Color Scheme

Chapter IV Red for Danger

Dikon, mindful of his only other encounter with him and influenced by an exceedingly significant smell, came to the conclusion that Mr. Smith was mad drunk. Perhaps a minute went by before he realized that he was merely terrified. It was obvious that the entire Claire family made the same mistake for they all, together and severally and entirely without success, tried to shut Smith up and hustle him away into the background. Finally it was Dr. Ackrington who, after a sharp look at Smith, said to his brother-in-law: “Wait a minute now, Edward, you’re making a mistake. Come along with me, Smith, and tell me what it’s all about.”

“I won’t come along with anyone. I’ve just been along with someone and it’s practically killed me. You listen to what I’m telling you! He’s a bloody murderer.”

“Who is?” asked Simon from somewhere in the rear.

“Questing.”

“Smith, for God’s sake!” said the Colonel, and tried to lead him away by the elbow.

“Leave me alone. I know what I’m talking about. I’m telling you.”

“Oh, Daddy, not here!” Barbara cried out, and Mrs. Claire said: “No, Edward, please. Your study, dear.” And as if Smith were some recalcitrant schoolboy, she repeated in a hushed voice: “Yes, yes, much better in your study.”

“But you’re not listening to me,” said Smith. And to the acute embarrassment of everybody except Gaunt, he began to blubber. “Straight out of the jaws of death,” he cried piteously, “and you ask a chap to go to the study.”

Dikon heard Gaunt give a little cough of laughter before he turned to Mrs. Claire and said: “We’ll remove ourselves.”

“Yes, of course,” said Dikon.

The doorway, however, was blocked by Simon and Mrs. Claire, and before they could get out of the way Smith roared out: “I don’t want anybody to go. I want witnesses. You stay where you are.”

Gaunt looked good-humouredly from one horrified face to another, and said: “Suppose we all sit down.”

Barbara took her uncle fiercely by the arm. “Uncle James,” she whispered, “stop him. He mustn’t. Uncle James, please.”

“By all means let us sit down,” said Dr. Ackrington.

They filed solemnly and ridiculously into the dining-room and, as if they were about to witness a cabaret turn, sat themselves down at the small tables. This manoeuvre appeared to quieten Smith. He took up a strategic position between the tables. With the touch of complacency which must have appeared in the Ancient Mariner when he cornered the wedding guest, he embarked upon his story.

“It was over at the level crossing,” he began. “I’d been up the Peak with Eru Saul and I don’t mind telling you why. Questing’s been nosing around the Peak and the Maoris don’t like it. We’d seen him drive along the Peak road earlier in the evening, Eru and I reckoned we’d cut along by the bush track to a hideout in the scrub. We didn’t see anything. He must have gone up the other face of the hill if he was there at all. We waited for about an hour and then I got fed up and came down by myself. I hit the railroad about a couple of chains above the level crossing.”

“By the railroad bridge?” said Simon.

“You’re telling me it was by the bridge,” said Smith with extraordinary violence. “I’ll say it was by the bridge. And get this. The 5:15 from Harpoon was just about due. You know what it’s like. The railroad twists in and out of the scrub and round the shoulder of the hill and then comes through a wee tunnel. You can’t see or hear a thing. Before you know what’s happening, she’s on top of you.”

“She is, too,” agreed Simon, with an air of supporting Smith against unfair opposition.

“The bridge is the worst bit. You can’t see the signals but you can see a bend in the Peak road above the level crossing. To get over the gully you can hop across the bridge on the sleepers, or you can wade the creek. I stood there wondering if I’d risk the bridge. I don’t like trains. There was a Maori boy killed on that bridge.”

“There was, too.”

“Yes; well while I was kind of hesitating I saw Questing’s car come over the crest of the road and stop. He leant out of the driving window and saw me. Now listen. You’ve got to remember he could see the signal and I couldn’t. It’s the red and green light affair they put in after the accident. I saw him turn his head to look that way.”

Smith wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He spoke quietly now, was no longer ridiculous, and held the attention if his audience. He sat down at an empty table and looked about him with an air of astonishment.

