Many things which happen in the jungle can be kept secret; but a matter like the burying of Dolores in the graveyard of San Polycarpio must become known. They heard of it in Manila the following day, from native sources, and the Press made out of it a great story, which was also perfectly inaccurate, as is usually the case when the information comes through mestizos, people to whom truth is a thing either hateful or unknown.
Felizardo had descended on San Polycarpio with the whole of his band; he had slain the local police, and confined the inhabitants to their houses; had taken the parish priest from his bed, and compelled him, at the point of the bolo, to read the Burial Service; then he had hanged the Teniente of San Polycarpio over the grave, and after that had departed, swearing to return and burn the village itself, if any one dared to interfere with the body [239]of his wife—such was the gist of the first account circulated round Manila.
The insurrecto party, which had sorrowed greatly over the suspension of operations against Felizardo, and over Commissioner Furber’s new attitude of suspicion, held a special meeting to discuss the situation, seeing a chance of forcing on a fresh campaign against the Chief of the Mountains, who was such a deadly enemy of the Sovereign People. It was even suggested that the Teniente of San Polycarpio should actually be hanged, in order to give an air of reality to the whole story. Unfortunately, however, the ex-general of the Army of Liberty, who made the proposal, forgot, or did not know, that the man sitting opposite to him happened to be a brother to that same Teniente. They got the knife away from the Teniente’s brother before any serious harm was done; but, none the less, the meeting broke up in disorder, without having arrived at any definite decision.
The Herald and the Record seized on the story eagerly. Copy was short that day, and this news seemed to offer such splendid opportunities in the way of headlines; but Clancy of the Star was suspicious, and would not use it without confirmation. “Get a launch and go across to Calocan,” he said to his most reliable reporter. “You may induce Basil Hayle to talk. He is sure to know all about it, in fact there’s a rumour that he himself was at the [240]burial. If he won’t tell you anything, which is very probable, go on to San Polycarpio itself, and see the priest. I would sooner have the right story to-morrow than use any of this rubbish to-day.”
The news caused a good deal of commotion in official circles. The Governor-General looked worried, thinking of the hopeless state into which the finances had got—as was inevitable, considering the class of man which the Party was sending out—and wondering whether it would now be necessary to resume those ruinously expensive expeditions against the outlaws, in which case some of the officials would have to be content with their bare salaries, as there would be nothing else left to divide; and that, of course, would mean trouble, and complaints to the Party managers. Already, Commissioner Gumpertz was showing a nasty spirit, as was also Commissioner Johnson, and it had been necessary to give them, or rather their nominees, a contract for a long and utterly useless road to the hills, in order to keep them quiet. Moreover, as that road had to be paid for by loan, the Press had got early information of it, and had said some things concerning the contract which were very unpleasant, because perfectly true. Now, if, as was rumoured, Felizardo was actually out on the warpath himself, there would be fresh expenses, fresh anxieties about money matters. [241]
Commissioner Gumpertz, on the other hand, having nothing to do with the finances, except as regarded the share of them which he himself got, was by no means displeased to hear of Felizardo’s supposed raid. He had never given up hope of being able ultimately to sell that hemp land on the northern side of the outlaw’s mountains; and if he could revive the campaign against the old chief, he felt certain in his own mind that this time it would be carried through to the end, even though the President had to order the Army to assist. Incidentally, too, the reopening of hostilities would be deadly to the prestige of Commissioner Furber, and might possibly lead to his resignation, in which case Mr Gumpertz was in hopes that the vacant post would be filled by a certain ex-partner of his own, a most admirable arrangement. As a result of these views, the Commissioner of Lands and Registration was very ready to be interviewed by the Press on the subject of Felizardo’s latest exploit, and expressed his opinions most forcibly. He had always been opposed to the new policy of leaving this brigand alone, he said; and this outrage at San Polycarpio went to prove that he had been right. It would be necessary now to resume operations on a larger scale than ever. The Regular Army would have to be called upon to provide troops, its chiefs being shown plainly that they were, after all, merely the servants of the State, and that it [242]was not for them to say whether they would, or would not, assist the Civil Government. The Commission must be supreme. No individual member of it must be allowed to dictate to his colleagues, and no murderer and outlaw, like Felizardo, must be allowed to remain in a state of insolent independence. The present state of affairs was an insult to the Flag, a violation of all the great principles for which the Party stood.
True, the Herald headed its report of the interview, “Commissioner on the High Horse,” “Gumpertz gets on the Great Gee-Gee,” and thereby spoilt a good deal of the effect; but still the Commissioner for Lands and Registration had the satisfaction of knowing that he had got in the first blows both at his own colleague and at Felizardo. Lower down on the same page the Herald announced that Mr Furber declined to be interviewed. “The Commissioner looked cross,” it stated, for once telling the crude truth; but it did not dare to reproduce the remarks which a certain highly-placed Army officer had made to its reporter concerning Mr Gumpertz and his views.
