, and fifteen to
Colombo--there you are, only half-way around, and you're already
sixteen days behind the man in the wagon-lit."

"But nobody wants to go to Vladivostok," said Miss Cameron, "or
anywhere else in a wagon-lit. But with a yacht you can explore
out-of-the-way places, and you meet new and interesting people. We
wouldn't have met Sir Charles if we had waited for a wagon- lit."
She bowed her head to the Governor, and he smiled with gratitude. He
had lost Mr. Collier somewhere in the Indian Ocean, and he was glad
she had brought them back to the Windless Isles once more.

"And again I repeat that the answer to that is, 'Why not? said
the March Hare,'" remarked Mr. Collier, determinedly.

The answer, as an answer, did not strike Sir Charles as a very
good one. But the ladies seemed to comprehend, for Miss Cameron
said: "Did I tell you about meeting him at Oxford just a few months
before his death--at a children's tea-party? He was so sweet and
understanding with them! Two women tried to lionize him, and he ran
away and played with the children. I was more glad to meet him than
any one I can think of. Not as a personage, you know, but because I
felt grateful to him."

"Yes, that way, distinctly," said Mrs. Collier. "I should have
felt that way towards Mrs. Ewing more than any one else."

"I know, 'Jackanapes,'" remarked Collier, shortly; "a brutal
assault upon the feelings, I say."

"Some one else said it before you, Robert," Mrs. Collier
commented, calmly. "Perhaps Sir Charles met him at Apia." They all
turned and looked at him. He wished he could say he had met him at
Apia. He did not quite see how they had made their way from a
children's tea party at Oxford to the South Pacific islands, but he
was anxious to join in somewhere with a clever observation. But they
never seemed to settle in one place sufficiently long for him to
recollect what he knew of it. He hoped they would get around to the
west coast of Africa in time. He had been Governor of Sierra Leone
for five years.

His success that night at dinner on the yacht was far better.
The others seemed a little tired after the hours of sight-seeing to
which he had treated them, and they were content to listen. In the
absence of Mr. Clarges, who knew them word by word, he felt free to
tell his three stories of life at Sierra Leone. He took his time in
the telling, and could congratulate himself that his efforts had
never been more keenly appreciated. He felt that he was holding his
own.

The night was still and warm, and while the men lingered below
at the table, the two women mounted to the deck and watched the
lights of the town as they vanished one by one and left the moon in
unchallenged possession of the harbor. For a long time Miss Cameron
stood silent, looking out across the bay at the shore and the hills
beyond. A fish splashed near them, and the sound of oars rose from
the mist that floated above the water, until they were muffled in the
distance. The palms along the shore glistened like silver, and
overhead the Southern Cross shone white against a sky of purple. The
silence deepened and continued for so long a time that Mrs. Collier
felt its significance, and waited for the girl to end it.

Miss Cameron raised her eyes to the stars and frowned. "I am
not surprised that he is content to stay here," she said. "Are you?
It is so beautiful, so wonderfully beautiful."

For a moment Mrs. Collier made no answer. "Two years is a long
time, Florence," she said; "and he is all I have; he is not only my
only brother, he is the only living soul who is related to me.

That makes it harder."

The girl seemed to find some implied reproach in the speech, for
she turned and looked at her friend closely. "Do you feel it is my
fault, Alice?" she asked.

The older woman shook her head. "How could it be your fault?"
she answered. "If you couldn't love him enough to marry him, you
couldn't, that's all. But that is no reason why he should have
hidden himself from all of us. Even if he could not stand being near
you, caring as he did, he need not have treated me so. We have done
all we can do, and Robert has been more than fine about it. He and
his agents have written to every consul and business house in Central
America, and I don't believe there is a city that he hasn't visited.
He has sent him money and letters to every bank and to every
post-office--"

The girl raised her head quickly.

"--but he never calls for either," Mrs. Collier continued, "for
I know that if he had read my letters he would have come home."

The girl lifted her head as though she were about to speak, and
then turned and walked slowly away. After a few moments she
returned, and stood, with her hands resting on the rail, looking down
into the water. "I wrote him two letters," she said. In the silence
of the night her voice was unusually clear and distinct. "I--you
make me wonder--if they ever reached him."