“He waved me on,” he said. “He could see the signal and he gave me the all-clear. Like this. I didn’t move at first and he did it again. See? A bit impatient, too, as much as to say: ‘What’s eating you? Hop to it.’ Yes, well I hopped. I’ve never liked the bridge. It’s a short stride between sleepers and you can see the creek through the gaps. Look. I’d got half-way when I heard her behind me, blowing her whistle in the tunnel. It’s funny how quick you can think. Whether to jump for it or swing from the end of a sleeper, or stand waving my arms and, if she didn’t pull up in time, dive for the engine. I thought about Questing, too, and how, if she got me, nobody’d know he gave me the office. And all the time I was hopping the sleepers like a bloody ballet dancer, with the creek below clicking through the gaps. Like one of those dreams. Look, she was on the bridge when I jumped. I was above the bank by then. I suppose it wasn’t more than ten feet. I landed in a matagouri bush. Scratched all over, and look at my pants. I didn’t even try to get out of it. She rumbled over my head, and muck off the sleepers fell in my eyes. I felt funny. I mean my body felt funny, as if it didn’t belong to me. I was kind of surprised to find myself climbing the bank and it seemed to be someone else that was winded when I got to the top. And yet all the time I was hell-set on getting at Questing. And had he waited for me? He had not. ’Struth, I stood there shaking like a bloody jelly and I heard him tooting his horn away along the Peak road. I don’t know how I’d have got home if it hadn’t been for Eru Saul. Eru’d come down the hill and he saw what Questing swung across me. He’s a witness to it. He gave me a hand to come home. Look, Eru’s out there in the kitchen. You ask him. He knows.” He turned to Mrs. Claire. “Can I get Eru to come in, Mrs. Claire?”

“I’ll get him,” said Simon, and went out to the kitchen. He returned, followed by Eru, who stood oafishly in the doorway. Dikon saw, for the first time, a fleshy youth dressed in a stained blue suit. His coat was open, displaying a brilliant tie, and an expanse of puce-coloured shirt stretched tight across the diaphragm. He showed little of his Maori blood, but Dikon thought he might have served as an illustration of the least admirable aspect of colonization in a native country.

“Here, listen, Eru,” said Smith. “You saw Questing swing it across me, didn’t you?”

“Too right,” Eru muttered.

“Go on. Tell them.”

It was the same story. Eru had come down the hillside behind Smith. He could see the bridge and Questing’s car. “Questing leant out of the window and beckoned Bert to come on. I couldn’t see the signal, but I reckoned he was crazy, seeing what time it was. I yelled out to Bert to turn it up and come back, but he never heard me. Then she blew her whistle.” Eru’s olive face turned white. “Gee, I thought he was under the engine all right. I couldn’t see him, like, from where I was. The train was between us. Gee, I certainly expected the jolt. I never picked he’d jump for it. Crikey, was I relieved when I seen old Bert sitting in the prickles!”

“The engine driver pulled her up and they come back to inquire, didn’t they, Eru?”

“Too right. They looked terrible. You know, white as a sheet. They’d got the shock of their lives, those jokers. We had to put it down in writing he’d blown his whistle. They had to protect themselves, see?”

“Yeh. Well that’s the whole works,” said Smith. “Thanks, Eru.”

He rubbed his hands over his face and looked at them. “I could do with a drink,” he said. “You may think I’ve had some by the way I smell. I swear to God I haven’t. It broke when I went over.”

“That’s right,” said Eru. He looked round awkwardly. “I’ll say good-day,” he added.

He returned to the kitchen. Mrs. Claire glanced after him dubiously, and presently got up and followed him.

Smith sagged forward, resting his cheek on his hand as though he sat meditating alone in the room. Dr. Ackrington limped across and put his hand on Smith’s shoulder.

“I’ll fix you up,” he said. “Come along.”

Smith looked up at him, got to his feet, and shambled to the door.

“I could have him up, couldn’t I, Doc?” he said. “It’s attempted murder, isn’t it?”

“I hope so,” said Dr. Ackrington.

Mrs. Claire stood in the centre of her own kitchen looking up at Eru Saul. The top of her head reached no farther than his chin, but she was a plumply authoritative figure and he shuffled his feet and would not look at her. Huia, with an air of conscious virtue, was dishing up the dinner.

“You are going home now, Eru, I suppose,” said Mrs. Claire.

“That’s right, Mrs. Claire,” said Eru, looking at Huia.

“Huia is very busy, you know.”

“Yeh, that’s right.”

“And we don’t like you waiting about. You know that.”

“I’m not doing anything, Mrs. Claire.”

“The Colonel doesn’t wish you to come. You understand?”

