Casu et Certum
Written for Waen.
Ben Joyce.
Ayrton.
When there was something one truly hated, what made it the most impossible thing to escape from? He could escape from bad dreams by staying awake, and he could hide the horrible thing he'd become for years by dressing decently, cutting his beard, taking the wildness from his eyes and the insane fever from his brain, but he couldn't, not now or ever, get away from the names. He couldn't deny them, and they would never, never let him forget anything.
Perhaps Ben Joyce was the more horrible of the two, for Ben Joyce was the pirate. But no, no, Ayrton was the betrayer, and that must be worse.
They all called him Ayrton anyway. He did not suppose he could just choose another name and ask them to call him that. He hadn't the right, to be honest. He had to be reminded, so that he could properly repent. He should not, indeed, want them to call him anything else. Oh, how he loved them all! They had found him, taken him away from the tiny, cruel island where he'd thought he'd stay forever, where he deserved to stay...! No, despite their goodness--perhaps as part of it--they should go on calling him Ayrton.
There was Harbert, the boy, who was pale and beautiful and always smiling at him. He'd saved Harbert, but only a little while before he had, he'd tried to kill the boy. Harbert should not be grateful at all, but for some reason he was. He smiled.
And there was also Neb, who was black and tall and lanky, and wore his white handkerchief and gold earrings as though it was the most natural thing in the world. He was the cook, as far as Ayrton could tell, but he helped with everything else anyway. He seemed to belong to Mr. Smith.
Mr. Smith was the one everyone loved. That was obvious, and made sense, too. He was rather short, but there were short Gods, weren't there? He was cleverer than anyone, could do anything. Even Ayrton, who'd only been on the island with them for a few months, could see that. Mr. Smith could lay his hand on something and bless it. Mr. Smith could take a man who was no longer a man and, with his care and his holiness, restore him to life. There was no one who could match him, and everyone believed it. Ayrton believed it.
Mr. Spilett was Mr. Smith's closest companion. Mr. Spilett was also clever, also brilliant at things, but less so. He was not respected the same way Mr. Smith was. Pencroff even argued with him, which was something no one dared or wanted to do with Mr. Smith.
Pencroff was the last one. He was the one who owned the boat. It was a little boat, but an excellent one, and Ayrton rather liked looking at it until he thought of the Duncan and had to look away. Pencroff, however, was hard to look away from. He was fascinating in an odd way--always talking, arguing good-naturedly, laughing, doing something with his hands. He was a sailor, Ayrton knew, and perhaps that accounted for it. Pencroff was alternately cynical and reverent. He believed wholeheartedly in Mr. Smith but was always raising his eyebrows behind Mr. Spilett's back. Before Ayrton saved Harbert from the jaguar, Pencroff had looked at him dubiously and shaken his head; after, he became slightly given to grinning and, with pointed carelessness, wandering down to the sheepfold during his walks around the island, and sticking his head in for a moment to say hallo. Ayrton was not quite sure how much he liked Pencroff, but he did see how easy it was for everyone else to be so fond of him.
And they had all taken him in. They were allowing him to live on their island, among them, in spite of what he was and what he'd done. He had already told them who he was. They knew. But still, Mr. Smith had taken his hand and called him 'my friend'... Him. Ben Joyce.
Ayrton.
He thought of such things often, as he had lived alone at the sheepfold for the last several months, and when the animals needed no tending, there was hardly anything he could do but think.
A few days ago, Pencroff had idly sent him a message with the telegraph line: "Here, nothing is happening. Harbert studying from Mr. Cyrus, Neb busy, Mr. Spilett fussing with photographs. Let me come down."
Ayrton anxiously replied: "Of course. But nothing happening here, either."
So Pencroff had appeared nearly forty-five minutes later, and stood around talking about the beautiful day and what a pity it was that everyone else was so busy with their own things. Ayrton nodded and quietly mentioned the fine sailing weather; but he and Pencroff both knew, he thought, that Pencroff would not ask him for a sail on the Bonadventure, and even if he did, Ayrton would not go. That was the way things were.
All the same, Pencroff stayed longer than Ayrton had expected, and even dared to shake his hand before he went back up to Granite House, whistling.
Perhaps, Ayrton thought, sitting alone at the table in the little house they'd built him, Pencroff was acting by proxy. Perhaps they were trying to show, again, that they thought he should live with them and be one of them. But he couldn't-- They were good men, and he was Ayrton.
Ayrton.