Still, enough was published that day to set all Manila talking, and when, on the following morning, a launch came in from Igut, bringing Captain Bush’s report of the affair, the sensation was even greater; for Bush, having conveniently forgotten the good turn Basil Hayle had once [243]done him in suppressing all mention of his absence from the great fight in the plaza of Igut, now told the story of how the Constabulary officer had been present at the burial of Dolores, actually assisting Felizardo, instead of endeavouring to arrest him. It was a venomous, damning report, full of the jealousy which the man who had been a soldier felt of the man who would always be a soldier, and, more important than that, of the jealousy which the man who had made Mrs Bush’s life utterly miserable felt of the man who could have made her happy. True, some of the details given in the first rumours, such as the hanging of the Teniente and the holding up of the village, were not mentioned in the Scout officer’s version; but these omissions were hardly noticed in view of the intensely interesting character of the rest.
“They will certainly give Hayle the sack, even if they do not bring him to trial,” was the general opinion of Manila men who, in most cases, added their conviction that Captain Bush was a low-down cur, for, despite Basil’s reticence, it had long since leaked out unofficially that the Scout officer had been missing on the occasion of the insurrecto attack, and had only appeared after the killing was finished. Moreover, they knew his character pretty well in Manila, and did not admire it greatly.
Bush himself had acted deliberately in the matter. He intended to ruin Basil Hayle’s [244]career if possible, and the report had been the result of the joint efforts of the Supervisor, the school teacher, and himself. Its compilation had entailed the consumption of a good deal of spirits, but when it had been finished, and sent down to the skipper of the waiting launch, they all felt pleased with themselves, for the Supervisor and the school teacher hated the man who had saved their lives from Juan Vagas and his band almost as bitterly as did the Scout officer, remembering what he had once said concerning white men and mestizos. And then the school teacher said, jerking his head in the direction of the lower end of the town: “Shall we go and tell them? They’ll be mighty pleased to hear it.”
But Bush got up, a little unsteadily, perhaps. “No; that’ll do by and by. I’m going to tell my wife first;” which seemed to the others such a good idea that they laughed immoderately, and insisted that he should have another drink first.
“You’ll need it, old man,” the Supervisor said; and the Treasurer, who came in at that moment, and had the matter explained to him, agreed.
Mrs Bush listened to her husband in absolute silence, in fact so still did she sit that he finished lamely, almost apologetically: “It was my duty to report it,” he said.
Then her anger blazed out, and he cowered before it. “Oh, you coward! Your duty! [245]Did he feel it his duty to report you when he saved the town you were supposed to be defending, when he saved your wife’s honour at the hands of those brown fiends? Did he go into Manila and tell where you had been that night, and why you were the last man on the scene? To think I should have married you, when there are so many real men in the world! Oh, go away, and never dare to speak to me again. Go to the friends who are worthy of you—and to the woman you have put in my place, the coloured woman.”
Possibly, for the first time, Bush realised something of the deadly insult he had put on his wife, for he tried to defend himself in a guilty man’s way, with a counter-charge.
“You are in love with Hayle. That’s what makes you so mad,” he growled.
She turned on him in superb scorn. “And if I am, have you any right to complain? Have you any right to speak to a white woman—you cur!” And then, in his rage, he struck her twice on the mouth. She staggered back and sank into a chair, whilst he went out, with an attempt at a swagger, forgetting that the natives in the plaza—there were three sitting in the shade of the belfry—could have seen all that had occurred on the balcony.
When he rejoined his friends in the spirit shop, they noticed that he was flushed and his hand was a little shaky. “I told her, and she [246]didn’t like it,” he said briefly. The school teacher sniggered, whereupon Bush turned on him savagely. “Confound you, what are you laughing at?”
The others exchanged glances, and hastened to start some entirely fresh topic of conversation. Obviously, Bush had one of his bad fits coming on, and they knew by experience how nasty he could be. More than once, they had feared that he was going to quarrel with them finally, which might have resulted in his making peace with his wife, in which case many privileges they now enjoyed would have been curtailed, if not actually withdrawn. So they endeavoured to smooth him down, and after a while succeeded in their aim.
Mrs Bush did not cry, at least not at first. Instead, she went to her room, and, after dabbing a little blood off her mouth, examined her lip to see how badly it was cut, doing it all very quietly, as though she were dazed. Then she sat down to think it out, right from the beginning.