“I was only asking Huia what say we went to the pictures.”

“I’m not going to the pictures. I told you already,” said Huia loudly.

“There, Eru,” said Mrs. Claire.

“Got another date, haven’t you?”

Huia tossed her head.

“That will do, Eru,” said Mrs. Claire.

“Too bad,” said Eru, looking at Huia.

“You’ll go now, if you please,” Mrs. Claire insisted.

“O.K., Mrs. Claire. But listen, Mrs. Claire. You wouldn’t pick Huia wasn’t on the level, would you? I didn’t pick it right away, but it’s a fact. Ask Mr. Questing, Mrs. Claire. She’s been over at the Bay with him this afternoon. I’ll be seeing you, Huia.”

When he had gone Mrs. Claire’s round face was rosy-red. She said: “If Eru comes here again you must tell me at once, Huia, and the Colonel will speak to him.”

“Yes, Mrs. Claire.”

“We are ready for dinner.” She walked to the door and hesitated. Huia gave her a brilliant smile.

“You know we trust you, Huia, don’t you?”

“Yes, Mrs. Claire.”

Mrs. Claire went into the dining-room.

They dined in an atmosphere of repressed curiosity. Dr. Ackrington returned alone, saying that he had sent Smith to bed, and that in any case he was better out of the way. Throughout dinner, Gaunt and Dikon, who had a small table to themselves, made elaborate conversation about nothing. Dikon was in a state of confusion so acute that it surprised himself. From where he sat he could see Barbara — her lamentable clothes, her white face, and her nervous hands clattering her knife and fork on the plate and pushing about the food she could not eat. Because he tried not to look, he looked the more and was annoyed with himself for doing so. Gaunt sat with his back to the Claires’ table, and Dikon saw that Barbara could not prevent herself from watching him.

During the years of their association, Dikon’s duties had included the fending away of Gaunt’s adorers. He thought that he could interpret Barbara’s glances. He thought that she was sick with disappointment, and told himself that only too easily could he translate her mortification and misery. He was angry and disgusted — angry with Gaunt, and, so he said to himself, disgusted with Barbara — and this reaction was so foreign to his habit that he ended by falling quite out of humour with himself.

Presently he became aware that Gaunt was watching him sharply and he realized that he had been speaking at random. He began to stammer and was actually relieved when, upon the disappearance of Huia, Colonel and Mrs. Claire embarked in antiphony upon an apologetic chant of which the theme was Smith’s unseemly behaviour. This rapidly developed into a solo performance by Mrs. Claire in the course of which she attempted the impossible feat of distributing whitewash equally between Questing and Smith. Her recital became rich in clichés: “More sinned against than sinning… A dear fellow at bottom… Means well but not quite… So sorry it should have happened…” She was encouraged by punctual ejaculations of “Quite” from her distracted husband.

Gaunt was beginning to get out of an impossible situation as gracefully as might be when Dr. Ackrington spared him any further recital.

“My dear Agnes,” said Dr. Ackrington, “and my dear Edward. I expect we are all agreed that attempted murder is not in the best possible taste and a vague distribution of brummagem haloes will not persuade us to alter our opinion. Suppose we leave it at that. I have one suggestion — let us call it a request — to make, and I should like to make it at once. That fellow may return at any moment.”

The Claires fidgeted. Simon, who seemed to be unable to speak in any mode but a truculent roar, said that he reckoned he was going to ask Questing what the hell he thought he was up to. “It’s crook, that’s what it is,” Simon shouted angrily. “By cripey, I reckon it’s crook. I’m going to ask him flat out — ”

“You will ask him nothing, if you’ll be so good,” his uncle said briskly, “and I shall be obliged if you will suffer me to finish.”

“Yes, but — ”

“Simon, please,” his mother implored.

“I was about to ask,” Dr. Ackrington went on, “that you allow me to speak to Mr. Questing when he arrives. I have a specific reason for making this suggestion.”

“I thought perhaps,” said Mrs. Claire unhappily, “Edward might take him to his study.”

“Is Edward’s study the Ark of the Tabernacle of the Lord,” cried Dr. Ackrington in a fury, “that Questing should be subdued in it? Why this perpetual itch to herd people together in Edward’s study, which, when all’s said and done, is no bigger than a lavatory and rather less comfortable? Will you listen to me? Will you indulge me so far as to keep quiet while I speak to Questing, here, openly, in the presence of you all?”