Two days later, he jumped up from the table, startled at a noise behind him. The iron plate of the telegraphic thing had made a heavy clank against the magnetic thing (Mr. Smith had explained telegraphical devices to him, but Ayrton had never quite understood them), which meant someone from Granite House had used the telegraph line. It would be odd for Pencroff to send him another message so soon, was his first, rather muddled, thought. His second was that he had better see what Mr. Smith wanted.
The message was "Come at once" and he sent back "On my way" before hurrying along. More than once he wondered why they'd built the sheepfold a full five miles from Granite House, but an hour later he arrived, rather out of breath, and said quietly,--
"Present as requested, gentlemen."
Mr. Smith immediately put out his hand and took Ayrton's, and led him to the window gently. "Ayrton, you've been asked here on a very serious matter. We have discovered a ship in sight of the island."
For a moment, he could think of nothing to say or do. The Duncan had returned for him! They meant to take him back, and he was no longer on Tabor Island! Had he--had he really been there long enough to serve penance? Was it really time? Could it ever be really time? "Already!" he murmured without thinking. "Already? No! No, it cannot be the Duncan!" He buried his face in his hands, and Mr. Spilett touched his shoulder carefully.
"Here, take the spyglass. You must look closely, Ayrton."
"It is vitally important that we know in advance what to expect," Mr. Smith added, in a soft, reasonable voice.
So Ayrton obeyed mechanically, watching for several minutes without moving or speaking. Finally, he said, "I don't believe it's the Duncan. She is a steam yacht, and I can see no smoke anywhere about the ship."
"She might be travelling under sail," Pencroff observed. "There's a fair wind blowing, and a good captain always spares the coal when he can."
"Of course, you may be right, Mr. Pencroff. Wait a moment, then, until she's closer, and then look again." With that, he retreated to a corner and sat without speaking. It couldn't be the Duncan! But if it was-- What ought he do? He half wanted to stay here, but did he have that right? Could he possibly be allowed to stay with them when that was what he wanted, and therefore should not have? And if it was not the Duncan, and the others left! What in heaven's name would he do then? Would he remain on the island until the Duncan did come, or ought he have them return him to Tabor Island or ought--?
Suddenly Mr. Smith called him over and asked him to look again. The ship was closer; they must determine how it was rigged and Pencroff wanted him to confirm his own thought; and then again, they must make out the flag. Pencroff was going through all the ones he knew in a list, muttering a little curiously, for it was not Chilean nor Brazilian nor Japanese-- Just then, the wind blew the flag to its full length and Ayrton took the spyglass.
"It is a black flag," he said softly.
~~~
"But the sheepfold, the wheat field, the chickens, the gardens!" Pencroff cried furiously. "They could destroy everything we've done the last two years in a few hours!"
"Everything, Pencroff, and we must stop them," answered Mr. Smith calmly but seriously, and at once Mr. Spilett broke in with,--
"But how many are there? That's what we need to know! If there are a dozen, why then, perhaps we can hold them off, but if there are forty--fifty--perhaps more--"
Finally, Ayrton spoke. He'd stayed quiet most of the time, simply thinking as he always was, while the others talked and Pencroff shouted and plans were discussed but largely nothing was agreed on. But there were pirates, and they were threatening the island where Mr. Smith and the others had lived and which was clearly beloved of them; and he had been a pirate once, so there seemed nothing for it. "Mr. Smith," he said, doing his level best not to sound anxious. "Will you allow me to try something?"
"Yes, my friend?" Mr. Smith always called him 'my friend'.
"I'd like to go to the ship and try to find out the size of her crew."
"But, Ayrton, you would risk your life," said Mr. Smith hesitantly, and Ayrton nearly laughed in his head, though that was the last thing he should have thought of doing. Risking his life! His worthless life! It hardly mattered if he did! But he couldn't laugh, for Mr. Smith was concerned about him. Him...!
"Why shouldn't I, sir?" was all he managed.
"It's more than your duty."
"I must do more than my duty."
"Then," put in Mr. Spilett, "you'd take the canoe out?"
"No, sir, I'd swim," said Ayrton. It was harder to move a canoe or hide a canoe, of course.
"You do realise how far the brig is from the shore?" asked Harbert, looking at him with an expression that seemed partly sorrow, and partly admiration.
"I'm a good swimmer, Mr. Harbert," he answered.
"You're risking your life!" Mr. Smith repeated, and Ayrton trembled a little, still hardly able to believe that the others were worried about his safety. What reason could they possibly have? He deserved nothing like worry, nor care from anyone, not after what he'd done.