Mrs. Collier, with her eyes fixed upon the girl, rose slowly
from her chair and came towards her. She reached out her hand and
touched Miss Cameron on the arm.

"Florence," she said, in a whisper, "have you--"

The girl raised her head slowly, and lowered it again. "Yes,"
she answered; "I told him to come back--to come back to me. Alice,"
she cried, "I--I begged him to come back!" She tossed her hands
apart and again walked rapidly away, leaving the older woman standing
motionless.

A moment later, when Sir Charles and Mr. Collier stepped out
upon the deck, they discovered the two women standing close together,
two white, ghostly figures in the moonlight, and as they advanced
towards them they saw Mrs. Collier take the girl for an instant in
her arms.

Sir Charles was asking Miss Cameron how long she thought an
immigrant should be made to work for his freehold allotment, when Mr.
Collier and his wife rose at the same moment and departed on separate
errands. They met most mysteriously in the shadow of the
wheel-house.

"What is it? Is anything wrong with Florence?" Collier asked,
anxiously. "Not homesick, is she?"

Mrs. Collier put her hands on her husband's shoulders and shook
her head.

"Wrong? No, thank Heaven! it's as right as right can be!" she
cried. "She's written to him to come back, but he's never answered,
and so--and now it's all right."

Mr. Collier gazed blankly at his wife's upturned face. "Well, I
don't see that," he remonstrated. "What's the use of her being in
love with him now when he can't be found? What? Why didn't she love
him two years ago when he was where you could get at him--at her
house, for instance. He was there most of his time. She would have
saved a lot of trouble. However," he added, energetically, "this
makes it absolutely necessary to find that young man and bring him to
his senses. We'll search this place for the next few days, and then
we'll try the mainland again. I think I'll offer a reward for him,
and have it printed in Spanish, and paste it up in all the plazas.
We might add a line in English, 'She has changed her mind.' That
would bring him home, wouldn't it?"

"Don't be unfeeling, Robert," said Mrs. Collier.

Her husband raised his eyes appealingly, and addressed himself
to the moon. "I ask you now," he complained, "is that fair to a man
who has spent six months on muleback trying to round up a prodigal
brother-in-law?"

That same evening, after the ladies had gone below, Mr. Collier
asked Sir Charles to assist him in his search for his wife's brother,
and Sir Charles heartily promised his most active co- operation.
There were several Americans at work in the interior, he said, as
overseers on the coffee-plantations. It was possible that the
runaway might be among them. It was only that morning, Sir Charles
remembered, that an American had been at work "repairing his
lawn-mower," as he considerately expressed it. He would send for him
on the morrow.

But on the morrow the slave of the lawn-mower was reported on
the list of prisoners as "missing," and Corporal Mallon was grieved,
but refused to consider himself responsible. Sir Charles himself had
allowed the vagrant unusual freedom, and the vagrant had taken
advantage of it, and probably escaped to the hills, or up the river
to the logwood camp.

"Telegraph a description of him to Inspector Garrett," Sir
Charles directed, "and to the heads of all up stations. And when he
returns, bring him to me."

So great was his zeal that Sir Charles further offered to join
Mr. Collier in his search among the outlying plantations; but Mr.
Collier preferred to work alone. He accordingly set out at once,
armed with letters to the different district inspectors, and in his
absence delegated to Sir Charles the pleasant duty of caring for the
wants of Miss Cameron and his wife. Sir Charles regarded the latter
as deserving of all sympathy, for Mr. Collier, in his efforts to
conceal the fact from the Governor that Florence Cameron was
responsible, or in any way concerned, in the disappearance of the
missing man, had been too mysterious. Sir Charles was convinced that
the fugitive had swindled his brother- in-law and stolen his sister's
jewels.

The days which followed were to the Governor days and nights of
strange discoveries. He recognized that the missionaries from the
great outside world had invaded his shores and disturbed his gods and
temples. Their religion of progress and activity filled him with
doubt and unrest.

"In this century," Mr. Collier had declared, "nothing can stand
still. It's the same with a corporation, or a country, or a man.

We must either march ahead or fall out. We can't mark time.
What?"