Dikon’s attention was momentarily diverted by Gaunt, who said in a fierce whisper: “If you forget a syllable of that speech I shall sack you.”

The Claires were all speaking together again but their expostulations died out when Dr. Ackrington cast himself back in his chair, turned up his eyes and began to whistle through his teeth. After an uncomfortable silence Mrs. Claire said timidly: “I’m sure there’s been some mistake.”

“Indeed?” said her brother. “Do you mean that Questing miscalculated and that Smith has no right to be alive?”

“No, dear.”

“What was Smith saying about lights?” asked Colonel Claire suddenly. “I didn’t catch all that about lights.”

“Will someone explain to Edward about railway signals?” Dr. Ackrington asked dangerously, but Colonel Claire went on in a high complaining voice. “I mean, suppose Questing didn’t happen to notice the signals.”

“You, Edward,” his brother-in-law interrupted, “are the only person of my acquaintance from whom I can conceive such a display of negligence, but even you could scarcely fail to glance at a signal some twenty-two yards in front of your nose before inviting a man to risk his life on a single-track railway bridge. I find it impossible to believe that Questing didn’t act deliberately and I have good reason to believe that he did.”

There was another silence broken unexpectedly by Geoffrey Gaunt. “In fact, Dr. Ackrington,” said Gaunt, “you think we have a potential murderer among us?”

“I do.”

“Strange. I’ve never thought of a murderer being an insufferable bore.”

Barbara gave a yelp of unhappy laughter.

“Wait on!” said Simon. “Listen!”

They all heard Questing’s car come down the drive. He drove past the windows and round the house to the garages.

“He’ll come in here!” Barbara whispered.

“I implore you to leave him to me, Edward.”

Colonel Claire threw up his hands. “Shall Barbie and I—?” Mrs. Claire began, but her brother silenced her with an angry flap of his hand. After that nobody spoke and Questing’s footfall sounded loud as he came round the house and along the verandah.

Perhaps Dikon had anticipated, subconsciously, a sinister change in Questing. Undoubtedly he experienced a shock of anticlimax when he heard the familiar and detestable inquiry.

“Well, well, well,” said Mr. Questing, beaming in the doorway, “how’s tricks? Any dinner left for a little feller? Am I hungry or am I hungry! Good evening, Mr. Gaunt. And how’s the young gentleman?”

He sat down at his own table, rubbed his hands together, and shouted: “Where’s the Glamour Girl? Come on, Beautiful. Let’s have a slant at the me-and-you.”

It was at this moment that Dikon, to his unspeakable horror, discovered in himself a liking for Mr. Questing.

To Dikon’s surprise, Dr. Ackrington did not go at once into the attack. Huia brought Mr. Questing’s first course and received an offensive leer with a toss of her head. Mrs. Claire murmured something to Barbara and they went out together. With an air of secret exultation, Gaunt began to make theatrical conversation with Dikon. The other three men did not utter a word. To Dikon, the tension in the room seemed almost ponderable, but Questing did not appear to notice it. He ate a colossal dinner, became increasingly playful with Huia, and, on her final withdrawal, leant back in his chair, sucked his teeth, produced a cigar case and was about to offer it to Gaunt when at last Dr. Ackrington spoke.

“You did not bring Smith back with you, Mr. Questing?”

Questing turned indolently and looked at him. “Smith?” he said. “By gum, I meant to ask you about Smith. Hasn’t he come in?”

“He’s in bed. He’s knocked about and is suffering from shock.”

“Is that so?” said Questing very earnestly. “By gum, now, I’m sorry to hear that. Suffering from shock, eh? So he would be. So he would be.”

Dr. Ackrington drew in his breath with a sharp whistle and by this manoeuvre seemed to gain control of himself.

“I bet that chap’s annoyed with me,” Questing added cheerfully, “and I don’t blame him. So would I be in his place. It’s the kind of thing that would annoy you, you know. Isn’t it?”

“Smith appears to find attempted murder distinctly irritating,” agreed Dr. Ackrington.

“Attempted murder?” said Questing, opening his eyes very wide. “That’s not a very nice way to put it, Doctor. We all of us make mistakes.”

Dr. Ackrington uttered a loud oath.

“Now, now, now,” Questing chided, “what’s biting you? You come out on the verandah, Doc, and we’ll have a little chat.”