"It doesn't matter. Mr. Smith, I'm begging you, allow me to do this. I might redeem myself, perhaps, if I could help you!"
"Very well, Ayrton," Mr Smith agreed at last. Ayrton felt a rush of relief.
"I'll go with you," said Pencroff.
"You don't trust me! --But well you might not..."
"No, no!" said Mr. Smith quickly. "Pencroff surely trusts you. You've simply misunderstood him."
"That's right," said Pencroff, nodding and looking at Ayrton firmly. "I'll accompany you only as far as the islet, and then I'll wait for you, and make certain none of those rogues have left the ship and would sound the alarm if they saw us. Then Ayrton can go on, as he's offered to do."
The others agreed to it, and Ayrton went down on the beach. There was still an hour or so before it could be dark enough for him to go out, and Pencroff helped him undress and rub himself with fat to protect against the cold water. Pencroff seemed terribly cheerful, and made very bad jokes while he smeared fat in the centre of Ayrton's back, along with mentioning that it was always the hardest spot to reach by oneself and a blasted nuisance indeed.
After Pencroff and Neb went to get the canoe, Mr. Smith came down and stood by him for a long moment.
"Ayrton, my friend," he said finally, "I wish I might perhaps change your mind, but I can see that would be futile. As I'm sure you know, there is the chance you could be killed or badly hurt on this venture."
"Yes, sir."
"Then I must tell you, before you go, that I have always believed you a good man and that this risk you are taking for our sakes is great indeed. Of course you are already forgiven by us, but surely you must be forgiven by God after to-night." He laid a hand on Ayrton's shoulder gently. "My friend, I wish you the best luck. May you succeed."
"Thank you, sir. Mr. Smith--"
"Yes, Ayrton?"
"I beg your pardon. It was nothing. Here is Pencroff with the canoe."
With a blanket wrapped about him for warmth, Ayrton climbed into the canoe beside Pencroff, and they set off.
They were silent as they went along, but every now and then Pencroff looked over his shoulder and nodded questioningly at Ayrton, who nodded back that he was quite all right. Several minutes later, they landed on the islet, and then Pencroff nodded a last time and shook Ayrton's hand; then he dove into the sea, and Pencroff took cover in small hollow and tried to get the grease off his fingers.
~~~
"There, now, Ayrton; Mr. Gideon Spilett of the New York Herald is attending to your wounds, and in a moment there won't be a man on earth as well done-up as you are." Pencroff sat on a stool in front of Ayrton, grinning good-naturedly and watching Mr. Spilett tend to his shoulder. "Those pirates thought they could kill you, did they? Well, weren't they mistaken! A simple knife wound will hardly bring you down!"
Ayrton gave him a very brief smile, and glanced sideways again at Mr. Spilett, who was cleaning out the wound rather unnecessarily roughly as far as he was concerned.
"Indeed," Pencroff continued, "I shouldn't wonder that you paid them back for it smartly."
"Three," said Ayrton, hardly above a whisper. "I shot three. I missed Bob Harvey."
"Ah, well, you'll get another shot at him, I expect," said Pencroff, with a purposeful nod.
"We might only hope that he doesn't," Mr. Spilett admonished from above Ayrton's head. "It would be better for all of us if there were no more need to go on shooting."
"But that's impossible. Now they know we're here, they'll hardly stop short of trying to kill us, will they?" Pencroff demanded.
"Certainly not. Nevertheless, Pencroff, you ought to stop wishing things on Ayrton when you've no idea what he wants. Now, hand me that roll of bandage."
Pencroff complied, and then sat quietly for a bit, watching the two of them thoughtfully. Ayrton observed that he had blue eyes. At last, Pencroff got up and went out, throwing an amiable 'Well then, I shall see you in a while' over his shoulder. Ayrton craned his head around, trying to be unobtrusive and catch a look at Mr. Spilett at the same time. Mr. Spilett looked back at him with a slightly amused and slightly exasperated expression on his face.
"Don't mind Pencroff, Ayrton. He doesn't realise--"
"I don't mind it, Mr. Spilett. It's all right."
"Very well. Here, hold still, and I shall be done in a moment."
Afterwards, when he'd been tended to and approved of and there was nothing they needed him for because they must wait until dawn came to see whether the pirates' ship had gone, he went out to the door and sat in the vine-covered elevator, his long legs dangling over the side. It was, perhaps, a risk, but the elevator was well-concealed, and he wanted to be out in the open. He had no right to be in Granite House.