"Exactly--certainly not," Sir Charles had answered. But in his
heart he knew that he himself had been marking time under these soft
tropical skies while the world was pushing forward. The thought had
not disturbed him before. Now he felt guilty. He conceived a sudden
intolerance, if not contempt, for the little village of whitewashed
houses, for the rafts of mahogany and of logwood that bumped against
the pier-heads, for the sacks of coffee piled high like barricades
under the corrugated zinc sheds along the wharf. Each season it had
been his pride to note the increase in these exports. The
development of the resources of his colony had been a work in which
he had felt that the Colonial Secretary took an immediate interest.
He had believed that he was one of the important wheels of the
machinery which moved the British Empire: and now, in a day, he was
undeceived. It was forced upon him that to the eyes of the outside
world he was only a greengrocer operating on a large scale; he
provided the British public with coffee for its breakfast, with drugs
for its stomach, and with strange woods for its dining-room furniture
and walking-sticks. He combated this ignominious characterization of
his position indignantly. The new arrivals certainly gave him no
hint that they considered him so lightly. This thought greatly
comforted him, for he felt that in some way he was summoning to his
aid all of his assets and resources to meet an expert and final
valuation. As he ranged them before him he was disturbed and happy
to find that the value he placed upon them was the value they would
have in the eyes of a young girl-- not a girl of the shy,
mother-obeying, man-worshipping English type, but a girl such as Miss
Cameron seemed to be, a girl who could understand what you were
trying to say before you said it, who could take an interest in rates
of exchange and preside at a dinner table, who was charmingly
feminine and clever, and who was respectful of herself and of others.
In fact, he decided, with a flush, that Miss Cameron herself was the
young girl he had in his mind.

"Why not?" he asked.

The question came to him in his room, the sixth night of their
visit, and he strode over to the long pier-glass and stood studying
himself critically for the first time in years. He was still a
fine-looking, well-kept man. His hair was thin, but that fact did
not show; and his waist was lost, but riding and tennis would set
that right. He had means outside of his official salary, and there
was the title, such as it was. Lady Greville the wife of the
birthday knight sounded as well as Lady Greville the marchioness.
And Americans cared for these things. He doubted whether this
particular American would do so, but he was adding up all he had to
offer, and that was one of the assets. He was sure she would not be
content to remain mistress of the Windless Isles. Nor, indeed, did
he longer care to be master there, now that he had inhaled this
quick, stirring breath from the outer world. He would resign, and
return and mix with the world again. He would enter Parliament; a
man so well acquainted as himself with the Gold Coast of Africa and
with the trade of the West Indies must always be of value in the
Lower House. This value would be recognized, no doubt, and he would
become at first an Under-Secretary for the Colonies, and then, in
time, Colonial Secretary and a cabinet minister. She would like
that, he thought. And after that place had been reached, all things
were possible. For years he had not dreamed such dreams--not since
he had been a clerk in the Foreign Office. They seemed just as
possible now as they had seemed real then, and just as near. He felt
it was all absolutely in his own hands.

He descended to the dining-room with the air of a man who
already felt the cares of high responsibility upon his shoulders.
His head was erect and his chest thrown forward. He was ten years
younger; his manner was alert, assured, and gracious. As he passed
through the halls he was impatient of the familiar settings of
Government House; they seemed to him like the furnishings of a hotel
where he had paid his bill, and where his luggage was lying strapped
for departure in the hallway.

In his library he saw on his table a number of papers lying open
waiting for his signature, the dog-tax among the others. He smiled
to remember how important it had seemed to him in the past--in that
past of indolence and easy content. Now he was on fire to put this
rekindled ambition to work, to tell the woman who had lighted it that
it was all from her and for her, that without her he had existed,
that now he had begun to live.

They had never found him so delighful{sic} as he appeared that
night. He was like a man on the eve of a holiday. He made a jest of
his past efforts; he made them see, as he now saw it for the first
time, that side of the life of the Windless Isles which was narrow
and petty, even ridiculous. He talked of big men in a big way; he
criticised, and expounded, and advanced his own theories of
government and the proper control of an empire.

Collier, who had returned from his unsuccessful search of the
plantations, shook his head.

"It's a pity you are not in London now," he said, sincerely.
"They need some one there who has been on the spot. They can't
direct the colonies from what they know of them in Whitehall."