Dr. Ackrington beat his fist on the table and began to stutter. Dikon thought they were in for a tirade, but with a really terrifying effort at self-control Dr. Ackrington pulled himself up, gripped the edge of the table and at last addressed Questing coherently and with a kind of calmness. He outlined the story of Smith’s escape, adding several details that he had evidently gleaned after leaving the dining-room. At first Questing listened with the air of a connoisseur, but as Dr. Ackrington went on he began to get restless. He attempted several interjections but was ruthlessly talked down. Finally, however, when his inquisitor enlarged upon his abominable behaviour in deserting a man who might have been fatally injured, Questing raised a cry of protest. “Fatally injured, my foot! He came charging up the bank like a horse, don’t you worry. It was me that looked like getting a fatal injury.”

“So you turned tail and bolted?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I didn’t want a lot of unpleasantness, that’s all. I wasn’t deserting the chap. There was another chap there to look after him. He came bowling down the hill after it had happened. A chap in a blue shirt. And the train stopped. I didn’t want a lot of humbug with the engine driver. Smith was all right. I could see he wasn’t hurt.”

“Mr. Questing, did you or did you not look at the signal before you beckoned Smith to cross the bridge?”

For the first time, Questing looked acutely uncomfortable. He turned very red in the face and said: “Look, Doctor, we’ve got a very, very distinguished guest. We don’t need to trouble Mr. Gaunt—”

“Not at all,” said Gaunt. “I’m enormously interested.”

“Will you answer me?” Dr. Ackrington shouted. “Knowing that the evening train was due, and seeing the fellow hesitated to cross the railway bridge, did you or did you not look at the signal before waving him on?”

“Of course I looked at it.” Questing examined the end of his cigar, glanced up from under his eyebrows and added in a curiously flat voice: “It wasn’t working.”

Dikon experienced that wave of personal shame with which an amateur reciter at close quarters can embarrass his audience. It was such a bad lie. It was so clearly false. Questing so obviously knew that he was not believed. Even Dr. Ackrington seemed deflated and found nothing to say. After a moment Questing mumbled: “Well, I didn’t see it, anyway. They ought to have a wig-wag there.”

“A red light some ten inches in diameter and you didn’t see it.”

“I said it wasn’t working.”

“We can check up on that,” said Simon.

Questing turned on him. “You mind your own business,” he said, but his voice missed the note of anger, and it seemed to Dikon that there was something he could not bring himself to say.

“Do you mind telling us where you had been?” Dr. Ackrington continued.

“Pohutukawa Bay.”

“But you were on the Peak road.”

“I know I was. I thought I’d just take a run along the Peak road before I came home.”

“You’d been to Pohutukawa Bay?”

“I’m telling you I went there.”

“To see the trees in flower?”

“My God, why shouldn’t I go to see the pootacows! It’s a great sight isn’t it? Hundreds of people go don’t they? If you must know I thought it would be a nice little run for Mr. Gaunt. I thought I’d take a look-see if they were in full bloom before suggesting he went over there.”

“But you must have heard that there is no bloom this year on the pohutukawas. Everybody’s talking about it.”

For some inexplicable reason Questing looked pleased. “I hadn’t heard,” he said quickly. “I was astonished when I got there. It’s very, very disappointing. Just too bad.”

Dr. Ackrington, also, looked pleased. He got up and stood with his back to Questing, his eyes fixed triumphantly on his brother-in-law.

“Yes, but I don’t know what the devil you’re getting at both of you,” Colonel Claire complained. “I’ve been — ”

“Do me the extraordinary kindness to hold your tongue, Edward.”

“Look here, James!”

“Cut it out, Dad,” said Simon. He looked at his uncle. “I reckon I’m satisfied,” he said roughly.

“I am obliged to you. Thank you, Mr. Questing. I fancy we need detain, you no longer.”

Questing drew at his cigar, exhaled a long dribble of smoke and remained where he was. “Wait a bit, wait a bit,” he said, speaking in the best tradition of the cinema boss. “You’re satisfied, huh? O.K. That’s fine. That’s swell. What about me? Just because I’ve got an instinct about the right way to behave when we’ve distinguished guests among us, you think you can get away with dynamite. I’ve tried to save Mr. Gaunt the embarrassment of this scene. I apologize to Mr. Gaunt. I’d like him to know that when I’ve taken over this joint the resemblance to a giggle-house will fade out automatically.” He walked to the door. “But we must have an exit line,” Gaunt muttered. Questing turned. “And just in case you didn’t hear me, Claire,” he said magnificently, “I said when and not if. Good evening.”