He sat for a long while, looking out over the island, and occasionally at the sky, and thinking, as he did in his little house at the sheepfold. He thought of Mr. Smith and of the pirates and of the others, and of Pencroff particularly, and the fact that he had blue eyes, which seemed somehow remarkable. Ayrton thought of the Duncan and of Bob Harvey, of the twelve years on Tabor Island and his little house that he had become fond of in a strange way, and his shoulder, which was throbbing gently. He thought of the evil ship, and his attempt to fire into the powder magazine that had come to nothing, and of Bob Harvey grabbing his arm roughly, demanding to know who he was, touching him--and the pirate captain didn't even remember him! Oddly, it was comforting--was he so changed? Perhaps, then, he was not the same man; perhaps... He thought of swimming through the cold sea and being helped out by Pencroff, of dripping on the sand and shivering.
He could have gone on thinking forever, were it not that dawn would some time come and the ship would not have left, he was certain, and then they would all go to fight the pirates for the island which Ayrton knew quite well belonged to Mr. Smith. Still, he could have thought for a while longer than he did; but some hours later Mr. Smith came out and knelt down to look into the elevator at him.
"Are you all right, my friend?"
"Yes, sir. I'm all right."
"Gideon informed me that you seemed in need of a companion, and I agree. It is a cold and a heavy night, and surely it weighs heaviest upon you. But you are not one of them, Ayrton, and we do not believe you to be. You redeemed yourself in our eyes the moment you saved Pencroff's child."
"In your eyes, perhaps."
"Ayrton, please understand me. We would consider you--"
"Yes, I know, sir, but I'm not, and I don't think I ever will be. I can't be good, as you and the other gentlemen are. I--" He grasped Mr. Smith's hand tightly, and a moment later, found he had kissed the fingers, bowed his head, was now on his knees, reverently and devotedly. "Sir, I--" Daring to glance up, he saw that Mr. Smith was looking at him with an expression of pity, though it was tinged around the edges with shock. Ayrton kissed him quickly, then bowed his head again. "I know I cannot be like you and the others. But at least allow me to love you as they do, Mr. Smith!"
"Ayrton." Ayrton quivered a bit as Mr. Smith laid his free hand on his head, the fingers resting in his tangled, dark hair. "This is not how the others love me."
"I'm sorry," said Ayrton wretchedly.
"Thank you. Come inside, now; it's cold out here, and we must discuss what is to be done."
"Done, sir?"
"Indeed. Look--the sun is rising, and there is the Speedy." Mr. Smith gestured at the pirates' ship and Ayrton, who had raised his head to look, nodded slightly.
"Yes, sir."
~~~
Ayrton went with Pencroff when they divided up to defend themselves against the pirates. He was quiet and subdued, and it seemed Pencroff had realised something was wrong, for he went about his preparations silently, with only an occasional mutter or exclamation, and he often looked over at Ayrton thoughtfully and shook his head before returning to his tasks.
Ayrton, himself, felt dazed. This, then, was yet another thing he could add to his reasons which prevented him from counting himself among the others. He followed after Pencroff mechanically, wondering whether Mr. Smith would forgive him, whether he was intended to earn forgiveness by the number of pirates he killed. Would Mr. Smith tell any of the others? No--that was unlikely. He didn't do that sort of thing. But he would know, and Ayrton would never be able to look at him again. It was impossible.
When the pirates set out in the launch, he fired alongside Pencroff like clockwork, without thinking. He allowed Pencroff to push him down or drag him away, depending on how the pirates were retaliating, and very nearly was hit when the cannon was fired into the rocks where they were hiding. By the time they rejoined the others, Pencroff was beginning to lose his temper, and several times just barely kept himself from clapping Ayrton on the shoulder and telling him to look sharp.
However, "It's going well!" he cried as he raced into the Chimneys, Ayrton close behind. "Don't you think, Mr. Cyrus?"
"Rather, Pencroff, the pirates are going to attempt to attack us in a new manner. They've realised this puts them at a disadvantage. They'll change their plan."
"But they can't cross the channel. Ayrton and Mr. Spilett will see to that!"
"Cannons and carbines," Harbert informed him rather bleakly, "are very different things."
"Ah, the brig isn't in the channel yet!"
"Suppose it enters?"
"It won't! There's too great a risk of running aground."
"It's possible," said Ayrton softly, "that they'll enter the channel at high tide, and then, when they begin firing the cannons, we shall be unable to keep our positions."
Pencroff stared at him for a moment, then out at the ship, then cried, "Damnation! You're right! They're preparing to raise anchor!"
