The Trembling of a Leaf: Rain & Other South Sea Stories. Уильям Сомерсет Моэм

trying to hold Walker up. A little crowd of natives surrounded it.

      The mare was led into the yard and the natives surged in after it. Mackintosh shouted to them to stand back and the two policemen, sprang suddenly from God knows where, pushed them violently aside. By now he had managed to understand that some lads who had been fishing, on their way back to their village had come across the cart on the home side of the ford. The mare was nuzzling about the herbage and in the darkness they could just see the great white bulk of the old man sunk between the seat and the dashboard. At first they thought he was drunk and they peered in, grinning, but then they heard him groan, and guessed that something was amiss. They ran to the village and called for help. It was when they returned, accompanied by half a hundred people, that they discovered Walker had been shot.

      With a sudden thrill of horror Mackintosh asked himself whether he was already dead. The first thing at all events was to get him out of the cart, and that, owing to Walker's corpulence, was a difficult job. It took four strong men to lift him. They jolted him and he uttered a dull groan. He was still alive. At last they carried him into the house, up the stairs, and placed him on his bed. Then Mackintosh was able to see him, for in the yard, lit only by half a dozen hurricane lamps, everything had been obscured. Walker's white ducks were stained with blood, and the men who had carried him wiped their hands, red and sticky, on their lava-lavas. Mackintosh held up the lamp. He had not expected the old man to be so pale. His eyes were closed. He was breathing still, his pulse could be just felt, but it was obvious that he was dying. Mackintosh had not bargained for the shock of horror that convulsed him. He saw that the native clerk was there, and in a voice hoarse with fear told him to go into the dispensary and get what was necessary for a hypodermic injection. One of the policemen had brought up the whisky, and Mackintosh forced a little into the old man's mouth. The room was crowded with natives. They sat about the floor, speechless now and terrified, and every now and then one wailed aloud. It was very hot, but Mackintosh felt cold, his hands and his feet were like ice, and he had to make a violent effort not to tremble in all his limbs. He did not know what to do. He did not know if Walker was bleeding still, and if he was, how he could stop the bleeding.

      The clerk brought the hypodermic needle.

      "You give it to him," said Mackintosh. "You're more used to that sort of thing than I am."

      His head ached horribly. It felt as though all sorts of little savage things were beating inside it, trying to get out. They watched for the effect of the injection. Presently Walker opened his eyes slowly. He did not seem to know where he was.

      "Keep quiet," said Mackintosh. "You're at home. You're quite safe."

      Walker's lips outlined a shadowy smile.

      "They've got me," he whispered.

      "I'll get Jervis to send his motor-boat to Apia at once. We'll get a doctor out by to-morrow afternoon."

      There was a long pause before the old man answered,

      "I shall be dead by then."

      A ghastly expression passed over Mackintosh's pale face. He forced himself to laugh.

      "What rot! You keep quiet and you'll be as right as rain."

      "Give me a drink," said Walker. "A stiff one."

      With shaking hand Mackintosh poured out whisky and water, half and half, and held the glass while Walker drank greedily. It seemed to restore him. He gave a long sigh and a little colour came into his great fleshy face. Mackintosh felt extraordinarily helpless. He stood and stared at the old man.

      "If you'll tell me what to do I'll do it," he said.

      "There's nothing to do. Just leave me alone. I'm done for."

      He looked dreadfully pitiful as he lay on the great bed, a huge, bloated, old man; but so wan, so weak, it was heart-rending. As he rested, his mind seemed to grow clearer.

      "You were right, Mac," he said presently. "You warned me."

      "I wish to God I'd come with you."

      "You're a good chap, Mac, only you don't drink."

      There was another long silence, and it was clear that Walker was sinking. There was an internal hæmorrhage and even Mackintosh in his ignorance could not fail to see that his chief had but an hour or two to live. He stood by the side of the bed stock still. For half an hour perhaps Walker lay with his eyes closed, then he opened them.

      "They'll give you my job," he said, slowly. "Last time I was in Apia I told them you were all right. Finish my road. I want to think that'll be done. All round the island."

      "I don't want your job. You'll get all right."

      Walker shook his head wearily.

      "I've had my day. Treat them fairly, that's the great thing. They're children. You must always remember that. You must be firm with them, but you must be kind. And you must be just. I've never made a bob out of them. I haven't saved a hundred pounds in twenty years. The road's the great thing. Get the road finished."

      Something very like a sob was wrung from Mackintosh.

      "You're a good fellow, Mac. I always liked you."

      He closed his eyes, and Mackintosh thought that he would never open them again. His mouth was so dry that he had to get himself something to drink. The Chinese cook silently put a chair for him. He sat down by the side of the bed and waited. He did not know how long a time passed. The night was endless. Suddenly one of the men sitting there broke into uncontrollable sobbing, loudly, like a child, and Mackintosh grew aware that the room was crowded by this time with natives. They sat all over the floor on their haunches, men and women, staring at the bed.

      "What are all these people doing here?" said Mackintosh. "They've got no right. Turn them out, turn them out, all of them."

      His words seemed to rouse Walker, for he opened his eyes once more, and now they were all misty. He wanted to speak, but he was so weak that Mackintosh had to strain his ears to catch what he said.

      "Let them stay. They're my children. They ought to be here."

      Mackintosh turned to the natives.

      "Stay where you are. He wants you. But be silent."

      A faint smile came over the old man's white face.

      "Come nearer," he said.

      Mackintosh bent over him. His eyes were closed and the words he said were like a wind sighing through the fronds of the coconut trees.

      "Give me another drink. I've got something to say."

      This time Mackintosh gave him his whisky neat. Walker collected his strength in a final effort of will.

      "Don't make a fuss about this. In 'ninety-five when there were troubles white men were killed, and the fleet came and shelled the villages. A lot of people were killed who'd had nothing to do with it. They're damned fools at Apia. If they make a fuss they'll only punish the wrong people. I don't want anyone punished."

      He paused for a while to rest.

      "You must say it was an accident. No one's to blame. Promise me that."

      "I'll do anything you like," whispered Mackintosh.

      "Good chap. One of the best. They're children. I'm their father. A father don't let his children get into trouble if he can help it."

      A ghost of a chuckle came out of his throat. It was astonishingly weird and ghastly.

      "You're a religious chap, Mac. What's that about forgiving them? You know."

      For a while Mackintosh did not answer. His lips trembled.

      "Forgive them, for they know not what they do?"

      "That's right. Forgive them. I've loved them, you know, always loved them."

      He sighed. His lips faintly moved, and now Mackintosh had to put his ears quite close to them in order to hear.

      "Hold my hand," he said.

      Mackintosh