He did his best to slam the door but true to the tradition of the house it jammed half-way and he wisely made no second attempt. He walked slowly past the windows with his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat, making much of his hour.

As soon as he had passed out of earshot, Colonel Claire raised a piteous cry of protest. He hadn’t understood. He would never understand. What was all this about Pohutukawa Bay? Nobody had told him anything about it. On the contrary —

With extraordinary complacency, Dr. Ackrington cut in: “Nobody told you it was a bad year for pohutukawas, my good Edward, for the conclusive reason that it is a phenomenonally good year. The Bay is ablaze with blossom. I laid for your friend Questing, Edward, and, as Simon’s intolerable jargon would have it — did he fall!” iv

After the party in the dining-room had broken up, Gaunt suggested that he and Dikon should go for a stroll before night set in. Dikon proposed the path leading past the Springs and round the shoulder of the hill that separated them from the native settlement. Their departure was hindered by Mrs. Claire, who hurried from the house, full of warnings about boiling mud. “But you can’t miss your way, really,” she added. “There are little flags, white for safe and red for boiling mud. But you will take care of him, Mr. Bell, won’t you? Come back before dark. One would never forgive oneself if after all this…” The sentence died away as a doubt arose in Mrs. Claire’s mind about the propriety of saying that death by boiling mud would be a poor sequel to an evening of social solecisms. She looked very earnestly at Gaunt and repeated: “So you will take care, won’t you? Such a horrid place, really. When one thinks of our dear old English lanes…”

They reassured her and set off. Soon after their arrival Gaunt had taken his first step in the Elfin Pool. Whether through the agency of free sulphuric acid, or through the stimulus provided by the scene they had just witnessed, his leg was less painful than it had been for some time, and he was in good spirits. “I’ve always adored scenes,” he said, “and this was a princely one. They can’t keep it up, of course, but really, Dikon, if this is anything like a fair sample, I shall do very nicely at Wai-ata-tapu. How right you were to urge me to come.”

“I’m glad you’ve been entertained,” Dikon rejoined, “but honestly, sir, I regard the whole affair as an exceedingly sinister set-up. I mean, why did Questing lie like a flat-fish?”

“Several most satisfactory theories present themselves. I am inclined to think that Miss Claire is the key figure.”

Dikon, who was leading the way, stopped so suddenly that Gaunt walked into him. “What can you mean, sir!” Dikon cried. “How can Questing’s relations with Smith have any possible connection with Barbara Claire?”

“I may be wrong of course, but there is no doubt that he has his eye on her. Didn’t you notice that? All that frightful line of stuff with the Maori waitress was undoubtedly directed at Barbara Claire. A display of really most unpalatable oomph. I must say she didn’t seem to care for it. Always the young gentlewoman, of course.” They walked on in silence for a minute, and then Gaunt said lightly: “Surely you can’t have fallen for her?”

Without turning his head Dikon said crossly: “What in the name of high fantasy could have put that antic notion into your head?”

“The back of your neck has bristled like a hedgehog ever since I mentioned her. And it’s not such an antic notion. There are possibilities. She’s got eyes and a profile and a figure. Submerged it is true in dressy floral ninon, but there nevertheless.” And with a touch of the malice with which Dikon was only too familiar, Gaunt added: “Barbara Claire. It’s a charming name, isn’t it? You must teach her not to hoot.”

Dikon had never liked his employer less than he did at that moment. When Gaunt prodded him in the back with his stick, Dikon pretended not to notice, but cursed softly to himself.

“I apologize,” said Gaunt, “in fourteen different positions.”

“Not at all, sir.”

“Then don’t prance along at such a rate. Stop a moment. I’m exhausted. What’s that noise?”

They had rounded the flank of the hill and now came in sight of the native settlement. The swift northern dusk had fallen upon the countryside with no suggestion of density. The darkening of the air seemed merely to be a change in translucence. It was very still, and as they stood listening Dikon became aware of a curious sound. It was as if a giant somewhere close at hand were blowing thick bubbles very slowly and complacently; or as if, over the brink of the hill, a vast porridge pot had just come to boiling point. The sounds were irregular, each one mounting to its point of explosion. Plop. Plop-plop… Plop.