Thus it was that Ayrton began again firing without thinking; now, in a way, alongside Mr. Spilett, as although he really had no idea where Mr. Spilett was, they were firing together and making every shot. They soon paused, however, as the Speedy began to enter the channel. Immediately, Mr. Smith ordered them all back to Granite House.
There, Ayrton backed away a little and stood in his old corner. Why in God's name was Bob Harvey coming into the channel? What did he think he was doing? It was impossibly risky, and he knew Harvey... he had been careful, sensible-- Ayrton shook his head furiously. They were the enemies of the others, and he was to hate them. If Bob Harvey was insensible, so much the better... The pirates had discovered Granite House, he thought incoherently, listening to the cannonballs shatter the rock and foliage around the windows. How much would be destroyed? Would they be killed? Was this--
At that moment, he heard a muffled explosion and screaming, and raised his head just enough to see out the window, over Harbert's head, the ship, raised out of the sea on a towering wave of water, suddenly split in two and sink.
~~~
Afterward, Ayrton went out with Pencroff in the canoe to look for pieces. There were plenty of things to salvage, and he helped Pencroff dutifully until late in the day, when they paused in their work to eat on the water, bobbing rather in the now-calm sea.
Pencroff was busily being quite astounded at it all. He widened his blue eyes, shook his head, and said it was a miracle. A miracle! The whole ship, gone to pieces, just like that! Why, he'd never seen a thing so incredible in all his life! If he didn't believe in God and Jesus Christ and the hosts before to-day, well, this would have been enough to convert him!
Ayrton peered at him from time to time, but for the most part, sat silently and stared at the sea. When informing him of what he was to do and how he has to help Pencroff, Mr. Smith had not avoided meeting his eyes, but rather looked at him levelly--and he was ashamed. It was clear that though he'd perhaps had the chance to be one of the others, he'd given it up with what he'd done. What he'd done! Was he mad? What had possessed him? Why, he thought helplessly, had the pirates ever come? Why could he not have been allowed to stay in his little house at the sheepfold without touching anyone? When he was alone, at least he could think. Perhaps he'd hoped to redeem himself easily, without trials, simply by staying alone, and was now to be punished for it.
He looked up as he suddenly realised Pencroff was speaking to him.
"Ayrton, by all the devils! What's the matter, then, that you're not speaking? Is it the pirates? If it is, then I'll have you know--"
"No, Mr. Pencroff."
"Pencroff," the sailor objected. "But I don't believe you. Something has you in this state, and I'll warrant it's not that your bread is mouldy. No, indeed, I helped make that bread myself! Now, tell me--do you believe that--" and Pencroff hopped over one of the seats in the canoe and sat beside Ayrton, taking off his hat carelessly and twisting the ribbon 'round his finger "--do you, perhaps, feel some regret for killing those blackguards? For in that case, I can only tell you that you're far from one of them now, and you needn't."
Ayrton didn't speak, and Pencroff eyed him curiously.
"But it's not that at all, is it? What's bothering you?"
"It's nothing, Mr. Pencroff. I've just been thinking."
"I've seen you thinking, down at the sheepfold. That's not how you think," said Pencroff firmly. "Not you. Right now you're bothered. Why?"
"I--"
"Here." Pencroff took him by the shoulders and looked at him directly with those amiable but now serious blue eyes. "You needn't tell anyone else, and I won't either, but what the devil is it? You're driving me mad."
"It's Mr. Smith," Ayrton admitted at last.
"Mr. Cyrus? What on earth's he done?" Pencroff asked, astounded.
"Not a thing! --I can't face him any longer, Pencroff. I've done a terrible thing, after he forgave me--he called me a man again, but I'm not!"
"What can you have done?" Pencroff sounded rather bewildered at his distress, and Ayrton almost stopped, feeling it would be impossible to confess anything when Pencroff so evidentally couldn't think what thing he could have done that was so terrible; but instead he said, quickly so as not to falter,--
"I kissed him."
To his utter astonishment, Pencroff began laughing.
For the next few moments, until Pencroff got hold of himself, Ayrton felt a whirl of confusion, shame, misery, noncomprehension, and injury that somehow what he'd said could strike anyone as funny. Finally, Pencroff coughed softly, sat upright, and slung his arm carefully around Ayrton's shoulders so as not to jostle the bandaged knife wound.
"Well, indeed, Ayrton, that does sound dreadful. It's a wonder Mr. Cyrus hasn't sent you back to Tabor Island."