Sir Charles fingered the dinner cloth nervously, and when he
spoke, fixed his eyes anxiously upon Miss Cameron.

"Do you know," he said, "I have been thinking of doing that very
thing, of resigning my post here and going back, entering Parliament,
and all the rest of it."

His declaration met with a unanimous chorus of delight. Miss
Cameron nodded her head with eager approval.

"Yes, if I were a man, that is where I should wish to be," she
said, "at the heart of it. Why, whatever you say in the House of
Commons is heard all over the world the next morning."

Sir Charles felt the blood tingle in his pulses. He had not
been so stirred in years. Her words ran to his head like wine.

Mr. Collier raised his glass.

"Here's to our next meeting," he said, "on the terrace of the
House of Commons."

But Miss Cameron interrupted. "No; to the Colonial Secretary,"
she amended.

"Oh yes," they assented, rising, and so drank his health,
smiling down upon him with kind, friendly glances and good-will.

"To the Colonial Secretary," they said. Sir Charles clasped the
arms of his chair tightly with his hands; his eyes were half closed,
and his lips pressed into a grim, confident smile. He felt that a
single word from her would make all that they suggested possible. If
she cared for such things, they were hers; he had them to give; they
were ready lying at her feet. He knew that the power had always been
with him, lying dormant in his heart and brain. It had only waited
for the touch of the Princess to wake it into life.

The American visitors were to sail for the mainland the next
day, but he had come to know them so well in the brief period of
their visit that he felt he dared speak to her that same night. At
least he could give her some word that would keep him in her mind
until they met again in London, or until she had considered her
answer. He could not expect her to answer at once. She could take
much time. What else had he to do now but to wait for her answer?
It was now all that made life.

Collier and his wife had left the veranda and had crossed the
lawn towards the water's edge. The moonlight fell full upon them
with all the splendor of the tropics, and lit the night with a
brilliant, dazzling radiance. From where Miss Cameron sat on the
veranda in the shadow, Sir Charles could see only the white outline
of her figure and the indolent movement of her fan. Collier had left
his wife and was returning slowly towards the step. Sir Charles felt
that if he meant to speak he must speak now, and quickly. He rose
and placed himself beside her in the shadow, and the girl turned her
head inquiringly and looked up at him.

But on the instant the hush of the night was broken by a sharp
challenge, and the sound of men's voices raised in anger; there was
the noise of a struggle on the gravel, and from the corner of the
house the two sentries came running, dragging between them a slight
figure that fought and wrestled to be free.

Sir Charles exclaimed with indignant impatience, and turning,
strode quickly to the head of the steps.

"What does this mean?" he demanded. "What are you doing with
that man? Why did you bring him here?"

As the soldiers straightened to attention, their prisoner ceased
to struggle, and stood with his head bent on his chest. His sombrero
was pulled down low across his forehead.

"He was crawling through the bushes, Sir Charles," the soldier
panted, "watching that gentleman, sir,"--he nodded over his shoulder
towards Collier. "I challenged, and he jumped to run, and we
collared him. He resisted, Sir Charles."

The mind of the Governor was concerned with other matters than
trespassers.

"Well, take him to the barracks, then," he said. "Report to me
in the morning. That will do."

The prisoner wheeled eagerly, without further show of
resistance, and the soldiers closed in on him on either side. But as
the three men moved away together, their faces, which had been in
shadow, were now turned towards Mr. Collier, who was advancing
leisurely, and with silent footsteps, across the grass. He met them
face to face, and as he did so the prisoner sprang back and threw out
his arms in front of him, with the gesture of a man who entreats
silence. Mr. Collier halted as though struck to stone, and the two
men confronted each other without moving.

"Good God!" Mr. Collier whispered.

He turned stiffly and slowly, as though in a trance, and
beckoned to his wife, who had followed him.

"Alice!" he called. He stepped backwards towards her, and
taking her hand in one of his, drew her towards the prisoner. "Here
he is!" he said.

They heard her cry "Henry!" with the fierceness of a call for
help, and saw her rush forward and stumble into the arms of the
prisoner, and their two heads were bent close together.

Collier ran up the steps and explained breathlessly.

"And now," he gasped, in conclusion, "what's to be done? What's
he arrested for? Is it bailable? What?"