In a way, she blamed herself. She had known when she married John Bush that the curse of drink was in his family; but she had been very young then; she had believed she loved him; and believed, too, that she could keep him straight. But she had found out her mistake as soon as she rejoined him in Manila after the war. He was a marked man even then, in [247]the Service, as the old General had told her very gently; and, what was even worse, finding himself shunned by his brother-officers, he had got into the hands of the baser class of civil officials, who had not the slightest compunction about separating him from his wife when it suited their ends to do so.
Mrs Bush had always made excuses for him to herself, so long as it was only a case of that miserable hereditary tendency. She would get him back to the States before long, and then she would be able to reassert her influence over him; but when, through the introduction of the school teacher, the other woman came on the scene, there, in Igut itself, practically under her own eyes, she realised that any further efforts of hers would be useless; the end of their married life had come; although, until he came to boast to her that he had ruined Basil Hayle’s career, no mention of that other woman had passed her lips. Even now, she was sorry she had demeaned herself by having spoken as she had done. Probably, he would glory in the knowledge of how sorely he had wounded her pride.
As for the blows on her mouth, they seemed, somehow, to be matters of secondary consideration; in fact, when she came to think of them, she was almost glad he had struck her. Relations between them were now on a definite basis, the most definite basis of all, for no [248]reconciliation was possible. There would be no more need to keep up appearances, to meet him, if not as a husband or lover, at least on terms of politeness. That stage had been passed, as she told herself with a sigh of relief.
But when she thought of her own future movements the prospect was far less satisfactory. She could see no way out of her difficulties. She had not even the money to take her back to the United States; and even if, as was probable, the General were to grant her free transportation, she had no relatives who would give her a home. Two aunts and half a dozen cousins were the only members of her family she knew, and with these she had never been on good terms. She had very few acquaintances in Manila, having been in the city but a few weeks; in fact, the only friend she had, the only real friend, was Basil Hayle, and to him she could not appeal, even though, in her own mind, she was certain that his chivalry would prevent him from thinking any evil. It was because she loved him, because she was not sure of herself, that she could not ask him for aid.
She had promised to write to him “if necessary,” and now, when a crisis which neither of them had foreseen had come, she could not keep her promise.
There was one thing she could do, however, one thing she must do—write and warn him [249]concerning her husband’s report. She glanced out towards the harbour. The launch had already gone, but the sea was like a mill-pond, and it would not take a canoe long to reach Calocan.
She sat down and wrote hurriedly, in a tone very different from that of her ordinary letters to Basil, for she was hot at the thought of how her husband was repaying the other man’s services. The result was that, quite unconsciously, she betrayed her feelings to the man she loved, and showed him that the breach between her husband and herself was now wider than ever, so wide that it could never be crossed. But she did not say a word of his coming to Igut, nor hint at the terrible problem of her future which now had to be faced.
Still, none the less, Basil understood, and cursed the fate which made it impossible for him to offer assistance, at any rate at the moment. He was by no means a poor man, even though he might be serving as an officer in the Philippines Constabulary, and he had but scant regard for most conventions. On the other hand, he had the very greatest regard for Mrs Bush’s feelings, and he realised, instinctively, that an offer from him might seem almost an insult, a suggestion that she should put herself under his protection. When he could see her it would be different, but that was also an impossibility for the time being, [250]especially as he felt certain he would be summoned to Manila to explain the part he had played in the cemetery at San Polycarpio.
For the greater part of the night, Basil sat, smoking innumerable cigarettes, and conceiving, and then rejecting, innumerable plans. In the end he wrote two letters, one to Mrs Bush and one to old Don Juan Ramirez. The former was the most difficult he had ever attempted; he wanted to say so much, and dared to say so little, the result being that, as in her case, he unconsciously told everything, which was, of course, extremely wrong, and must be attributed to the influence of the Law of the Bolo.
To Don Juan he also told a great deal, this time with intention, and, perhaps for that very reason, did not tell it well; although, as he had foreseen, the old Spaniard knew most of it already, and was deeply touched by the confidence. Basil wanted to learn exactly how matters stood, what had occurred recently, how Mrs Bush looked, where Bush spent his time and took his meals—a whole host of questions, which caused Don Juan to knit his brows, and to wonder how many he dare answer.
“If I tell him the whole truth, he will certainly come and kill the Scout officer, which would be very foolish.” The Spaniard sighed—he had heard what those natives who were sitting in the shadow of the belfry had seen occur on the balcony—“So I will tell him [251]part, and leave the rest to fate. Who knows? Matters may adjust themselves.”
So he wrote discreetly, making the best of things, and after he had sent the letter, called on Mrs Bush and tried to comfort her, speaking as one who was a............