They moved forward and reached a point where the scrub and grass came to an end and the path descended a steep bank to traverse a region of solidified blue mud, sinter mounds, hot pools and geysers. The sulphurous smell was very strong. The track, defined at intervals by stakes to which pieces of white rag had been tied, went forward over naked hillocks towards the hip-roofs of the native settlement.

“Shall we go further?” asked Dikon.

“It’s a detestable place, but I think we must see this infernal brew.”

“We must keep to the track, then. Shall I go first?”

They walked on and presently, through the soles of their feet, received a strange experience. The ground beneath them was unsteady, quivering a little, telling them that, after all, there was no stability in the earth by which we symbolize stability. They moved across a skin and the organism beneath it was restless.

“This is abominable,” said Gaunt. “The whole place works secretly. It’s alive.”

“Look to your right,” said Dikon. They had come to a hillock; the path divided, and, where it turned to the right, was marked by red flags.

“They told me you used to be able to walk along there,” Dikon explained, “but it’s not safe now. Taupo-tapu is encroaching.”

They followed the white flags, climbed steeply, and at last, from the top of the hillock, looked down on Taupo-tapu.

It was perhaps fifteen feet across, dun-coloured and glistening, a working ulcer in the body of the earth. Great bubbles of mud formed themselves deliberately, swelled, and broke with the sounds which they had noticed a few minutes before and which were now loud and insistent. With each eruption unctuous rings momentarily creased the surface of the brew. It was impossible to escape the notion that Taupo-tapu had some idiotic purpose of its own.

For perhaps two minutes Gaunt looked at it in silence. “Quite obscene, isn’t it?” he said at last. “If you know anything about it, don’t tell me.”

“The only story I’ve heard,” Dikon said, “is not a pretty one. I won’t.”

Gaunt’s reply was unexpected. “I should prefer to hear it from a Maori,” he said.

“You can see where the thing has eaten into the old path,” Dikon pointed out. “The red flags begin again on the other side and rejoin our track just below us. Just as well. It would be an unpleasant error to mistake the paths, wouldn’t it?”

“Don’t, for God’s sake,” said Gaunt. “It’s getting dark. Let’s go home.”

When they turned back, Dikon found that he had to make a deliberate effort to prevent himself from hurrying, and he thought he sensed Gaunt’s impatience too. The firm dry earth felt wholesome under their feet as once more they circled the hill. Behind them, in the native village, a drift of song rose on the cool air, intolerably plaintive and lonely.

“What’s that?”

“One of their songs,” said Dikon. “Perhaps they’re rehearsing for your concert. It’s the genuine thing. You get the authentic music up here.”

The shoulder of the hill came between them and the song. It was almost dark as they walked along the brushwood fence towards Wai-ata-tapu. Steam from the hot pools drifted in wraiths across the still night air. It was only when she moved forward that Barbara’s dress and the blurred patches of white that were her arms and face told them that she had been waiting for them. Perhaps the darkness gave her courage and balance. Perhaps any voice would have been welcome just then, but it seemed to Dikon that Barbara’s had a directness and repose that he had not heard in it before.

“I hope I didn’t startle you,” she said. “I heard you coming down the path and thought I should like to speak to you.”

Gaunt said: “What is it, Miss Claire? More excursions and alarms?”

“No, no. We seem to have settled down again. It’s only that I wanted to tell you how very sorry we all are about that frightful scene. We shan’t go on apologizing, but I did just want to say this: Please don’t think you are under an obligation to stay. Of course you know you are not, but perhaps you feel it’s rather difficult to tell us you are going. Don’t hesitate. We shall quite understand.”

She turned her head and they saw her in profile against a shifting background of steam. The dusk, simplifying her ugly dress, revealed the beauty of her silhouette. The profile lines of her head and throat were well-drawn, delicate, and harmonious. It was an astonishing change. Perhaps if Gaunt had not seen her so translated, his voice would have held less warmth and friendliness when he answered her.

“But there is no question of our going,” he said. “We have not thought of it. As for the scene, Dikon will tell you that I have a lust for scenes. We are very sorry if you’re in difficulties, but we don’t in the least want to go.”

Dikon saw him take her arm and turn her towards the house. It was a gesture he often used on the stage, adroit and impersonal. Dikon followed behind as they walked across the pumice.