"Good heavens!" exclaimed Sir Charles, miserably. "It is my
fault entirely. I assure you I had no idea. How could I? But I
should have known, I should have guessed it." He dismissed the
sentries with a gesture. "That will do," he said. "Return to your
posts."

Mr. Collier laughed with relief.

"Then it is not serious?" he asked.

"He--he had no money, that was all," exclaimed Sir Charles.
"Serious? Certainly not. Upon my word, I'm sorry--"

The young man had released himself from his sister's embrace,
and was coming towards them; and Sir Charles, eager to redeem
himself, advanced hurriedly to greet him. But the young man did not
see him; he was looking past him up the steps to where Miss Cameron
stood in the shadow.

Sir Charles hesitated and drew back. The young man stopped at
the foot of the steps, and stood with his head raised, staring up at
the white figure of the girl, who came slowly forward.

It was forced upon Sir Charles that in spite of the fact that
the young man before them had but just then been rescued from arrest,
that in spite of his mean garments and ragged sandals, something
about him--the glamour that surrounds the prodigal, or possibly the
moonlight--gave him an air of great dignity and distinction.

As Miss Cameron descended the stairs, Sir Charles recognized for
the first time that the young man was remarkably handsome, and he
resented it. It hurt him, as did also the prodigal's youth and his
assured bearing. He felt a sudden sinking fear, a weakening of all
his vital forces, and he drew in his breath slowly and deeply. But
no one noticed him; they were looking at the tall figure of the
prodigal, standing with his hat at his hip and his head thrown back,
holding the girl with his eyes.

Collier touched Sir Charles on the arm, and nodded his head
towards the library. "Come," he whispered, "let us old people leave
them together. They've a good deal to say." Sir Charles obeyed in
silence, and crossing the library to the great oak chair, seated
himself and leaned wearily on the table before him. He picked up one
of the goose quills and began separating it into little pieces. Mr.
Collier was pacing up and down, biting excitedly on the end of his
cigar. "Well, this has certainly been a great night," he said. "And
it is all due to you, Sir Charles--all due to you. Yes, they have
you to thank for it."

"They? " said Sir Charles. He knew that it had to come. He
wanted the man to strike quickly.

"They? Yes--Florence Cameron and Henry," Mr. Collier answered.
"Henry went away because she wouldn't marry him. She didn't care for
him then, but afterwards she cared. Now they're reunited,-- and so
they're happy; and my wife is more than happy, and I won't have to
bother any more; and it's all right, and all through you."

"I am glad," said Sir Charles. There was a long pause, which
the men, each deep in his own thoughts, did not notice.

"You will be leaving now, I suppose?" Sir Charles asked. He was
looking down, examining the broken pen in his hand.

Mr. Collier stopped in his walk and considered. "Yes, I suppose
they will want to get back," he said. "I shall be sorry myself. And
you? What will you do?"

Sir Charles started slightly. He had not yet thought what he
would do. His eyes wandered over the neglected work, which had
accumulated on the desk before him. Only an hour before he had
thought of it as petty and little, as something unworthy of his
energy. Since that time what change had taken place in him?

For him everything had changed, he answered, but in him there
had been no change; and if this thing which the girl had brought into
his life had meant the best in life, it must always mean that. She
had been an inspiration; she must remain his spring of action. Was
he a slave, he asked himself, that he should rebel? Was he a boy,
that he could turn his love to aught but the best account? He must
remember her not as the woman who had crushed his spirit, but as she
who had helped him, who had lifted him up to something better and
finer. He would make sacrifice in her name; it would be in her name
that he would rise to high places and accomplish much good.

She would not know this, but he would know.

He rose and brushed the papers away from him with an impatient
sweep of the hand.

"I shall follow out the plan of which I spoke at dinner," he
answered. "I shall resign here, and return home and enter
Parliament."

Mr. Collier laughed admiringly. "I love the way you English
take your share of public life," he said, "the way you spend
yourselves for your country, and give your brains, your lives,
everything you have--all for the empire."

Through the open window Sir Charles saw Miss Cameron half hidden
by the vines of the veranda. The moonlight falling about her
transformed her into a figure which was ideal, mysterious, and
elusive, like a woman in a dream. He shook his head wearily.

"For the empire?" he asked.