"Mr. Pencroff?"
"Have I ever told you that my name is Bonadventure? They named my little ship after me. It was Mr. Cyrus' idea, but Mr. Spilett and Harbert encouraged him," said Pencroff cheerfully. "That's something a man could be proud of. Not being named Bonadventure, that is, but having a ship named after him, however little she may be--particularly if he built her with his own hands."
Ayrton remained astonished. What was happening? Was Pencroff completely mad? But no, no, Pencroff's blue eyes were watching him, and he see clearly that they were not at all mad--just slightly amused and rather fond. "Mr. Pencroff?" he asked again, unsure.
"So, now, you tell me that your trouble is that you kissed him. Why did you, then?"
"Because--I wanted to show him that I loved him as you and the others did, that I respected him. But you see, don't you, that it wasn't respectful at all? I have done a terrible thing, and by all rights he should have sent me back to Tabor." Once again, he was feeling shame, burning and hot, and he looked away into the water. Pencroff poked him gently.
"I don't believe it's as terrible as you think. A mistake, yes, but there're worse mistakes that could be made. I should think you, of all people, would know that. I'm sorry," Pencroff added.
"No," murmured Ayrton, still looking away.
"At any rate," Pencroff went on, ignoring him, "I should say your real mistake was not realising that if any of us loved him as you say, it'd be Mr. Spilett. I said 'if'," he said hurriedly, as Ayrton turned back to him. "If it were, then you'd be making as like a mistake as a man making eyes at another man's girl." Pencroff paused, apparently wondering if this was an appropriate simile. "Never you mind that I said that," he finally said. "It's not what I meant."
For a moment, Ayrton almost felt like laughing. He had manged to get Pencroff quite mixed up, and it was rather comical, watching him narrow his eyes at himself and ponder exactly how he was going to retract what it was he'd just said.
"I--I understand, Mr. Pencroff," Ayrton supplied, trying to help a little.
"Good, good."
"But I still--"
"Eat your bread," Pencroff ordered. "Now, let me tell you something. I suppose you're wondering what the devil'd got into me a moment ago."
"Perhaps," said Ayrton, eating obediently.
"Well, it was due to what Mr. Cyrus'd tell you was irony. You see, you'd gotten yourself into such a state because you were sorry you'd kissed Mr. Cyrus, and all along I've been wanting to kiss you, and let me tell you, I wouldn't be sorry at all if I did!"
Whatever Ayrton had expected, that wasn't it. He immediately choked on a bit of bread.
Pencroff clapped him vigorously on the back until he stopped coughing, then sat back to look at him. "Well?" he said expectantly.
"Well," Ayrton said. "I--" He was caught up in remembering Pencroff's good-natured, firm handshake; his blue eyes; the way he was always energetic, always cheerful, always talking, always hungry; the way Ayrton had thought he could see how easy it was that everyone was so fond of Pencroff.
"Now you're thinking," said Pencroff with satisfaction. "That's how you think."
Ayrton looked up. "I'm not certain yet."
Pencroff nodded. "All right, then. Until you're certain."
Somehow, Ayrton thought that however calm Pencroff sounded as though he was now, after a while the impatience would begin to drive him mad. That was the sort of man he was. After all, Ayrton had seen him go hunting before. "Mr. Pencroff," he said softly, "I kissed Mr. Smith without his consent and without the first idea of whether he was certain, and I know very well that it was wrong of me. You're showing far more courtesy to me, and--"
"Yes?"
"If you wish to kiss me..."
Pencroff laughed. "Why, thank you, Mr. Ayrton! But you've said you're not certain, and I shall wait until you are."
"It's very good of you, considering--"
"Yes, yes," said Pencroff, waving Ayrton aside with his hat. "Quite so."
So for a while they fell silent, Pencroff smiling amiably at the sky and Ayrton scanning the waves, until suddenly the latter touched Pencroff's arm and pointed.
"Look."
The corpse of Bob Harvey was floating not too far from the canoe. Pencroff made a face and shuddered at the body, which was covered in blood and quite torn and swollen from the water.
"That devil! He certainly deserved it!"
Ayrton, who had begun to feel morose at the sight, looked away and said heavily, "What I once was, Pencroff!"
"But what you no longer are, my good Ayrton!" Pencroff answered, and leaned over to put his arm about Ayrton's shoulders again--and Ayrton thought quietly that sometimes, when there was something one truly hated, it might be impossible to escape from, but it could be forgotten. With some certainty and some chance, it could be forgotten.
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