The Planter of Malata by Joseph Conrad

Author:Joseph Conrad [Conrad, Joseph]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Short Stories
Publisher: Feedbooks
Published: 1914-02-15T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 7

They had been feasting a poet from the bush, the latest discovery of the Editor. Such discoveries were the business, the vocation, the pride and delight of the only apostle of letters in the hemisphere, the solitary patron of culture, the Slave of the Lamp—as he subscribed himself at the bottom of the weekly literary page of his paper. He had had no difficulty in persuading the virtuous Willie (who had festive instincts) to help in the good work, and now they had left the poet lying asleep on the hearthrug of the editorial room and had rushed to the Dunster mansion wildly. The Editor had another discovery to announce. Swaying a little where he stood he opened his mouth very wide to shout the one word “Found!” Behind him Willie flung both his hands above his head and let them fall dramatically. Renouard saw the four white-headed people at the end of the terrace rise all together from their chairs with an effect of sudden panic.

“I tell you—he—is—found,” the patron of letters shouted emphatically.

“What is this!” exclaimed Renouard in a choked voice. Miss Moorsom seized his wrist suddenly, and at that contact fire ran through all his veins, a hot stillness descended upon him in which he heard the blood—or the fire—beating in his ears. He made a movement as if to rise, but was restrained by the convulsive pressure on his wrist.

“No, no.” Miss Moorsom’s eyes stared black as night, searching the space before her. Far away the Editor strutted forward, Willie following with his ostentatious manner of carrying his bulky and oppressive carcass which, however, did not remain exactly perpendicular for two seconds together.

“The innocent Arthur … Yes. We’ve got him,” the Editor became very business-like. “Yes, this letter has done it.”

He plunged into an inside pocket for it, slapped the scrap of paper with his open palm. “From that old woman. William had it in his pocket since this morning when Miss Moorsom gave it to him to show me. Forgot all about it till an hour ago. Thought it was of no importance. Well, no! Not till it was properly read.”

Renouard and Miss Moorsom emerged from the shadows side by side, a well-matched couple, animated yet statuesque in their calmness and in their pallor. She had let go his wrist. On catching sight of Renouard the Editor exclaimed:

“What—you here!” in a quite shrill voice.

There came a dead pause. All the faces had in them something dismayed and cruel.

“He’s the very man we want,” continued the Editor. “Excuse my excitement. You are the very man, Renouard. Didn’t you tell me that your assistant called himself Walter? Yes? Thought so. But here’s that old woman—the butler’s wife—listen to this. She writes: All I can tell you, Miss, is that my poor husband directed his letters to the name of H. Walter.”

Renouard’s violent but repressed exclamation was lost in a general murmur and shuffle of feet. The Editor made a step forward, bowed with creditable steadiness.

“Miss Moorsom,

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