“It’s awfully nice of you,” Barbara was saying. “I — we have felt so frightful about it. I was horrified when I heard what Mr. Questing had done, badgering you to come. We didn’t know what he was up to. Uncle James and I were horrified.”

“He didn’t badger me,” said Gaunt. “Dikon attended to Questing. That’s why I keep him.”

“Oh.” Barbara half-turned her head and laughed, not with her usual boisterousness, but shyly. “I wondered what he was for,” she said.

“He has his uses. When I start work again he’ll be kept very spry.”

“You’re going to write, aren’t you? Uncle James told me. Is it an autobiography? I do hope it is.”

Gaunt moved his hand above her elbow. “And why do you hope that?”

“Because I want to read it. You see, I’ve seen your Rochester, and once somebody who was staying here had an American magazine, I think it was called the Theatre Arts, and there was an article in it with photographs of you as different people. I liked the Hamlet one the best because — ”

“Well?” asked Gaunt when she paused.

Barbara stumbled over her next speech. “Because — well, I suppose because I know it best. No, that’s not really why. I didn’t know it at all well until then, but I read it again, lots of times, and tried to imagine how you sounded when you said the speech in the photograph. Of course after hearing Mr. Rochester it was easier.”

“Which photograph was that, Dikon?” asked Gaunt over his shoulder.

“It was with Rosencrantz…” Barbara began eagerly.

“Ah, I remember.”

Gaunt stood still and put her from him, holding her by the shoulder as he had held the gratified small-part actor who played Rosencrantz in New York. Dikon heard him draw in his breath as he always did when he collected himself to rehearse. In the silence of that warm evening amidst the reek of sulphur and against the nebulous thermal background, the beautiful voice spoke quietly: —

“ ‘O God, I could be bounded in a nutshell and count myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams.’ ”

Dikon was irritated and disturbed by Barbara’s rapturous silence, and infuriated by the whispered “Thank you” with which she finally ended it. “She’s making a perfect little ass of herself,” he thought, but he knew that Gaunt would not find her attitude excessive. He had an infinite capacity for absorbing adulation.

“Can you go on?” Gaunt was saying. “Which dreams — ”

“ ‘Which dreams indeed are ambition, for the very substance of the ambitious is merely the shadow of a dream.’ ”

“ ‘A dream itself is but a shadow!’ Do you hear this, Dikon?” cried Gaunt. “She knows the lines.” He moved forward again, Barbara at his side. “You’ve got a voice, my child,” he said. “How have you escaped the accent? Do you know what you’ve been talking about? You must hear the music, but you must also achieve the meaning. Say it again: thinking — ‘Which dreams indeed are ambition? ” But Barbara fumbled the second time, and they spoke the line backwards and forwards to each other as they crossed the pumice to the house. Gaunt was treating her to an almost indecent helping of charm, Dikon considered.

The lights were up in the house and Mrs. Claire was hurriedly doing the blackout. She had left the door open and a square of warmth reached across the verandah to the pumice. Before they came to its margin Gaunt checked Barbara again.

“We say good night here,” he said. “The dusk becomes you well. Good night, Miss Claire.”

He turned on his heel and walked towards his rooms.

“Good night,” said Dikon.

She had moved into the light. The look she turned upon him was radiant. “You’re terribly lucky, aren’t you?” said Barbara.

“Lucky?”

“Your job. To be with him.”

“Oh,” said Dikon, “that. Yes, of course.”

“Good night,” said Barbara, and ran indoors.

He looked after her, absently polishing his glasses with his handkerchief. v

Barbara lay in bed with her eyes wide-open to the dark. Until this moment she had denied the waves of bliss that lapped at the edge of her thoughts. Now she opened her heart to them.

She passed the sequence of those few minutes in the dusk through and through her mind, examining each moment, feeling again its lustre, wondering at her happiness. It is easy to smile at such fervours, but in her unreasoned ecstasy she reached a point of pure enchantment to which she would perhaps never again ascend. The experience may appear more touching but its reality is not impugned if it is recorded that Gaunt, at the same time, was preening himself a little.

“Do you know, Dikon,” he said, “that strange little devil quivered like a puppy out there in the dusk.” Dikon did not answer and after a moment Gaunt added: “After all it’s pleasant to know that one’s work can reach so far. The Bard and sulphuric phenomena! An amusing juxtaposition, isn’t it? One lights a little flame, you know. One carries the torch.”